I agreed this was a good idea, then we were interrupted by a clinking of a knife against a glass. There was a short performance by the groom’s friends, a skit full of jokes not meant for outsiders, which we could barely hear, but that was universally regarded as hilarious. A toast, too, from the hosts, who were full of congratulations and wistfulness. Grandparents were applauded. Dessert—chocolate cake with yellow buttercream frosting—was passed. Soon enough, the tea light candles burned out, and guests began to leave.

Bo and I regrouped with Wallis and discussed where to go next. The Judge and her future son-in-law announced they were leading a contingent to a bar uptown. Mr. Reed was taking a group back to their house for nightcaps and cigars. I thought surely Wallis would want to return to the comfort of bed and quiet. I certainly did. But instead we fell in with the good-time crowd, through the snare of Broad Street traffic to upper King, into a bar that was once a bank.

“A tab has been opened,” Bo told us, once we were able to get past the bouncer and near the marble-topped bar. “Don’t ask by whom. Just order what you want.”

Wallis went off to get us drinks, and Bo, too, was whisked away by an old friend to catch up. Alone, I shrugged off my light jacket, draped it over my arm. I took in the scene—the high-coffered ceiling, the wines by the glass chalked on a board behind the bar, the crowd decked out mostly in bright colors and Southern florals, and there, just a dozen feet straight ahead, was Blake Darley. I blinked again, daring my eyes to lie. But it was him, with a posse of similarly aged men, one of whom I recognized as Melinda Darley’s chief of staff, as portly and smug as in the graveyard last month. They must’ve felt my gaze, because both he and Blake turned their heads and caught my eye.

I felt Wallis come up beside me. “He’s here,” she said, clutching my arm. Her hands were empty. I guess she hadn’t had a chance to order before spotting him. “Jesus, he’s here.”

“I see that,” I said. Meaning, yes, I see him. And he saw me. And you, Wallis. But, still, there he stands, with his friends, having made no move to excuse himself. He didn’t even wave.

“Then, come on.” She pulled me forward.

“Wait, Wallis,” I said. Useless. Useless. Useless. She was already there, behind him, then beside him. The others in his group shuffled to make room. The music—bubblegum pop from my childhood—was terrible and unrelenting, and Wallis had to raise her voice to be heard. She said his name. Then she was forced to say it again.

“Hi, guys,” he said, staring past us to a distant point. “How’s it going?”