Page 67 of Don't Tell

"Dance with me, Suzanne."

She takes my hand.

I pull her in, and my left hand is in her right, while my other hand rests at her waist. Her other hand rests on my shoulder. Then we move slowly in the square of light.

"You are a terrible dancer," she tells my collar.

"Liar."

"You stepped on my foot."

"I did not."

"You stepped on it twice."

"Slander."

"I’m going to have a bruise."

"Suzanne." I laugh.

It's a small, surprised laugh — my first in this hotel in twenty-eight days. Her face moves against my collarbone, and I know she heard it.

I look down and kiss her.

When I pull back, her hair has come further loose from the uniform clip, and her face is flushed from the closeness. I don’t want this night to end, and I don’t want to share her with any one of the people 15 ft. away on the other side of the glass.

My Suzanne.

17.Suzanne

At 11:15 a.m., the ballroom is hollow and quiet because no one is performing in it anymore.

The art is gone. The collectors are gone. The Davies have left in a town car. The press have packed their bags and gone to the hotel bar across the street, where drinks are cheaper. The ballroom is an empty square floor, with a tired catering company breaking down folding tables at one end.

I’m at the bar station collecting flutes onto my cart.

My phone buzzes in the apron pocket.

Cade

Are you almost done?

I wipe my hand on the apron. I tap a one-handed reply.

Suzanne

Fifteen min. I'll come up.

I drop the phone back. I stack the flutes — six in a row, three rows deep. I haven’t broken one yet.

A man steps up beside me.

He wears a charcoal suit with good shoes, looking to be in his late 20s. His hands are at his sides. I didn't see him during the event.

"Sorry to interrupt your cleanup."

"It's fine."