Takes place after the ending of the novel Who We Thought We Were, and includes major spoilers.

Ashland stands two steps back. Silas changes direction without hesitation. Wherever Ramona’s mom is, she’ll be opposite. 

He finds her sitting at one of the dinner tables, perched as if on a throne, and scrolling on her phone. She's in the same deep purple dress he saw posted on her story an hour ago, a strapless number with a sweetheart neckline, her hair pulled back into a low bun. Inevitably, picture perfect. 

“Ramona,” Silas says. 

Her attention snaps to him. After a split second of assessment, she sets her phone facedown on the table. “He didn’t.”

Silas has always admired her ability to cut to the core of conversations. “He did.”

“And?”

“What do you think? The best I could get was two weeks. They want to keep it small.”

“Did you tell him—”

“I told him everything. He didn’t budge,” Silas says, pulling out the chair next to her and sitting. The table is one of many rounds, each covered in a white tablecloth, the centerpieces made up of poinsettias and seasonal greenery. Place settings gleam beneath the ceiling lights. 

Ramona leans back in her chair, re-crossing her legs as she does. The silk of her dress falls smoothly to one side, revealing a creamy stretch of thigh. “I know Ari likes his grand gestures, but I never thought he’d go this far.” She reaches for a glass of champagne on the table and tilts it slightly toward Silas. “Oh, the things you’ll do when you’re horny.”

Silas’s smile is small. “I think it’s more that they’re in love.” 

Ramona holds his gaze. He knows her well enough to see the barely-there flicker of emotion—and knows she won’t waste her time on guilt. They’ve had this conversation enough that its presence is a living, breathing third party. 

Though absent guilt, Ramona still softens. “I’ll talk Ari into having a reception. He’ll want to celebrate. A tent and string lighting in my backyard? You know I’ll make it beautiful, even with how small it is.”

“Could’ve used the Noe Valley patio,” Silas agrees. “Still. Better than a crowd at city hall.”

They exchange another look, Ramona’s appearing like an assessment now. Silas inhales and holds the breath, preparing to give nothing away. But instead of any probing comment, she asks, “Take me home?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Before the first course?”

Ramona’s eyes shift to the other end of the room. “She got her proof I came; one of the local papers is here.” She hands Silas her champagne and he takes a sip. “Five minutes later I heard her telling the photographer I’m considering a job with NASA.”

Silas snorts into the drink. “Some things never change.”

“For everything else there’s alcohol.”

Silas sets the glass on the table, fingers parting around the stem. “I still don’t know why you came.”

“Yes, you do.” 

While her appearance shows no cracks, Silas can sense the thrum of something deeper. He watches her, memorizing an image forever imprinted, then says, “How long do you plan to pay penance? It's been over a year. You’ve severed yourself financially. You have no reason to continue the torture.”

“Maybe I want a leg up for my new NASA job.” When he doesn’t reply, Ramona toys with one of her earrings as her gaze goes distant. “My dad doesn’t deserve to suffer alone.”

Silas doesn’t point out that she’s on the other side of the room from Ashland; he knows Ramona has to keep some sense of self-preservation.

Elsewhere in the room, a faint chiming sounds. On cue, guests begin moving toward the tables to find seats. 

Ramona gives a graceful smile to a passing pair of women. “Shall we?” she asks Silas. “We’ve got a wedding to plan.”

They stand and turn to meet a toothy barricade, Nara’s eyes narrowed in danger even as her smile stays locked in place. “Ramona,” she says, “what in the world?”

“Merry Christmas, Congresswoman!” someone calls out. 

Nara waves without looking, attention on her daughter, then Silas and back. “Did I just hear something about a wedding?”

Silas opens his mouth to reply, but Ramona stills him with a glance. 

“We didn’t want to steal your spotlight,” she tells Nara, whose face morphs, stricken. Again, her gaze shifts to Silas. He knows what she sees when she looks at him: addiction and baggage. Unhelpfully, his fingers twitch for his pocket. 

“Two weeks,” Ramona continues, pulling back her mother’s focus. “We’ll keep it small.”

Silas gives her a sideways look. Nara is unbearable, but Ramona is never completely innocent, prodding like this.

A couple approaches, but Nara holds out a hand, stopping them in their tracks. “The fact that you waited until the middle of my largest campaign fundraiser of the year to reveal this information is astounding.” Her teeth click with the words, and Silas can see the effort it’s taking to not launch into a tirade. Beside him, Ramona’s shoulders remain square. 

“I truly thought your childishness peaked last year, with that ridiculous legislation business,” Nara continues, voice low. “But here we are.” She takes a step back and visibly attempts to calm herself. “You’re twenty-five years old, Ramona. Stop it with these immature cries for attention.”

