I SIT on one of the decks with Weston’s parents as he puts Daisy to bed. I offered to do it, but he insisted, his threat from dinner lingering.

“So, are you from Chicago originally?” Alec asks as I sip a small glass of Prosecco, the warm night breeze on my face.

“I am, born and raised.”

“Are your parents still in the city?”

“No, my mother passed away and—”

“Oh, that’s tragic. I’m so sorry,” she interrupts.

I smile awkwardly ...