Marissa walked into my living room the way she walked into model homes: appraising every angle while pretending not to. She set the pastry box on the coffee table and sat on the edge of the couch with perfect posture.
“I think there has been a terrible misunderstanding,” she began.
I sat across from her and folded my hands.
“No,” I said. “I think there has been a very accurate understanding.”
Her smile barely shifted.
“Garrett should never have sent that message. We were both under pressure. The evening got complicated. There were clients, work expectations, the house wasn’t settled, and emotions were high.”
“Did you want me there?”
She paused.
That was answer enough.
“I wanted the evening to go smoothly,” she said.
“Which means no.”
“It means I had people there whose impression mattered.”
I looked at her for a long moment.
“And I would have harmed the impression?”
She sighed softly, as though I were making her say something impolite.
“Edith, you know how these things are. Different personalities, different generations. Sometimes certain environments are just… delicate.”
There it was.
Not cruel in wording. Cruel in meaning.