Ashland appears, looking more exhausted than usual, and Silas catches the minute shifting in dynamic: Ramona casting her veil of protection over her father, Ashland sharing his appreciation with a wink. 

But the power stays with Nara, who ends the conversation by turning to greet the couple she’d snubbed, pulling her husband with her. “Apologies,” she says, voice loud and self-deprecating. “Family business. Director Kleon! So glad you could make it…”

Silas keeps his hand gentle as he touches it to Ramona’s elbow. “This is you not being the villain?” he murmurs.

Her mouth lifts up at the edge as she meets his eye. Her voice sounds only a little wounded as she says, softer now, “Take me home?”

He slides his touch along her arm until their fingers lace. He squeezes. “Of course.”

***

He stays the night.

It’s a privilege so rarely granted that he knows he should give more attention to the fact that he and Ramona share physical intimacy only when she’s most frustrated with her mom. But Silas is a man long in love with a woman who doesn’t love him back. And so, during blue moon moments like these, when Ramona allows him into her bed, Silas doesn’t ask questions. 

He simply touches with abandon and climaxes in more ways than one.

***

Jess calls. Silas doesn’t answer.

She calls again; he lets it ring out.

And again.

He’s torn, watching her name repeatedly show up. But he doesn’t want to have the conversation he knows is coming.

Instead, he smokes.

***

Ari proves more difficult to convince than anticipated. Silas has always played good cop, though more success comes from Ramona’s bad cop, so she’s the one set upon him. But even her blunt remarks in the days that follow can’t sway Ari. 

Silas doesn’t get his chance to talk to his roommate until a couple days after Ramona makes her attempt. He’s late getting home—a photoshoot where creative directors held different visions and decided to have it out in front of everyone, but isn’t surprised to find Ari playing video games on the couch. Adam is ever the chaste and responsible boyfriend—or, fiancé now, Silas guesses—never spending the night. Frankly, Silas is impressed the couple lasted this long without breaking up or eloping sooner. He knows how much Adam’s preference to wait until marriage for sex is frustrating for Ari. 

In fact, that’s the tactic Ramona said she led with when trying to convince Ari to romanticize their elopement a bit, to make the big day as special as the big night .

“Hey,” Ari says without looking away from the TV, some sort of shooter game. “How’d it go?”

Silas hangs his camera bag from a hook next to the front door, then rounds the couch to sit next to Ari. “Dramatic, but not the kind I like. How was your thing today?”

Ari’s expression spasms into clear discomfort, something happening more and more lately whenever work is mentioned. “Don’t really wanna talk about it.”

“All good.” Silas rests his feet atop the coffee table and nods toward two boxes neatly stacked against the wall. “Adam gonna have enough space for all his books?”

Ari’s rapidly pressing buttons on his controller, so he takes a moment to reply, but the tenseness has died down. “I’ll put those in the garage, sorry.”

“No worries. I talked to Ramona, and she's cool with me staying over for a bit so you guys can enjoy the marriage bubble.”

Ari looks over. “Did you tell her?”

Silas rubs his jaw. He’s been clenching his teeth too much.

Ari snorts and goes back to playing. “That’s a no.”

“I’ll get to it,” Silas replies evenly. This is what he gets for moments of weakness: Jess and Ari in a coordinated attack, whether or not they realize it. 

“She’ll understand.” Ari’s eyes are on the TV. “She’ll be sad, but she knows what an opportunity this will be.”

When Silas doesn’t reply, Ari adds, “It’s gonna help you move on.”

The tension bleeds out of him; he exhales. “Yeah.”

Then, remembering his task, he asks, “How’s elopement planning going? Is your nani pissed she can’t come?”

Ari winces, Silas realizing belatedly it’s only because his character in the game died. He reaches over and takes the controller for a turn. 

“She gets it,” Ari says, stretching his legs on the coffee table next to Silas’s. “If I wasn’t marrying Adam, she would be.”

When Silas glances over, there’s the expected quiet but apparent joy in the smile Ari’s trying to suppress. Silas doesn’t give him a hard time about it; Ari the Romantic is a long-familiar state. 

“It’d probably mean a lot to give her a chance to celebrate day of.” Silas is full on button-mashing at this point. He’s never been good at this stuff, no matter how many times Ari compares controllers to cameras. 

“X is to jump, not the circle,” Ari points out. “You’re trying to get to the cave.”

“I know, I know.”

The character falls into an abyss; Silas hands back the controller. “Having a reception would also give Ramona something to do while her mom’s in town.”

Instead of continuing to play, Ari drags a hand down his face. “You don’t think I know all this? C’mon, Si.”

Silas doesn’t physically react, but recognizes the tone. Ari gets defensive about two topics these days. Silas goes with the obvious: “Adam doesn’t want a reception?”

