“I’m the youngest VP at my firm.”

“You could have a nice life here. With your sister. With Ian.”

I look at Scarlett for help, but she appears to be distracted by whatever’s in the large pot on the stove. She’s happy leaving me out to dry so long as Mom isn’t picking on her.

“I can’t have a life with Ian,” I say, throwing my hands up. “I can’t. It’s not happening. So why don’t we change the subject to something more pleasant, like—I don’t know—the death penalty? Where do we land on that?”

“Or an actress,” Mom says. “You could have been an actress. You’re pretty enough. You’ve always had that dramatic flair.”

“A woman dares present an opinion about anything and suddenly she’s dramatic.”

“It’s a shame you aren’t tall enough to model,” she says. “You’re too beautiful to be single. Both of you.”

I press my fingers into my eyes. “You know, if you really want to talk about my love life, I’m happy to discuss the time I gave a certain New York Yankee a hand job under the table at Soho House.”

“No, thank you,” Mom says.

“I’ve already heard that one,” Scarlett says.

“Moving on, then,” I say, raising my glass. “What are we eating?”

—

After a dinner of baked salmon and mashed potatoes and asparagus—which of course I don’t eat—I wash dishes while Mom dries. Scarlett works on an illustration in the living room.

“She seems fine,” Mom whispers. “Happy.”

“She’s in a good mood tonight,” I say.

As much as I’d rather not acknowledge it, the truth is, it is kind of nice to be together. The three of us. Just us. No Guy. No Matty. It’s been a long time. It’s the nostalgia factor, I suspect.

“I was thinking about a shower,” she says.

“Okay, I can finish up.”

“No, for Scarlett. A baby shower.”

“Oh,” I say. “Absolutely not. She’d hate it.”

“She needs things. She doesn’t have a crib. A stroller. A changing table. She needs these things. I already spoke to Ashley. She put together a registry.”

“You talked to Ash?”

“Shh! She’ll hear you.”

“This is a bad idea,” I say, aggressively scrubbing a plate.

“She hasn’t had the opportunity to be excited,” she says. “This is the perfect occasion for her to celebrate with her friends and family.”

“She doesn’t like attention,” I say. “I like attention, and even to me a shower sounds harrowing.”

“See? So dramatic,” she says, literally throwing in the towel. “It’s Friday. I hope you’ll consider helping me.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll consider it.”

She squeezes my arm and joins Scarlett over on the couch.

I finish the dishes by myself, then take the bottle of wine and Mom’s cigarettes out onto the back patio. It’s cloudy. There’s no moon, so I’m at peace. As much peace as possible after what happened last night. What was confirmed.

Not so much peace as just not agony.

I drink the wine and chain-smoke the cigarettes, lighting them with matches. I let the flame burn down to my fingers. It doesn’t hurt when it reaches my skin. It leaves a mark, but it fades fast.