My mom said, “Don’t you think you could’ve cooked the pasta more, Alice?”

“Mom.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Bette snickering into her napkin. “I’m not like, a chef, okay?”

My mother laughed and held her hand out to Bette, speaking to her like this was their little private dinner rendezvous. “I mean, the carbs are bad enough already…” She dissolved into laughter.

I finished another glass of wine.

“Well, I figured undercooked is better than overcooked,” I said, feeling defensive.

“Bette, are you a good cook?”

“No,” Bette said, shaking her head. “I make Alice look like Julia Child.”

“Ew, I do not look like Julia Child.”

“Alice is not very self-contained,” my mother announced to the table, although she announced it as though there were fifty people instead of just me and Bette.

“I meant in terms of culinary finesse,” Bette explained to me.

“What do you mean by self-contained?” I asked. “Look, didn’t I chop the vegetables pretty good?”

Bette gave me a thumbs-up sign, but Mom was shaking her head. “I refer to your lack of self-reliance. Alice is just one of those people who needs someone to take care of her.”

“Oh, Christ, Mother.” Bette became my favorite person in the world when she poured me another glass of wine and winked to let me know that she found my mother more amusing than offensive.

“What?” Mom said. “Honey, it’s not a bad thing. Lots of people are like that.” She looked to Bette for help. “Am I right or am I right?”

Bette sipped her wine thoughtfully and set her glass down before replying. “I think, yes, there are some people who are inherently… dependent, for lack of a better word, on others. It doesn’t say anything about a lack of moral fiber…”

“Exactly,” Mom said, directing her gaze toward me. “Honey, it’s a character trait, not a character flaw. Some people are that way, and some are just naturally self-reliant.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“Which are you, Bette?” Mom asked.

Bette looked like she wanted very much to not answer that question, but said politely, “I don’t really see myself as dependent on anyone-”

“In a relationship, one person always takes care of the other,” my mother declared dramatically. “There’s always a leader and a follower-or, if you prefer, a top and a bottom-”

I choked on a mouthful of pasta. “Mom!” Bette laughed.

“Don’t be such a prude,” Mom said. “Which is why,” and she raised her glass in some approximation of a toast, “you two are a match made in Heaven. You have everything it takes to be in a wonderful relationship.” She finished her glass off.

My face and the tomato sauce on my plate were in a little battle over who could be redder, and my face was probably winning. I looked over at Bette and mouthed, “She’s drunk,” but Bette wasn’t looking at me, she was studying her food with excessive preoccupation and a deep frown.

I took another sip of wine and glared at my mother. I was definitely in for four days of torture.