"That's easier said than done." Her eyes were averted but I felt the sting of her words.
I wanted to get this over with so she could leave and feel better.
A committee member approached and informed me that we'd be starting in five minutes.
I nodded and moved toward the podium while Ember took her seat at the front table reserved for us.
I arranged my notes on the podium and tested the microphone, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the weight of all those eyes.
The room settled as the committee chair welcomed everyone and introduced me with a glowing summary of my credentials.
I stepped up to the microphone and began my prepared remarks about tradition, about the history of the Lightkeeper ceremony, about the importance of community values in an increasingly disconnected world.
The words felt hollow as I spoke them.
I'd written this speech weeks ago, back when the Lightkeeper role had seemed straightforward and honorable.
Now, standing here under scrutiny, I found myself drifting from the script.
There was really more to it than the oversimplification of a textbook definition.
Not only had times changed, but their archaic standards were confining, like a set of rules from another time when life looked different.
"The Hearthkeeper tradition was born from a desire for equality," I said, my eyes finding Ember in the front row. "Women in this community fought to be recognized as equal partners in upholding the values we celebrate. They refused to be sidelined or dismissed, and their courage created the role we honor today."
I saw the blush dusting her cheeks and started to realize why she'd changed her mind about accepting this role.
Just another thing to make my heart feel inexplicably tangled with hers.
"This year's Hearthkeeper embodies that same courage," I continued. "She has shown loyalty in the face of unfair criticism. She has demonstrated kindness when met with cruelty. She has stood beside me through circumstances neither of us anticipated, and she has done so with grace and dignity that I deeply admire."
The applause that followed was polite but restrained.
I could feel the disapproval radiating from certain corners of the room, the judgment of people who thought I was making a mistake by defending her so publicly.
But I would continue to defend her the way a man in my position should be doing, the way the honorable Lightkeeper would if he were upholding his duties.
I finished the rest of my speech and returned to my seat beside Ember. She leaned close and whispered, "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did," I whispered, and I meant it.
The only chances I got to speak, I had been boxed in to scripts, or my words were trimmed down to soundbites.
It was time for me to let my stance be known and I wasn't backing down from it.
The luncheon service began, servers bringing out plates of salmon and roasted vegetables.
Ember picked at her food, barely eating, while I made conversation with the people seated around us.
The committee chair praised my speech, though I detected a note of distaste laced into the compliments.
And a local wealthy businessman was my salvation, turning the conversation back to the hospital and end of year financial goals.
When the meal ended, people began circulating through the room.
I stood and offered Ember my arm, and together we moved through the crowd.
She smiled and thanked people for their support, trying to navigate the social minefield.
