“I didn’t,” I mutter. “Coach guilt-tripped me into showing up. Said it was penance for the stunt I pulled.”
“Same difference,” he says, snickering. “You need a drink. Where’s Sierra tonight, anyway?”
I clear my throat. “She couldn’t make it.”
Ethan flinches as Emma swats his arm. “Ow—what was that for?”
She shoots him a wide-eyed look that says drop it.
Realization dawns slowly. “Right. Got it,” he mutters, rubbing his arm. “Still think you need that drink, though.”
Emma moves in for a hug before I can answer. “It’s been too long,” she says, then leans back just enough to search my face. There’s something in her eyes, sadness maybe, or worry she won’t name. “You doing okay?”
I manage a small nod. “Yeah. Fine.”
Her eyes flick past me, across the room, to the registration table. I know exactly who she sees.
Sarah’s moving between tables now, checking name cards, adjusting a centerpiece. The light catches her hair when she turns. Emma’s hand tightens on my arm for just a second before she lets go.
Ethan, oblivious, waves a hand toward the bar. “C’mon, let’s grab a drink before someone drags me into a photo op.”
We weave through clusters of donors and board members, the kind of crowd that loves hearing themselves talk. The band in the corner shifts songs, playing something smooth, familiar, and slow.
At the bar, Ethan orders for the three of us. “Whiskey for us? And your usual, babe?”
“You know it,” Emma says. “Whiskey works,” I add
Emma doesn’t touch hers right away, distracted by Sarah waving at her from across the room.
“Okay,” Ethan says, raising his glass. “To good causes and free booze.”
“Classy,” Emma mutters.
He grins, unbothered, then winks at Emma and pulls her in for a kiss on the cheek.
I lift my drink, but don’t take a sip. Across the room, Sarah’s standing with Ellie and a few people from the department, smiling, composed, completely unshaken.
She glances this way again. This time her eyes land on me for half a heartbeat before she looks back at Ellie, saying something I can’t hear. Her smile doesn’t falter.
Ethan leans closer. “You look like you’re about to pass out. You good?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
Emma cuts in before I can respond. “Leave him alone.” Then, quieter, “Not tonight.”
The music shifts, a slow brush of jazz that barely cuts through the hum of voices. Someone at the mic starts thanking sponsorsand polite laughter ripples across the room like background static.
I toss back the whiskey. It hits hard—sharp and smoky—but the burn fades before it can do anything useful. The glass is heavy in my hand, slick where my palm’s gone damp.
Across the room, Sarah moves through a cluster of donors, smile practiced, posture perfect. Every line of her looks effortless. She leans in to listen to someone’s story, nods once, then laughs at the right moment. The sound doesn’t reach me, but somehow I still feel it.
Ethan’s talking about networking, his voice steady and bright, and Emma’s smiling in that way she does when she’s being polite but watching everything. I nod when I’m supposed to, but it feels mechanical, like my body’s still here while everything else has already drifted toward the woman I shouldn’t be looking at.
The crowd presses closer, applause rises somewhere behind me, and still the space around me feels hollow. Like I’m standing in the middle of a storm with no sound left in it.
The dinner portion of these things always feels like theater.
