My mother called two days later, pretending it was a casual check-in.
“You got the invitation, sweetheart?”
“I did.”
“Wonderful. Logan’s family is very put-together, so it’ll be a lovely crowd.”
I heard the warning beneath the words.
I almost skipped it. I should have skipped it. But a stubborn part of me still wanted to see whether blood mattered when image had to choose a side.
So I went.
Jeans. Clean sneakers. The six-dollar hoodie.
Not as a prank. Not as some dramatic protest. Just as an answer to a question no one knew I was asking.
The vineyard looked exactly like the kind of place people rented when they wanted their love to look expensive. White drapery. Candlelit cocktail tables. Olive trees wrapped in warm lights. A violinist playing something classical enough to sound meaningful to people scrolling through their phones. Women in dresses that required assistance to sit down. Men in fitted jackets holding stemmed glasses as if they had all been briefed by the same stylist.
