Why is she suddenly seeing engaged couples everywhere? It’s as though in the last month, there was a public announcement made for all people who are engaged to show themselves.

She could have been one of them. Her weekends with Karan always flew by in a blur of food and friends and binge-watching a show. Why did she let that go? Were her parents right about her making self-destructive choices? And what if that really was the best she was ever going to get? She had heard of those stories of people who broke up with someone and then realized they fucked things up after it was way too late.

“Whatever, I don’t care if that chick supposedly knows what she’s talking about.” Ifeoma waves her hand as if Alexis’s qualifications are an unpleasant smell. “All I’m saying is that if I listened to every person who told me I couldn’t do something, there’s no way I’d be in law school right now.”

“Yeah, but what if she’s right?” Natasha scans the menu. She was going to try to be healthy today, but now she’s craving comfort food. She asks for the hotcakes, complete with whipped butter and buttermilk syrup.

“She’s not right!” Ifeoma takes a sip of her margarita and leaves an orange lipstick print on the rim of her glass. Her lip and nail colors are always bold. “You should show up to class next weekend and make it your mission to prove her wrong.”

Ifeoma is always on the lookout for a mission. By their sophomore year at Georgia State, she had protested for equal pay for women, better legal representation for the underserved, and more recycling bins around campus.

“Are you going to tell your mom what Alexis said?” Payal asks. “I mean, she used to act. She probably knows what it feels like to get constructive criticism.”

Ifeoma shakes her head and smiles. “I love your mom. That woman could stop a war with her food and charm. And I agree. She has to get what this is like.”

“Does she, though?” Natasha says. “I feel like she’s so far removed from that time in her life. She definitely doesn’t behave like she understands anything I’m going through. And if she hears someone thinks I’m not cut out for it, it’ll only validate everything she’s already been telling me.”

Mom’s disappointment is palpable. It has a way of spilling over and submerging Natasha with its weight. She can picture Mom now, the skin tight around her mouth, her eyes narrowed as she laments how she could have raised such a failure of a daughter.

Natasha’s phone buzzes.