Jasmine was stretched across the sofa in a dress too tight to sit comfortably in, showing off a new handbag to anyone who would look. Trent stood near the fireplace with a bourbon in his hand, talking loudly about markets he did not understand and clients he did not have. Julian was at the center of it all, one hand in his pocket, charming the room with that practiced half smile he reserved for juries, clients, and women he intended to use.
No one rushed to hug me.
No one said, You made it.
My mother emerged from the kitchen with a dish towel over one shoulder, glanced at me, and said, “You’re late.”
“I came from the office,” I said.
She made a face as if my office were a frivolity.
I took off my coat and set down the pie I’d brought. “The funding closed,” I said carefully. “This morning.”
I kept my voice modest, almost apologetic. I had learned young that triumph made people like my mother meaner.
“What funding?” Jasmine asked without looking up from her phone.
“Our round,” I said. “For the company.”
Trent took a sip of bourbon and smiled the way men smile when they are about to insult you and want credit for making it sound like a joke.