It starts with the little things: an extra toothbrush in the glass holder next to the sink, a few articles of clothing in the smallest drawer, phone chargers on both sides of the bed. Then the little things turn to slightly bigger things: razors and mouthwash and birth control pills all fighting for space in the medicine cabinet, the question changing from “Are you coming over?” to “What should we cook for dinner?”

And as much as I’ve been dreading it, this next step was inevitable.

It may be the first time I’m meeting the people gathered around the table, people who Ryan has known since childhood, but it hasn’t escaped anyone’s attention that I’m already fully embedded in his life. It’s the small touches a woman brings to a man’s home, like the matching throw pillows on the couch or the faint whiff of jasmine from the diffuser on the bookshelf, that every other woman notices the second she walks through the front door.

A voice floats across the candlelit table, dodges the centerpiece that I was assured was “delicate yet confident,” and hovers in the air in front of me. “Evie, that’s an unusual name.”

I turn to Beth, debating whether to answer her question that’s not really a question.

“It’s short for Evelyn. I was named after my grandmother.”

The women sneak glances at one another, silently communicating across the table. Every answer I give is weighed and cataloged for a later discussion.

“Oh, I love that!” Allison squeals. “I was named after my grandmother too. Where did you say you were from again?”

I didn’t say, and they know this. Like birds of prey, they will pick, pick, pick all night until they get the answers they want.