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“Hope, honey.” A shrill voice interrupts my getaway. “I’m so glad to see you. It’s been too long.” A familiar waft of musky perfume laced with the smell of peppermint hard candy curls up my nose.
A second passes. I cast my gaze around the ballroom, seeking a graceful exit. Too many familiar faces swarm my vision, hampering any chance of a smooth escape. Another second passes. A pudgy hand settles on my shoulder. “Hope?”
I plaster on a smile and turn toward Brandon’s aunt Joanne. Concealer collects in the creases beneath her eyes, which are lined with a deep, eighties-inspired blue eyeliner.
“When Logan told me you were coming, I didn’t believe it. We haven’t seen you in ages.” She smiles at me, and I take just a little too much joy in noticing the lipstick smeared on her teeth.
“I’ve been working.” I sip the champagne.Where the hell is Tessa?
“I heard you were transferred to the ICU. I just can’t imagine how you can stand being there after—”
“I asked to be transferred,” I say. “I like knowing I’m helping people during one of the scariest times of their lives.”
“Oh, honey,” she says, head tilting to the side in that way that’s supposed to convey sympathy, but only makes me want to scream. “You always did have a good heart. And I suppose the memories are everywhere, anyway. Brandon would be proud.”
“I hope so.” The smile I practiced in the mirror for conversations like this feels tight across my face. “I should go find Tessa.”
“Oh yes, tell her hello from us. It’s so sweet that you two chose to wear matching dresses tonight. Like twins. But older.”
“We didn’t plan—”
“Will you be moving in with Tessa now that Logan and Tanya are married? Living with newlyweds is just ... well, you know how I personally feel about being a third wheel. Although I suppose you’ll be a third wheel at Tessa’s too. You know, my friend is a Realtor, and I’m sure she’d love to work with you.”
Air puffs out of me. “We haven’t talked about it.”
Joanne purses her lips and leans in. “Still have money troubles, dear? It happens to the best of us. I’m sure you heard my mother got swindled by someone on the internet claiming to be a Nigerian prince. Some people are just too trusting. But don’t you worry, honey—my Realtor friend works with all budgets. She’d be happy to help you.”
By the bar, Logan’s friends continue to throw back shots. They slam down their glasses and chant for more. I catch the bartender’s eye, and his help-me expression mirrors mine.
Joanne clocks the exchange. “How about dating? Are you seeing anyone? There are apps you can go on now. All the men in Rhode Island, right there on your phone.”
My mouth forms the answer I’d rehearsed in the mirror. “No. No dating for me at the moment.”
Despite my practice, my voice catches.
She leans in, doubling down on the intrusion. “It can be hard. After my divorce I thought I’d never find love again. Then I met my husband, and look at us now.” She gestures across the room with her chin to abalding man with a beer belly as he high-fives the high school principal, another balding man with a beer belly.
The dress Tessa encouraged me to squeeze into shrinks two sizes, and I strain to breathe. “You both look very happy,” I say.
“Brandon would want you to be happy, you know.”
“I know.” The lie leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“And you’re what—not even thirty? You’re young and so pretty. You’ll find someone new.”
The temperature in the room spikes. Heat, champagne, and bitter lies are a potent combination. A crucial filter between my brain and mouth dissolves.
“Oh, someone new? Like a replacement? Maybe one who’s a touch taller and makes more money? Maybe I’ll just pop into the husband store and pick out a new model. Or, even better, I’ll just hop onto one of those dating apps you mentioned and swipe until I find the perfect new Brandon. What do you think?” My teeth clamp down too late.
Her mouth opens and closes, a fish stranded on land. “Hope, that’s a terrible thing to say. You know that’s not what I meant. You deserve happily ever after, that’s all.”
“Maybe I don’t want happily ever after.” Tears burn behind my eyes.
I was wrong. I can’t do this.
A handful of guests stop dancing to gawk. The band begins an upbeat dance song. The crush of attention and sound makes my vision swim. The ballroom blurs, and I barely make out a sign with the wordROOF-DECK.
It’s better than a bathroom.
