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"Sweetheart!" Mrs. Carter embraces Lena, then pulls back to examine her. "You look thin. Are you eating enough?"

"I eat plenty, Mom." Lena's voice shifts into a higher, brighter register that I haven't heard before. "This is Max. My boyfriend."

Mrs. Carter's assessing gaze turns to me with the precision of a military-grade laser. I resist the urge to check if my shirt is tucked in.

"Max Donovan." I extend my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carter."

"Diana, please." Her handshake is firm, her smile professional but not particularly warm. "Come in, both of you. Everyone's in the living room."

The brownstone interior is exactly what I expected—tastefully decorated in neutrals with strategic pops of color, artwork that probably costs more than my annual rent, and not a single thing out of place. It's beautiful but feels more like a magazine spread than a home people actually live in.

Lena's hand finds mine, squeezing with what feels like genuine anxiety. I squeeze back, surprised by the instinctive desire to reassure her.

The living room contains what appears to be the entire Carter extended universe—an older man I assume is Lena's father, a young couple accepting congratulations (presumably the newly engaged), and various relatives in expensive casual wear, all holding wine glasses and maintaining the exact same level of polite laughter.

"Everyone," Diana announces, "Lena's here. With her boyfriend, Max."

The room goes quiet, all eyes turning toward us with varying degrees of curiosity and surprise. I feel Lena stiffen beside me.

"Max," the older man says, rising from his armchair. "I'm Robert Carter. Lena's father."

His handshake is firmer than necessary, his gaze direct. I match his pressure, maintaining eye contact.

"Good to meet you, sir. Thanks for having me."

"Bit of a surprise," he says. "Lena didn't mention she was bringing anyone."

Lena's smile tightens. "I told Mom last week, Dad."

"Did you?" Diana looks perplexed. "I don't recall?—"

"When we spoke about the menu. I specifically asked if we could avoid shellfish because Max has an allergy."

I don't have a shellfish allergy, but I nod solemnly. "Very considerate of her."

"Well," Diana recovers smoothly, "more wine is always welcome. Robert, why don't you open Max's bottle?"

As Robert takes the wine, a young woman about Lena's age approaches, her smile genuine where others' seem forced. "I'm Jess, the lucky cousin who gets to steal some spotlight tonight." She holds up her left hand, where a diamond catches the light. "This is my fiancé, Brian."

Brian looks like he was assembled in a lab specializing in East Coast preppy boyfriends—khakis, blue button-down, and a smile that suggests active participation in at least three nonprofit boards.

"Congratulations," I say, meaning it. "That's quite a ring."

"Thanks, man." Brian clasps my shoulder. "So how'd you meet our Lena? None of us even knew she was dating anyone."

All eyes swivel back to us. Lena slips seamlessly into the rehearsed story. "Max made me this amazing cocktail at The Copper Key. Something with ginger and bourbon that wasn't on the menu."

"She looked like she needed something stronger than her vodka soda," I add, trying to match her easy tone. "And she left me a phone number with her tip."

"Bold," Jess says approvingly. "So unlike you, Lena."

"People change," Lena replies, a brittle edge to her lightness.

"And you're a bartender, Max?" Robert asks, returning with wine glasses.

There it is. The polite disdain I was waiting for.

"I am," I say, accepting a glass. "At The Copper Key in Williamsburg."