We arrived at the restaurant at exactly 5:55.
My mother was already there.
Of course she was.
She sat near the windows overlooking Cannery Row with a glass of white wine already in hand, perfectly composed beneath the warm amber lighting of the restaurant.
The second she saw us approaching the table, she looked at her watch.
"You're late."
I stopped walking.
"Mother, it's 5:55."
"And in my book," she replied smoothly, "that's late."
Martin looked deeply entertained already.
We sat down across from her, and within seconds she'd already flagged down the waiter like she owned the establishment personally.
Honestly, she might have.
Menus appeared.
Wine appeared.
Calamari appeared shortly afterward because my mother had apparently been ordering the exact same appetizers at this restaurant since the Clinton administration.
"So," she said, folding her hands together elegantly, "tell me about work."
I leaned back slightly in my chair.
"The company's doing well. Busy quarter. We're expanding some divisions."
Martin looked between us.
"What exactly do you do again?"
"I'm the controller for a tech firm."
"Oh," he said immediately. "So you're one of the people who knows where all the bodies are buried financially."
"That is both wildly inappropriate and completely accurate."
My mother nodded approvingly.
"He's very good at it."
"Thank you, Mother."
"You were always good with numbers," she continued. "You got that from me."
"I got anxiety from you too."
"Yes, and look how successful that made you."
Martin nearly choked on his wine laughing.
Dinner settled into the strange rhythm it always did with my mother — half conversation, half verbal combat.
Eventually, inevitably, she brought up Elliott.
"I still don't understand," she said, cutting into a piece of calamari with visible judgment, "why your husband couldn't come down for one weekend."
I sighed quietly.
"Mother, he's opening a restaurant in Napa. They just finalized funding this week."
"Yes, yes. I'm aware."
"He's busy."
She took a sip of wine.
"I'm sure he is."
Something in her tone made me immediately wary.
"I hope," she continued casually, "he's not getting busy with one of those little twinks that work at his restaurants."
"Mother!"
Several nearby tables glanced over.
Martin blinked.
"Oh," he said carefully. "Has that... been a thing before?"
I turned toward him immediately.
"No. It has not."
My mother gave a tiny shrug.
"There's a famous saying Ronald Reagan used to use."
I already knew I wasn't going to enjoy this.
"Trust," she said, "but verify."
"Mother, I have absolutely no reason to believe Elliott is cheating on me."
"Of course."
She stabbed another piece of calamari.
"And I have no reason to believe this calamari is slightly overcooked."
I stared at her in disbelief.
"You're unbelievable."
"No," she corrected calmly. "I'm observant."
Martin very wisely stayed quiet for the next several minutes.
The rest of dinner passed with relatively minimal emotional destruction, which by our family standards counted as a successful evening.
By the time we finally escaped the restaurant, the sun had already disappeared beyond the coastline, leaving the streets washed in soft gold streetlight.
Martin inhaled deeply as we walked toward the car.
"I feel like I just survived a political summit."
"That was her being pleasant."
"Oh my God."
I laughed for what felt like the first genuinely relaxed time all day.
When we finally arrived at the little inn by the river, the evening had gone cool and misty, the sound of water moving softly through the darkness nearby.
Martin looked toward the coastline.
"Can we go walk on the beach for a little while?"
I hesitated.
"It's kind of a hike from here."
He gave me an exaggerated pleading look.
"What the hell," I sighed. "We're already here."
The beach was mostly quiet by the time we got there.
A few couples walked along the shoreline in the distance, and farther down the sand someone had started a small bonfire surrounded by folding chairs and cheap beer coolers.
The ocean rolled endlessly against the shore beneath the moonlight.
Martin sat down first, pulling his knees up slightly against the cold wind.
For a while, neither of us said much.
We just listened to the waves.
Then quietly, almost to himself, he said:
"How could you possibly leave this place?"
I smiled faintly.
"Martin, my dear, there is absolutely no gay life here."
He laughed softly.
"I'm serious. When you grow up here, there are basically two options once you turn eighteen."
I counted them off on my fingers.
"San Francisco or Los Angeles."
"And you picked San Francisco."
"I did."
He looked back out toward the water.
"But are you actually happy there?"
The question caught me off guard.
"Of course I'm happy."
He looked at me without speaking.
I gestured vaguely.
"I have everything people want, don't I? A beautiful townhouse. A successful husband. A good career."
Martin tilted his head slightly.
"Those are things."
I frowned.
"That doesn't necessarily mean you're happy."
I opened my mouth automatically to argue.
But Martin kept going, gently now.
"I mean... I see the way you and Elliott are together."
Something tightened unexpectedly in my chest.
"Martin," I interrupted quietly, "it's more complicated than that."
"I bet it is."
The wind shifted around us, carrying the smell of salt and smoke from the distant bonfire.
We sat there silently after that.
And for reasons I couldn't fully explain, Martin's words lingered uncomfortably in my head long after he stopped speaking.
Because somewhere beneath all the things I'd spent years building for myself — the career, the house, the marriage, the carefully constructed life — there was a question I suddenly wasn't sure I actually knew how to answer anymore.
Was I happy?