"Of course."
Dean's thumb traces circles on my hip through my dress. I'm supposed to be present, supposed to be paying attention, supposed to be acting like his touch doesn't make me want to combust right here at this table in front of everyone.
The conversation shifts to tomorrow. I nod in the right places. Smile when expected. Laugh at someone's joke about wedding disasters even though I didn't actually hear the punchline.
God, I have never felt so out of it as I do now.
His hand lands on my thigh, and I nearly choke on some wine.
"I need air," I say suddenly, too loud, and push back from the table before anyone can respond.
I hear Dean behind me—chair scraping, his voice low, saying something to whoever's beside him—but I'm already moving toward the terrace edge where dim lighting gives way to shadows.
My hands grip the stone railing. I'm barely holding it together, all but falling apart with longing, and it overrides every other thought, as if I'm nothing more than a hormonal teenager who just lost her virginity.
"Liz."
"I just needed a minute."
Dean's right behind me now, close enough that I can feel his body heat even though we're not touching. "What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
"I'm fine."
"You're not. Talk to me."
I force myself to turn, to meet his eyes, even though looking at him hurts when I want him this much and can't have him. "This morning?—"
"Yeah."
"It was ... we said ... just once."
"Just once."
"To get it out of our systems."
His jaw tightens as he shoves both hands deep into his pockets. "Right. Did it work for you?"
"Yes." The word tastes wrong, and I feel a lump the size of my fist in my throat. "Definitely. You?"
Something flashes across his face too quickly for me to read. "Yeah. Totally."
"We should get back," I say, because if we stay here, I'm going to do something stupid like kiss him or tell him the truth or both.
"Yeah."
We return to the table separately. I slip into my seat, and Dean follows a minute later. His hand doesn't return to my back.
Maura finds me later as I check out the dessert station. She has that smile that means she's about to say something cruel disguised as concern. "Can we talk? Sister to sister?"
"About?"
"Dean."
My hands still on the baklava.
