Page 27 of Trick or Tease

Every conversation tonight had followed the same script, like the whole town had gotten together and decided on their talking points before I arrived.

The city was polluted.

The city was filled with rats, human and rodent.

The city was too crowded.

The city was violent.

When was I coming home?

Why was I wasting my life in the city?

Didn’t I know my family needed me?

Wasn’t I worried about getting murdered like Batman’s parents?

Fielding all of those questions without breaking my smile was exactly why I was a damn good lawyer. I could stand in front of a judge or opposing counsel and they’d never know what I was thinking.

The worst part was the way they looked at me. Like I was some kind of exotic new fish in the aquarium. Like success was something suspicious, something that needed to be explained and justified and ultimately dismissed as inferior to whatever they had going on here.

I loved my parents. I respected the life they’d built. But this wasn’t my world anymore, and pretending otherwise was exhausting.

I scanned the crowded hall, looking for any excuse to escape another conversation about the moral superiority of small-town living. At least my parents were having a good time. Dad was holding court near the makeshift bar, gesturing wildly as he told some story that had his buddies doubled over with laughter.

Mom was flitting between tables like a social butterfly, hugging everyone and accepting congratulations on their retirement with genuine warmth.

They belonged here in a way I never had.

That was when I spotted Sabrina across the room. She was standing near the dessert table, laughing at something Mrs. Jones was saying while she cut slices of what looked like Granny Mae’s famous apple pie. She wore a simple blue sundress that brought out her eyes, and her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail that made her look younger, more like the girl I remembered.

She wasn’t wearing much makeup. Sabrina never did. It was refreshing after spending so much time surrounded by women who took their makeup very seriously.

I caught her eye and gave her a subtle wave, raising my eyebrows in what I hoped was a clear distress signal. She glanced around, taking in the Petersons who were still lurking nearby like vultures. Understanding flickered across her face.

She excused herself and made her way over, weaving through the crowd while flashing smiles at everyone.

“There you are,” she said brightly, sliding up beside me with a warm smile. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Have you now?” I asked, grateful for the rescue.

“Mmm-hmm.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I believe you mentioned something about needing protection from nosy questions. How’s that working out for you?”

“About as well as you’d expect,” I muttered, glancing over at Harold Peterson, who was still watching me with disapproval.

“Well then,” she said, extending her hand toward me. “I think you owe me a dance.”

I stared at her outstretched hand. “I should probably warn you. I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Good thing this isn’t exactly a formal affair,” she said, nodding toward the small dance floor where couples swayed to the band’s unique rendition of “The Way You Look Tonight.” “Come on. I promise not to judge your footwork.”

I was desperate enough to take her up on the offer. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I took her hand and let her lead me onto the dance floor, acutely aware of the curious looks we were getting. Her palm was warm and slightly rough from farm work, a contrast to the soft manicured hands I was used to in the city.

“See?” she said as I awkwardly placed my other hand on her waist. “This isn’t so bad.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one stepping on toes.”