“I was pretty good, actually. I think I only hit something alive once.” She laughs lightly and shakes her head, bright blonde strands of hair slipping down in front of her face before she pushes them back behind her ears and drops her eyes with a faint blush. “And then I cried inconsolably.”

“I remember that day.” I glance across the table at her. “You couldn’t even eat the venison for dinner that night. We all tried to console you—it didn’t work.” My head shakes at the vivid walk down memory lane.

“And that right there”—Sterling points at Sloane without even looking at her—“is why women don’t belong out hunting. Too upsetting.”

Sterling’s overgrown frat buddies guffaw at his lame comment, which urges him to go all in on his assholery. He holds his glass up high and looks down the table. “To keeping women in the kitchen!”

There’s laughter and a smattering of people offering “cheers” and “here here.”

Sloane dabs the white cloth napkin over her full lips with a prim smile but keeps her eyes fixed on the empty place setting before her. Sterling goes back to gloating with the other guests—ignoring the woman sitting beside him.

Ignoring the piece of herself she just tried to share with him. Ignoring the way he just embarrassed her.

My patience for this night is quickly dwindling. The urge to slink into the background is overwhelming.

Sloane catches my eye across the table and gives me one of her practiced smiles. I know it’s fake because I’ve seen her real smile.

And this isn’t it.

It’s the same smile she gave me when I told her I couldn’t go to prom with her as her date. Taking a twenty-three-year-old NHL player wasn’t appropriate for either of us, and I was the asshole who had to tell her that.

I smile back, feeling frustration build inside me over the fact she’s about to tie herself to someone who treats her like an accessory, who doesn’t listen to her. Or appreciate that she’s layered and complex, and not just the polished princess she’s been molded into by her family.

Sterling catches the exchange and turns his attention to me once again. It makes my skin crawl. “Sloane tells me you've been friends for a long time. Pardon my confusion, but a gruff hockey player doesn't seem like he'd be friends with a ballerina. Of course, I haven’t seen you around much since her and I got together. Something keeping you away?” He drapes an arm over her shoulder in a show of possession and I try not to fixate on the gesture.