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The car slips back into silence—thick enough to scrape a finger through, heavy and a little awkward. The radio hums quietly, some country song I don’t recognize. My teeth chatter and I clamp them shut.

“What kind of music do you like?” Cal asks, and I pinch at the end of my dress.

“I listen to everything.” The truth, to be fair. But if I were being specific, I would say really anything that Knox puts on his CDs: TLC, some late ’60s classics, the Grown Ups soundtrack, the Eagles, Spice Girls, and “My Humps” on repeat (but only when Knox is dancing to it, body rolls and hip gyrations to match the beat). But I can’t say that, so I say, “Mostly classics.”

“Awesome, me too.”

He changes the playlist to something on his phone I don’t recognize, and I tell myself to calm down, trying to steady my heart rate the whole way.

The event venue rises up ahead on the horizon like something out of a wedding magazine: warm golden lights strung overhead in swooping arcs, a stone path leading up to the entrance of a large event venue lined with glowing lanterns and fall mums. Through the big glass doors, I can see people in their nicest outfits mingling around tables wrapped in linen so crisp it might snap if you touched it. A quartet plays soft music, the kind that makes you stand straighter even if you don’t know why.

Cal opens my door for me—sweet—and when I step out, my heels click against the stone walkway. The scent of roasted vegetables, expensive flowers, fancy candle wax, and a little too much perfume floats through the air.

Before I can properly absorb any of it, there is a loud exclamation.

“There she is!” Elijah Brooks barrels toward us, arms open like he’s been waiting all night for this one moment. He wraps me in a hug so tight I swear my spine cracks. His wife swoops in immediately after.

“Our number one referral.”

“Our favorite referral!”

“I’m right here, guys,” Cal says, sounding deeply put out.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re here too. Flick, how is Rowen doing? I heard it’s been chaotic up there.”

If by chaotic he means that there is literally no one adopting so we’re doing all the heavy work right now, then yes, chaotic.

“He’s super busy. I think he caught whatever I had earlier this week because he texted me this morning and said he couldn’t make it in today.”

“You were sick?” Cal frowns. “I’m so sorry, I had no clue. We could’ve rescheduled.”

“No, no. I’m fine now, I swear. Just a little cold.”

And a little death, too, but who doesn’t catch that from time to time?

“I would’ve brought soup or checked in if I had known.”

I believe it; he seems like the type. He’s kind like that. But then again, I try to picture myself feeling and looking like I did the other day with Cal there and I just know I wouldn’t have been able to rest.

“Well, we’re here now,” I say, because I suddenly don’t know what else to do with the warmth blooming under my ribs.

“We are,” Elijah says, clapping his hands. “Let’s grab our table.”

Inside, the venue glows with soft amber lighting across the giant ceilings.

I’ve been to a handful of events that are more on the fancy side in Oak Ridge’s community center, and yet nothing compares to all of…this. Centerpieces of mini pumpkins, eucalyptus, and tall candles are spread across the sea of tables. Servers in real tuxedos glide around carrying trays of tiny hors d’oeuvres I’m 99 percent sure aren’t vegan. There’s a silent auction set up along one wall that has handmade quilts, gift baskets, and a painting of a horse that looks more like a potato with legs (very curious what that goes for). People hover with bidding paddles, and I find myself jealous, wanting to see what that would feel like.

Elijah, Cal, and Cal’s stepmom all walk in like this is their usual, and maybe it is. I know Elijah’s practice is extremely successful, being the only vet in town, and I can’t help but imagine Cal’s upbringing to be far more…substantial than mine.

The first nine years of my life were spent in the trailer that was rusting as time went on, then I was rushed off from house to house. Couch to couch. Sometimes, I was even sleeping in the back of Riley’s Tavern where she kept a little cot just for me while Mom worked late nights.

I wonder how they’d feel if they knew.

“Our table is over there.” Cal points to the front of the room, and I follow him to a round table with four chairs.

The orchestra switches songs, soft hums of violins brushing gently through the air. Conversations mix with the kind of laughter only rich people can laugh, clinking glasses, and the warm hum of money being raised for a cause everyone pretends to understand perfectly.

By the time the food arrives, I’m starving. I didn’t get to order when the waitress came by since I had slipped over to eye an offer for a day at a farm where you get to spend time with the animals all day. The only choices were chicken or steak, but the broccolini next to the steak on Cal’s plate looks promising. Worst case, I’ll nibble on it and pretend I’m full.