I retreated to a quiet corner, nursing a bourbon, observing the ecosystem of the room.

That was when my mother found me. Patricia Burns approached with the grim determination of a woman locating a bad smell. She scanned me from head to toe, her gaze stalling on my boots with visceral disapproval.

“It’s… nice that you could make it, Bethany,” she said, her tone suggesting it was actually a tragedy. “Though I do wish you could have worn something appropriate. The Whitmores are a very refined family.”

She emphasized the word refined as if it were a foreign concept I couldn’t possibly grasp.

“I came straight from work, Mom,” I said calmly. “Didn’t have time to change.”

“Work.” She sighed, the sound heavy with martyrdom. “Well, try to make a good impression. For your brother’s sake. Don’t embarrass us.”

She vanished back into the crowd before I could respond. Twenty seconds. That’s all it took to make me feel twelve years old again, standing in the kitchen while she praised Garrett’s report card and ignored my art project.