The band eased out of our first dance like they were lowering something fragile back into its case. The last note held for a heartbeat, then dissolved into applause that shimmered across the ballroom.
James’s hand was still warm at the small of my back. My fingers rested lightly on his shoulder, the fabric of his suit smooth beneath my touch, as familiar as it was suddenly foreign. The lights above us glowed in soft amber, flattering everyone, forgiving everything. Crystal chandeliers scattered that light into a thousand gentle sparks, as if the room itself wanted to pretend we were inside a dream.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city looked expensive and distant. Headlights on the expressway formed bright threads that stitched through the dark. The river caught neon and let it ripple, loose and restless. The skyline stood sharp against a winter night, all edges and certainty.
It should have felt like a beginning.
Instead it felt like the last page of a book I’d finished months ago, the kind you close quietly because you already know the ending and you’re tired of grieving it.
The applause tapered into chatter. Servers drifted between tables with trays that clinked softly, glass against glass. Somewhere near the bar, someone laughed too loudly, the way people do when they’re happy and slightly tipsy and convinced life is simple.
And then I saw Melissa move.
Not dancing. Not laughing. Not even pretending to browse the dessert table like she’d been doing earlier, hovering near the macarons like they were worth studying. She was cutting through the space with intention, the way a storm picks a direction and commits.
Her sequined gold dress caught every shard of chandelier light. It flashed as she wove between tables, unsteady enough to show she’d had too much champagne, steady enough to show she knew exactly where she was going.
The stage.
The microphone.
My sister wore confidence the way other women wore perfume: heavy, sweet, impossible to ignore. She didn’t ask for attention. She took it, the way she’d taken so many things in our lives and called it fate.
My chest tightened. It wasn’t surprise. Surprise had burned out of me months ago. This was something else: the small, familiar tension of watching someone reach for the match you already knew they’d strike.
I lifted my hand and touched James’s arm, just above the cuff of his tailored suit. The fabric was cool where his body wasn’t. His skin beneath it felt tight, like a wire pulled too hard.
continued on next page
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