He makes sure zero judgment leaks into the question, but Ari still acts as if Silas is holding a gun to Adam’s head. “Don’t start. This isn’t Adam’s choice.”

Silas frowns. “To have a reception? Or to elope in the first place?”

Ari shakes his head. “I’m not— This doesn’t need to be a thing. I don’t need you and Ramona second-guessing my relationship with Adam all over again.”

Silas is flabbergasted at that. He’s genuinely grown to care for Adam. “Ari, what—”

“I want to keep the day small because I don’t want Adam to have to think about how his family isn’t there to support him, okay? I’m trying to make it right, but if it doesn’t work out…”

“Ah.” Silas knows enough about what went down last Thanksgiving between Adam and his family to place pieces of the puzzle. He takes a moment to sort out trajectories of the multiple ways to move the conversation forward. “Are you okay not celebrating?”

“I’ll be fine,” Ari says. “I just want Adam to be happy.”

Silas rubs a hand across his jaw. “He doesn’t know the real reason you’re keeping things so exclusive?”

“I told him what matters most is him and me. I don’t need all the fanfare shit for something so important.”

Silas’s mouth twitches, but Ari’s attention is on the TV. Ari adores being around people. Crowds, parties, his massive family. There’s no way Adam believed him. “What did he say to that?”

“That it’s fine.” The smile Ari gives as he begins playing the game again, joystick swiveling under his thumb, is unexpectedly wry. “Then he asked if he could still invite Josie.”

***

Silas exhales smoke out his nostrils and drops his head back onto the couch. Josie Hicks. It’s more difficult than usual to sit with the discomfort he’s had since she left. And now: a hellraiser full of heart, flying back for an entire week. 

Ramona took the news on the chin, but Silas knows she’ll simply act as if Josie is a piece of furniture if they end up in the same room. When they end up in the same room, Silas reminds himself. The playing field is narrower this time around. Overlap is certain. 

While it’s likely temperaments have cooled, Silas doubts one year will be enough to quell the tension. Even if he navigates everything well, keeps everyone happy and separate, the best he can hope for is a Cold War. Christ, he already has a headache. 

 He inhales too hard and coughs. His jaw hurts. His head hurts. His—phone is vibrating. 

“Jess,” he says upon answering. Speaking with his sister suddenly doesn’t seem like the worst option. 

“You little shit, stop avoiding my calls,” she says. But her voice is warm, always dancing the edge of laughter. Silas has to fake being easy-going a lot of the time; he doesn’t think Jess does.

“Can’t help that I’m b—”

“Sure, sure, the glorification of busy. Look, Raoul needs to know by next Friday if you’re in or not. He can’t hold the spot forever.”

“I never asked him to hold it,” Silas says. He spins the cigarette in his fingers and watches the smoke twirl. 

“Out loud, maybe,” Jess replies. “But you and I know this is the right move. Professionally and personally.”

Through the sliding glass door, Silas can see Ari and Ramona on the couch. Ari’s expression and mannerisms—mouth twisted, apparent difficulty meeting Ramona’s eye, repeatedly tucking his hair behind his ears—tell Silas he’s probably talking about work, not the elopement. Ramona the bad cop isn’t anywhere to be seen for this conversation; she wears the smile reserved for Ari and Silas on their worst days, the one that plucked nineteen-year-old Silas off the ground and set him on his feet. The one reminding Silas that even if she doesn’t love him how he wants, she still loves him with everything she has. 

“Silas?” Jess’s voice is calm but probing, her therapist mantle clearly settling in. He isn’t bothered by it. He knows there’s a want versus a need at hand, knows the right answer even as his heart yearns. 

He finishes the call just as Ramona pulls open the sliding glass door and steps outside with a blanket. Inside, Ari has disappeared.

Silas stubs out his cigarette as she joins him on the outdoor couch, sitting close as she throws the blanket over both of them. It’s late enough that their only source of light comes from inside the house, and the golden tones give Ramona an ethereal look.

He closes his eyes and fights the urge to light another cigarette. “Is Ari okay?”

“He will be.” Ramona’s voice is gentle. “Are you?”

He’s nodding before he even opens his eyes. “Things on my mind. Sorry for bringing down the mood so much lately.”

She’s watching him with the same look she gave Ari inside only minutes ago. “Si.” 

The single syllable peels back any remaining guardrails. He nods, admitting defeat. After an extended moment, during which he’s yet again grateful that Ramona doesn’t rely on much exposition, he says, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

If the admission surprises her, she shows none of it. Rather, she reaches for him, then past him, for the box of cigarettes on his left. She holds the stick steady as he lights it—his own hands shaking at the foreignness of Ramona Taylor holding a cigarette; what it means in the grand scheme of things—then sets it between her lips and puffs.

“I think,” she begins, and Silas takes a mental picture, knowing it’s the last moment before everything changes, “you might be right.”