Chapter 4 - TWELVE MINUTES LATER, THE WEDDING WENT SILENT
Twelve minutes later, the terrace doors opened.
Lucas Foster stood there in work boots and a faded canvas jacket.
There was drywall dust in his hair.
His truck keys were still in his hand.
He looked completely wrong among the suits, silk dresses, candles, crystal glasses, and lakefront elegance.
Which somehow made him the most honest-looking person in the room.
The DJ hadn’t stopped the music.
He didn’t need to.
Silence spread from the doors across the ballroom in waves.
Camille saw Lucas first.
Her face drained.
“Luke.”
He walked inside.
Not quickly.
Not dramatically.
He stopped several feet away.
“I watched it at a gas station.”
Camille looked around.
I saw the exact moment she realized everyone was watching.
“It was a dance.”
Lucas nodded once.
“I know.”
“People were being stupid.”
“I know.”
“I had two glasses of wine.”
“I know.”
Derek appeared from nowhere, hands spread.
“Man, come on. Nobody was trying to—”
Lucas turned his head.
“Derek.”
Something in his voice stopped the man cold.
Owen stepped forward.
“Lucas, seriously. This is being blown out of proportion.”
Lucas looked at my husband.
“I built your restaurant.”
“Yes.”
“I spent five months in your building.”
Owen’s jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“You ate lunch with my crew. You came to my house twice.”
“I know.”
“You knew I was married to Camille.”
“Of course.”
Lucas nodded.
“That’s all I needed.”
Camille grabbed his arm.
“Please. Can we go outside?”
He gently removed her hand.
“My truck’s out front. You can come home with me or stay here. Either way, we talk tomorrow when we don’t have an audience.”
“Luke—”
“I’m not doing this here.”
He turned toward me.
Our eyes met.
Lucas didn’t smile.
Neither did I.
He nodded once.
I nodded back.
Then he walked out.
Camille stood frozen for two seconds before gathering her shoes and following him.
The terrace doors closed.
Nobody knew what to do.
Finally, somebody restarted the music.
No one danced.
Owen came toward me.
His expression was hard.
“You sent him that?”
“Yes.”
“Without talking to me?”
The absurdity almost made me laugh.
“About what?”
“You could have pulled me aside.”
“I looked directly at you.”
“Rebecca.”
“For three seconds, Owen. You saw my face.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“You’re right.”
His mouth opened.
I continued.
“I didn’t tell you not to slow-dance with another man’s wife. I didn’t tell you not to hold her like that. I didn’t tell you not to close your eyes. Apparently those were instructions you needed.”
“It was nostalgia.”
“It was a choice.”
“You’re making it something it wasn’t.”
“Were you drunk?”
He stopped.
“What?”
“You’ve had sparkling water all evening. Your cardiologist told you to cut back, and for once you followed instructions like they were federal law.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So you weren’t drunk.”
“No.”
“You weren’t confused.”
“No.”
“You weren’t surprised she was married.”
“Obviously not.”
“You weren’t unaware that your wife was standing twenty feet away.”
His jaw tightened.
“Rebecca.”
“You were sober. You knew exactly where I was. You knew exactly who she was. You knew exactly who her husband was.”
People nearby were pretending not to hear us.
I lowered my voice.
“And you did it anyway.”
“It was one dance.”
“No. The dance is only the thing I finally stopped explaining away.”
He stared at me.
I walked toward the elevator.
“Where are you going?”
“Upstairs.”
“Good. We can talk privately.”
“I’m getting my bag.”
He followed me.
“Don’t do this.”
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped inside.
He put his hand against the door.
“Rebecca.”
I looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“Move.”
Something in my voice made him step back.
Before the doors closed, he said, “You’re being dramatic.”
I remember that word more clearly than almost anything else.
Dramatic.
For eleven years, people had called me easygoing.
Understanding.
Practical.
May you like
Cool.
The first night I refused to absorb someone else’s discomfort, I became dramatic.
