“So they have just as bad taste as Petra, then,” I bite out.
He smiles, but it’s quick; there, then gone. “Do you want to run?”
Obviously I do.
But I’m also thinking about the picture of Peter and Petra with Sadie and Cooper, about all those sacred places in Richmond that don’t belong to me anymore, about the house that wasn’t ever really mine, and about Petra bringing Peter here, even knowing Miles already had tickets.
“Ma’am?” the bartender calls toward us.
We’ve made it to the front of the line; she’s waiting for us to order. I lock eyes with Miles. “If you need to, we can run,” he says. “But . . .” His head tips, eyes glimmering beneath his dark lashes.
“But?” I say.
“We could also stay,” Miles replies. “Drink. Dance. Have fun.”
“In a room with our exes,” I point out. “Who think we’re dating.”
Miles’s smile hitches up. “See?” he says. “Doesn’t that sound fun?”
“Ma’am?” the bartender says, more loudly this time.
We shouldn’t have to leave. If they’re uncomfortable, they can go.
I turn back to her. “Two shots of whiskey, please.”
18
As usual, Miles knows everyone.
From the time we realize there’s a banquet table covered in desserts out on the veranda and start toward it, we can’t make it further than two yards at a time without being waylaid by another white-haired or gray-bearded Miles Nowak superfan.
My stomach is just empty enough to let the whiskey shot do the socializing, which is for the best, because when Lance the Hobby Shop Owner answers Miles’s questions about how business is going (“So-so—kids these days don’t like building like they used to”), Miles neatly pivots with, “I bet the library kids would love it. Have you thought about donating some DIY kits to the Read-a-thon?”
To which, of course, Lance replies, “What’s a Read-a-thon,” and Miles very gently nudges me forward, angling himself toward me with a little reassuring nod.
Ordinarily, I’d rather shave my legs with a broken beer bottle than give an impromptu verbal pitch, but he’s teed me up so nicely, and I’m already in a ballroom with my ex-fiancé, so what’s the worst that could happen?
“It’s a fundraiser,” I tell him.
And when I’m done telling him about the fundraiser, I find myself talking about the kids, about the staff, about our desperate need for an updated stock of kid lit, and by the end of our conversation, Lance has not only pledged ten kite-building sets for prizes but also offered to host a miniature-painting class for us in the fall.
By the time we actually make it to the dessert table, I’ve also met: Miles’s favorite cheesemonger, the owner of Cherry City Cherry Goods, Molly of Molly’s Popcorn Emporium fame, and the guy who runs the walk-up ice cream place, Frosty Dips. I’ve also had an exceptionally brief conversation with Barb and Lenore, right before a volunteer ran up requiring their assistance “breaking up some necking” in the indoor pool room.
In the last hour, the Read-a-thon has racked up: a free charcuterie board for its volunteers, one hundred gift bags of chocolate-covered cherries, an assortment of popcorn, and one large (tax-free) cash donation.
I, meanwhile, have accumulated a surplus of both awe and hunger. As Miles and I hover over the dessert table, loading a shared plate up with cookies and cake slices and individual cups of chocolate ganache, I say, still half-dazed, “I don’t understand how you just did that.”
He hands me a pink macaron, which I put directly into my mouth. “I didn’t do anything,” he says. “People care about what you’re doing.”
“Maybe,” I say, mouth full. “But I’ve been trying to get ahold of someone from Frosty Dips for a while.”
“Well, Dillard from Frosty Dips’s brother runs the hardware store slash barbershop I go to,” Miles says.
“I’ve been here long enough to just accept that sentence,” I say. “I also emailed Popcorn Emporium back in March.”
Miles frowns at that, adds a light golden macaron to the plate. “I know this sucks, but sometimes people need to put a face on something before they’re willing to help. An email doesn’t do that.”
“Thank you for being the face,” I say.
He turns toward me. “You made them care, not me.”
“Well, I think my being the fake girlfriend of the mayor of Waning Bay didn’t hurt. So thanks. Really.”
He turns toward me, smiling through the twinkling lights, and taps a lime-green macaron in between my lips. “Anytime,” he says.
I manage not to moan, but it still feels too intimate. The veranda is almost entirely abandoned, and darker than the ballroom, and despite the breeze, I feel flushed.
I clear my throat. “Should we go inside?”
“If you want,” he hums.
“Let’s do it,” I say, and start forward.
But in choosing whether to stay out here in the electric dark alone with him or go back into a crowded room, I forgot to calculate for one important variable.
The one we nearly run smack into as soon as we get inside.
