My dad seized the opening immediately. He lifted his glass just high enough to draw attention without actually committing to a real toast. He said that this was what he meant when he talked about ambition. He pointed, figuratively, at Courtney and Michael.
He said you could tell which children understood how the world worked and which ones did not.
My fork hovered over my plate. I felt the old familiar burn rise up behind my ribs. It did not knock the wind out of me the way it used to. It just sat there, hot and steady, like something I had learned to live with.
One of my dad’s colleagues glanced my way then, almost apologetic. He asked what I was doing these days, in that careful tone people use when they expect the answer will be awkward.
I opened my mouth to say something simple. Before I could, my dad answered for me.
He told the man I was still trying to figure things out. He said I had bounced around between little projects. He used the word little and let it land in the center of the table. He reminded them all that I had left college early and never really settled into a career. He called it a free spirit phase.
The way he said it made it sound like an illness.
I felt heat climb into my face but I kept my expression still. My water glass felt cool under my fingers. I took a sip and let the lie pass through the air without fighting it. I knew there would be a time for the truth. I knew it did not have to be tonight, or at least not at this moment.
Beside Courtney, a young woman I did not know very well—Maddison—had her phone propped against a bread basket. She thought she was being discreet. She was filming little clips of the table. Snippets of Courtney talking, a quick sweep of the food, my dad making one of his practiced jokes.
I caught my own face at the edge of the frame once, eyes down, mouth flat.
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