Before I’d left the house, I’d noticed the glass of wine and the bottle, which I’d accidentally left behind, had been emptied. That bottle had cost me fifty bucks, and I hated the idea of it going down the sink . . . and of Marisa gulping it like it was MD 20/20.

It would have been too bad if Marisa had drunk any of the wine. It would have been another nick in her fragile sobriety, which, let’s face it, wouldn’t stand the test of time. Marisa didn’t have that kind of discipline. She was a loose cannon. A tragedy better suited for the stage.

Another stint in rehab was all we needed, but I’d rise to the occasion as I always did.

“We’re here,” the driver said.

I realized then that the Uber had rolled up in front of the historic restaurant in the city’s Northside. “Thank you.”

Climbing out, I muscled away the tension with a shoulder roll and allowed the cool air to temper the anger that had left my face warm and flushed.

My smile was forced, but as I held it, and held it, it felt more natural. Like my mother, I used the same damn smile to get through the worst of life. And I’d keep it plastered on all evening even if it killed me.

I pushed through the doors of the restaurant, annoyed by the blast of heat. There’d been something comforting about the shivering air. Discomfort kept me on my toes, made me think more clearly. Comfort, however, was dangerous. Easy to let one’s guard down if too lax.

The hostess was a young woman in her twenties with ice-blond hair, bright expressive eyes, and the scripted word Fearless tattooed on her wrist.

“I’m meeting David Welbourne.”

Ms. Fearless checked her list and smiled. “He’s here. Right this way.”

“Thank you.”

I followed the woman’s swaying hips clad in too-tight black pants. Aware of white tablecloths, soft music, and the hum of subdued conversation, we moved around tables and rounded a column. David was sitting at a corner table, and when he spotted me, he rose, looking a little nervous. It was charming to see and made me feel better. His eyes slid over me, and I noted appreciation mingling with curiosity. He’d better like what he saw. I’d put enough thought into the outfit this morning.

Leaning in, I kissed him on the lips. He tasted of wine and nerves. “What’s got you so worked up?”

He touched his tie—an item I’d never seen him wear—and smiled. “You. Always you.”

I smiled. Once I’d been the center of attention in my parents’ lives, and then the twins had come along and my parents had become buried under a mountain of diapers, screams, and feeding schedules. Mommy and Daddy barely noticed me much after that.