"You can't buy that," Evan hisses as he snatches for Clarissa's phone. "Give it back," Clarissa says, twisting to block him. Her hand knocks a display tray. A bracelet clatters to the floor. "Mom," the sales assistant says, softer than Clarissa expects. "It's okay." Evan's face is small and fierce. "You don't deserve it," he spits, fingers closing on the phone like a verdict. Clarissa tastes metal. She lets the tray slide from her hand and lifts her chin. "Evan, hand it over," she says, voice steady. "No." Evan holds the phone like proof. He looks at the glass case where the tote bag sits, beige and small and stupid in the way things seem larger when they cost more than groceries. "You said you don't have money," he says. "You always say Daddy pays." The sales assistant watches, eyes sharp. Two customers pause nearby and angle to stare. The boutique is quiet enough that Evan's whisper cuts across the room. "Do you want me to go?" the assistant asks. Her tone is careful that should have been soothing. It hits Clarissa as an accusation. "No," Clarissa says. She pushes her hand under Evan's, fingers clumsy, and manages to pry the phone free. He shoves at her. "You can't buy that. You shouldn't buy that." Clarissa looks at the price tag and the narrow strap and the neat little logo. The number is worse than she'd expected. It is