“Sorry, traffic,” Leana said, though we all knew she’d been sitting in her car perfecting her lipstick.
And for once, walking to our separate cars, we were three women who’d chosen to be there. That’s more than blood gives you sometimes.
The lunch was supposed to be a “bonding thing,” my father’s idea. The steps—three of us, stitched together by divorce and real estate. Leana, the oldest and sharpest, ordered a Negroni before the water arrived. Mia, the middle, went for iced tea and a salad she wouldn’t touch. I stuck with sparkling water and the quiet hope that no one would bring up the will. lunch with the steps leana lovings
The restaurant was one of those quiet, sun-drenched places where the cloth napkins are folded like fans and the waiter knows your stepmother’s name. Leana Lovings arrived last, as usual—sunglasses still on, silk blouse catching the light. She kissed the air beside my cheek and slid into the booth across from her stepsister, Mia.
“Did you buy it?” she said, fork hovering over her salmon. “Sorry, traffic,” Leana said, though we all knew
“No. Too expensive.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Mia snorted, and I laughed, and Leana smiled—genuine, not curated. We weren’t a real family, not in the blood sense. But sitting there, watching her wave off the waiter’s dessert menu (“we’ll share the chocolate thing, obviously”), I realized: steps don’t have to fit perfectly. They just have to hold. The lunch was supposed to be a “bonding
By the time we left, the sun had shifted. Leana hugged me—really hugged me—and whispered, “Don’t tell Dad about the check.”