“Oh, so you have to say GOODBYE to my fiancé? What—were you screwing around with him all summer and now you’re finally done?”
Henry stands three feet behind her, inspecting the ground, conveniently silent.
“No, no, I swear. Nothing ever happened, I wouldn’t do that. Henry wouldn’t do that. Tell her, Henry.”
“I told her we didn’t—”
“SHUT UP!” Mary yells at him. He becomes preoccupied by his leather shoes again.
“Mary, I’m so sorry. That letter might have been inappropriate, but I swear, if you read it, you’ll see I meant no harm. Can we please do this elsewhere? Let’s go out on the—”
“Oh, you think I didn’t read it already? Of course I read it, you dumb bitch.” Her eyes are knives pointed directly at me, her nostrilsflaring, her mouth curled up. My whole body is shaking like Mrs. Clay when she gets a bath.
“Then you’ll see that I meant no harm! Truly, I’m so sorry. Didn’t you see all the nice things I said about you in it? How happy you seem together?” I look back at Henry in desperation, but he’s still staring at the same floorboard. “Please, can we just go outside?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s rich. Like I needed your permission or approval. Who do you think you are to talk to my fiancé about our relationship? You don’t even know me.”
I plead once more, my voice small: “Please, you’re right, I’m sorry. Can we just go outside, please, so my mom can finish her speech? Please.”
“You’ve ruined my engagement, so I’m ruining your mom’s night. Deal with it.”
I feel spit land squarely on my jaw at the same time Mary shoves me, ripping the left strap of my dress. The fabric tears in one long line, and I have to hold the hydrangeas against my chest so I don’t flash anyone.
“Hey, that’s quite enough. Leave her alone.” Thomas steps in between us, his arms holding Mary back. She pushes past him, and slaps me across the face so hard my eyes sting. I feel the outline of Mary’s hand radiating on my right cheek.
“I SAID ENOUGH,” Thomas yells, restraining Mary’s arms.
William comes swinging over, shoving Thomas, who is still holding Mary. “Get your filthy hands off my niece!” he shouts. “Who the hell do you think you are anyway?”
“Niece?” My head is spinning, trying to connect the dots. “You’re related?”
I look between William and Mary. There is something there: in the cleft chins, the full lips, the enraged madness in their eyes.
“I’m the guy who is in love with your girlfriend,” says Thomas. “That’s who I think I am.”
The two of them struggle, Mary caught between like a caged animal, until the whole lot fall over, sprawled across the ground. Their bodies spread out—various limbs entangled—like a Renaissance painting I once wrote a paper on in college.
My chest is vibrating, the whole room is toppling over, my panic attacks resurfacing for a grand finale. The hardwood floors become the ceiling, the counter I’m grabbing tilts like a sinking ship. I hold on to it for dear life.
“Lily?” I hear in the crowd for the final time that summer.
It’s Theo in another too-big suit, long at the arms. His curls are slicked back. His blue eyes look confused, concerned, hurt, all at once. I watch as he spots the flowers in my hand, my red cheek, and Mary knocked onto the floor.
I know a second before he moves what he must assume happened here tonight. I can see the mental gymnastics in real time. Henry standing there, looking guilty. I imagine Theo’s train of thought: Did Henry come here tonight to give me these flowers? Is that why Mary got involved?
“You prick!” Theo shouts before launching himself at Henry, punching him straight across the jaw. He falls to the ground with a hollow, resolute thud. The audience—because that’s exactly what they’ve become, the audience to this spectacle—lets out a collective gasp.
The last image I see before the world turns fully upside down is Rose at the podium. Heartbreak in her eyes. She shakes her head only once, small but clear, and I am sure I have never seen anyone look so utterly disappointed.
I catch a glimpse of a red shawl in the crowd. Then the room goes black.
Chapter Thirty-TwoLily
Outside on the deck, I hold a cloth filled with ice to my cheek and a pool towel around my shoulders. Beside me, Thomas is icing his right knee. Neither of us speak. The fog rolls off the lawn and onto us like a curtain closing. I lift my face into it, as if it possesses some sort of purifying power.
My jaw is sore, and my lips feel swollen. All of my words come out thick and slow.
“Kill me,” I say to Thomas. “Just kill me now.”
