Though now at the fundraiser, sitting next to Dad’s empty seat, I wondered where he was, if I still had him.

Mom turned to me. “Call him,” she said, her voice low. Maybe she was thinking of the same memory, wondering if we were still somehow conspiring to ruin things for her. I pulled out my phone, angled it so she’d see I was calling him, but two rings in he showed up, tie askew and hair windblown, just as the waiters were sweeping away the salad plates.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, plopping down between Mom and me. “Sorry, everyone.”

Mom’s smile was wide but lacking any warmth. “Where were you?” she whispered in a hiss.

“I got a flat, had to call a car.”

“You couldn’t have called me?” she said through her teeth.

He shrugged. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Mom’s eyes flashed with anger.

“And before that?”

“I was at the office,” he said as he unfurled his napkin with a snap. “I told you.”

“I called your office,” she said, straining to keep her words controlled and steady.

“I must’ve set all calls to go to voicemail.” That was his M.O.—plausible deniability. He waved down a waiter and ordered a vodka soda.

Glancing at them out of the corner of my eye, I tried to keep calm. They were in public, they wouldn’t cause a scene. They wouldn’t, they wouldn’t. Being out of the house with them had always been a safe space.

They were supposed to put on a show. All smiles and bad jokes and fake laughs. I glanced at Elise, but she didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she was pointedly ignoring them. It was like she could feel my distress and didn’t want to cause me any more by drawing attention to my parents.

When the main course arrived, Dad sighed heavily.

“What now?” Mom asked.

“They never do steak well here,” he complained.

“I ordered for you because you weren’t here,” she said, careful to plaster a smile on her face this time.

“It’s overcooked.” He did this sometimes, going on the offensive when he fucked up. Land the first blow. Insult the food, make her defensive.

“Then send it back,” she said.

“No, it’s fine,” he said, shaking his head. “You can order it bloody here and it’ll still come out charred.” Then he turned his attention to my plate. “And look at Remy’s risotto. Watery.”

“It looks fine. Right, Remy?” Mom asked, an edge in her voice.

Before I had a chance to come up with an answer that wouldn’t anger anyone, Dad rolled his eyes and said, “When did the definition of fine become mediocre?”

Mom dropped her fork and let it clatter loudly, drawing the attention of those sitting near us. “I’ll order you the salmon.”

“No,” he said, sighing heavily. “It’s fine.”

It went on like that for the rest of the night—whispered snipes and sarcasm. Elise tried to distract me with invented backstories for some of the guests at other tables, but all I could focus on was the storm that was brewing between my parents. When the dinner was finally, finally over, we went outside and waited for the valet to bring Mom’s car around. Dad began to move toward the driver’s door when Mom yanked him back, causing him to stumble on the curb.