Page 105 of The Clinch
CARVER BRINGS FIANCÉE HOME — INSIDE THE PARK SLOPE DINNER
There’s a photo beneath it. Me in his parents’ living room. Leo beside me. His mother’s hand mid-gesture. Brick and books and old Brooklyn in the background.
Confirmation, neatly packaged in high resolution.
I click through, and the comments roll in—less cruel than curious, still invasive.
He’s never brought anyone home.
They look right together.
This one feels different.
He’s gone soft.
Strangers taking one dinner, one room, one ring, and slotting me neatly into the story of Leo Carver’s life as if I came pre-captioned.
As if that version of me is already more legible than the one I built by hand.
Leo opens the passenger door. I get in.
He shuts it, leans down slightly. “Stop reading that.”
I tighten around my phone and force a breath out. “They’re turning it into a story.”
“It is a story,” he says calmly. “Let them.”
I blink. “That’s it?”
Leo’s palm closes over my knee, firm enough to anchor. “That’s it.” He holds my gaze. “What matters is what we do when no one’s watching.”
The car starts to pull away from the curb.
Then Leo’s phone rings.
His expression shifts, the way it does when the outside world arrives. “Jessica.”
He answers without hesitation and taps the console. “Speaker. Liz is with me.”
Jessica’s tone fills the car, crisp and controlled.
“Hi. I’m not calling to ruin your life. I’m calling to keep it from being ruined by other people.”
“Talk.”
“I saw the Park Slope piece. It’s good. It has momentum. Which means we decide how the next few weeks look before the internet decides for us.”
Her words drop into the car and change the air.
“There’s going to be more ‘candid’ coverage,” she continues, checklist-calm. “More congratulations. More photos. Camp’s coming, sponsors are twitchy, and everyone loves a storyline.”
Leo doesn’t change his tone. “What do you need.”
“A check-in. Not now. In a few days. Both of you—together—for fifteen minutes. We talk next steps. We stay consistent.”
The word consistent sits heavy.
Jessica’s tone softens just a fraction. “Before camp starts, I need you aligned. This stops reading well if you don’t control it.”
