“Well?” Sandra pressed, leaning in closer, her breath smelling of gin and malice. “Don’t be shy. If you needed money for a proper dress, you could have asked. We wouldn’t want Luke’s new in-laws to think we let our charity cases wander the floor.”
I looked at Sandra. I looked at my father. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw my water in their faces. The frightened, desperate girl who wanted their love died in that exact second, replaced by something entirely different. A cold, clinical calmness washed over my brain, sharp and clear as cut glass.
“Okay,” I nodded once, my voice dead, devoid of any inflection.
Richard blinked, momentarily thrown by my lack of resistance. He was used to me arguing, crying, defending myself. “Okay?” he echoed, his brow furrowing.
“I’ll leave,” I said.
I turned toward the exit, my spine stiff, my chin held high. I refused to give them the satisfaction of a single tear, a single tremor in my hands. Behind me, as I walked away, I heard Sandra’s soft, mocking chuckle and my father mutter, “Good. Finally. Let’s get back to the guests.”
I walked out of the barn, pushing through the heavy wooden doors. As they swung shut behind me, the elegant music of the string quartet was abruptly cut off, replaced by the sound of crickets and the cool, rushing wind of the autumn night.
The gravel crunched under my heels as I walked toward the dark, sprawling parking lot. I reached into my purse and pulled out my car keys. I told myself it was over. I had tried. I had shown up. The book was officially closed.
Then, my phone buzzed in my hand.
I looked down. It was a text from Luke.
“Hey, where did you go? The photographer is looking for family. Please tell me Dad didn’t get to you.”
