“Yes,” I said, and slid my hand through his arm.

“Let’s go home.”

We walked out the way he had come in, inside a moving wall of dark suits.

Behind me I could hear my mother weeping, and Rosalie’s voice climbing toward a scream at her ruined groom, and the low panicked churn of the Fairchild men beginning to understand exactly what had died in that room.

I did not turn around to look at any of it.

I had spent thirty-two years turning around to see how they wanted me to feel.