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“Lorenzo, we’re so pleased you could join us!” My mom beams as he hands her a frilly pink-and-yellow gladiolus bouquet he picked out a few blocks up the street. “I don’t know why we haven’t had you at every anniversary dinner. You’re practically a member of this family!”

My mom actually thinks that’s a compliment.

I’m careful to keep a platonic distance from Lorenzo as we take our seats, but not without effort. My nerves are making my stomach roil, and I long for the reassuring feel of his hand around mine.

My parents carry most of the conversation, which is, predictably, boring and slightly self-aggrandizing. I zone out and rehearse my lines, promising myself I’ll commit to memory the looks of shock on their faces when they learn my failure-to-launch they’ve been banking on isn’t in the cards.

My moment comes after they’ve exclaimed over Lorenzo’s quick recovery and my mom turns to me, unleashing the inevitable question with her typical lack of optimism.

“And how’s school coming for you, Ruby?”

“Actually,” I say, my throat tightening as I fight to restrain a grin, “it’s all going really well.”

“Oh?” Richard pauses, wineglass halfway to his mouth. This is going to be good.

I nod. “I wasn’t sure if I should bring this up tonight,” I lie, “but it looks like a year from now I’ll have a career lined up and be living on my own.”

My mom’s bland smile remains in place. My dad blinks like he’s watching paint dry, then sips his wine uneventfully.

“Yes,” I say, not that anyone asked. “Things are really coming together.” I nod, trying to coax from my parents the reaction I’ve been waiting my entire life for.

“Okay,” my dad says slowly and, well, insultingly. “Tell us about that.”

I swallow, hating him. He says it in that arrogant, practiced way teachers have when they’re trying to hide that they think you sound like a fool. Instinctually, I glance at Lorenzo, who gives me a tiny nod. I find my voice again.

“Well, I have an A in Community Nutrition. And I’ve been speaking with my professor and she thinks this career idea I have—research chef, it’s called—is a great prospect for me. It takes some years of training, but it’s a really interesting career.”

“Ah,” my mom says tonelessly. My dad looks like he’s waiting for the punch line of a joke he hates. I look between the two of them, willing them to react in some meaningful way. I know I’m not breaking news of the first moon landing, but I’ve never come to them with good news about school. Ever. Are they even hearing me?

“Professor Wythe is tough,” Lorenzo says, trying to help.

“Right.” I swallow. “Right, and—” Shit, I forget what else I wanted to throw in their faces. I panic briefly. “And my job’s going fucking great,” I blurt out.

My father pulls a face like he just smelled a rancid fart.

“It’s going really well,” I recover. “My boss said they’ll keep me on through senior year and that he can write me a recommendation for my résumé. And I’ve been good about saving money, so even if I don’t land a job immediately after graduation, I’ll be able to get by for months. You guys won’t need to support me at all.”

This final blow is packaged as a benefit to them but of course is meant to devastate. To plunge a knife into their image of me as helpless and endlessly underperforming. But so far they appear untouched by my words. In fact, my mom sighs. She actually fuckingsighs.

“Well, that’s all nice.” My dad picks up his fork, digging into his steak. “Sounds like you have a little direction.”

The silence that follows is crushing. I almost can’t believe it. Who are these people? I look over at Lorenzo, but he’s staring at my father, his mouth set in a hard line. My dad, oblivious, is eating, and my mom has picked up the wine menu. It’s like I never said a word.

“I think that’s all pretty good,” I hear myself say, my voice embarrassingly childlike.

My dad looks up in surprise. “Well, sure. We never said it wasn’t good.” That’s all he says.

“But this is what you wanted.” I swallow. “Good grades. A steady job. A future lined up. It’s what you always wanted.”

My father wipes his mouth and lifts his chin and looks me square in the eye, and I know even before the words are out the meaning behind them. “No, it isn’t.”

I’m stunned. “Then what?”

My mom and dad exchange a look I’ve seen a thousand times but have never quite understood.

“At twenty-one years old, you’re finally earning a decent grade in one class? You’ve held down a job for a few weeks that requires no critical thinking and has nothing to do with your career path? And a job that requires years of training before it takes off, Ruby? That kind of commitment requires a personality you don’t have.”

“It won’t be long before you’re coming to us for loans,” my mom adds gravely. “Not to mention, years of training to become acook? What on earth ...” She shakes her head dismissively.