“Two minutes. We gotta get there before the lasagna gets cold.” He kisses me quickly on the lips and backs out of the room. “I’ll be in the front.”

This time when I look in the mirror, I smile, because I still can’t believe he’s mine, that after everything, we are still here, still alive, still strong.

I do some quick touch-ups where my tears have dripped and reapply a coat of mascara. I go back to Maybe Dress Number Three and am caught in the sleeves thanks to the crisscross detailing in the back when my phone starts vibrating. I put the call on speakerphone, and because I’m generally not great at multitasking and I’m down to the last couple of rings now, I completely forget to check the caller ID, so when the voice on the other end says, “Hi, Brandi. This is Lauren Bosch from Van Doren,” in that synthetic cheery voice that makes me want to stab out my eyes, I freeze.

All I can think of is the last time we spoke, when she basically told me I was too black to fit into the “culture” at Van Doren, and, at this point, I’m not so much angry but shocked and bewildered by her caucacity.

Finally, I get the straps on right and manage to open my mouth and form actual words, but all that comes out is a scratchy, “Speaking.”

It doesn’t land as great in real life as it does in my head because after I confirm it’s me there is this unspoken expectation hanging in the air, like are you done? I should sound more chipper. I should ask how she’s doing. I know this, but I am really not in the mood to shuck and jive right now.

“How are you?” she asks, jumping in before it gets too awkward, and I have to give her credit because her enthusiasm is so close to sounding sincere. “I hope you’re doing well.”

At this point I just want her to get to why she called me so I can pull my dress down over my hips and find my shoes as I am starting to feel weird about having small talk in my underwear even though she can’t see me. I tell her I’m doing okay and still don’t ask how she’s doing in return. The words don’t come.

“Well, that’s great to hear,” she says, and I literally hold my breath because I can feel it coming. Some bullshit I won’t know how to respond to fast enough. “I was just calling to let you know we have an opening in the marketing department and we’d love you to join our team as an assistant if you’re still interested.”

The words don’t compute at first.