31. Jenna #2
“Then don’t hand it to her,” she says. “Listen to me, because I know her better than anyone alive. Ma’s misery is a festering pustule of hate. You can’t heal it, you can’t outrun it, and you cannot keep scheduling your life around all the pops and gurgles—”
“That is the most disgusting metaphor I’ve ever heard come out of someone’s mouth.”
“You waited your whole life for something like this,” she continues, without even breaking for breath. “Do not let her rain on it. If she can’t be happy for you, that’s her ceiling, Jen. It was never yours.”
I flip my hand over and grip her back, and for a second we just sit there, two of Maria Pemberton’s daughters holding on in a loud coffee shop, and something that’s been clenched under my sternum since high school—since forever—lets out about ten percent of its pressure.
Which for me is a lot. Ten percent is enormous.
“How are you more well-adjusted than I am?” I ask.
“I’ve got a kick-ass therapist. I’ll give you her number.” She says it without a blade in it, which is its own miracle, and then she checks her watch and swears in Ma’s exact dialect. “I had a nine-forty-five that moved to eleven, so I need to go. Hug me now so I don’t cry on the train.”
We stand. She hugs me the way she hugged me on the sidewalk when I was eighteen and leaving—all in, no exit strategy—and I hold my little sister in the middle of a Lexington Avenue coffee shop and let it be what it is.
And that’s when I remember the other thing I meant to ask.
“How did the interview go?”
Hailey stops with one arm through her blazer. “Good. I think. Xavier Field scheduled a video call for Tuesday.”
“That means it went well.”
“It means I’ve advanced to the next opportunity to humiliate myself.”
“You don’t humiliate yourself professionally. You reserve that for prom dresses and karaoke.”
“That happened once.” She points at me. “And Whitney Houston was outside my natural register.”
“Most sounds audible to humans are outside your natural register.”
“Rude.” She shoulders her bag. “Anyway, if I survive the video call, the next stage is in person. Apparently half the firm will be in Chicago for some gala and a deal review, so I might be flying out to you for a bit.”
Something warm expands beneath my ribs. “You’ll stay with us.”
“Us.” Her eyes flick briefly to my ring. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”
“Get used to it quickly. I have guest-room standards.”
“You have guest-room spreadsheets.”
“Standards require documentation.”
She kisses my cheek, then points at me from the door, loud enough for the entire line to hear. “Love you, Mrs. Cruz!”
She’s gone before I can decide which name to correct her to, which—her whole life—has always been her superpower.
I walk into the apartment to find my husband sitting at the Steinway playing piano. I have no idea what the melody is, but as with everything Dominic does, his playing is flawless. Beautiful.
“That’s pretty,” I say, noting that our bags are already packed by the door.
He meets my eyes and plays for a moment longer before crossing the room to me. “Good coffee?”
“Good everything.” I lean in and kiss him lightly, taking a moment to breathe him in and realizing that I miss him every time we’re apart now.
“The phone interview went well. She has a video call Tuesday, and if she gets through that, they want to see her in Chicago while Field is here. I’m guessing it’ll be the week of the James Foundation Gala, since Canning and half the firm are coming for that anyway.
Which reminds me, I’ll need to get the black gown I always wear dry-cleaned and book a hair appointment.
Do you need anything done with your tuxedo? ”
A grin takes over his whole face. “I look fantastic in any of them, but if you want to see me in a new one just say the word. We can even get you a new gown to match.”
I wave the idea off, busying myself with making sure I have everything in my purse so we can leave. “It’s a gala we attend every year. No point in wasting effort on an overpriced dinner.”
“It’s for charity.”
“I know. It’s the only reason I don’t object to going.” I’ve barely tucked my phone into my purse when Dominic catches me by the waist, my feet almost leaving the parquet.
I yelp, then laugh, my face pressed to his—so close all I can see are those impossible eyes, sharp as the first cup of coffee and warm enough I can feel the blood in my cheeks.
“What—”
He doesn’t let me finish. He holds me there, a hand spread at the small of my back, the other threading through my hair so gentle I almost miss it for the stubborn set of his jaw.
“You are an amazing wife, Jenna Pemberton-Cruz.” He says it low, for just the two of us, and it short-circuits my ability to remain composed.
I can’t help the smile. “You do OK with the husband thing yourself.”
“No, I’m terrible at it,” he says, straight-faced. “I keep violating basic marital protocol. I want to tell everyone you’re my wife even when it’s not strictly on the agenda.”
I snort, which he pretends to take as a grave affront, narrowing his eyes and pulling me even closer.
“You don’t mind?” he says, barely above a whisper.
I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling like an idiot. “I showed Hailey our wedding photo. The one from Tokyo, with the confetti. She started crying. But she agrees that introducing you to our mother is going to be the worst day of all our lives. So maybe we put that visit off for a decade or two?”
Dominic laughs, then presses a swift kiss to my mouth before he sets me back down, grinning like a man who has never once lost a room in his life and doesn’t intend to start with a five-foot-eight, sixty-one-year-old woman in Queens.
“Sweetheart,” he says, picking up our bags and heading for the door, “I promise I can handle your mom.”