“I ought to go,” I tell Ray. A city councilman with an untied bow tie is asking my wife to dance. She’s looking around, presumably for me, presumably for a rescue from wandering hands and whiskey breath. The pervert takes her by the waist. “Duty calls.”

“Yeah, I really feel for you, man.” Ray smirks. “I swear, if she was anybody’s wife but yours . . .”

“Gross.”

“I said if. Give me a break. But believe me when I say there’s not a man in this room who wouldn’t if he could.”

“I get it. You want to bang my wife.”

He laughs out loud. “No, Bobby. Everyone wants to bang your wife.”

I slap him on the back. “Class act as always, Raymond. Class act.”

“Hey, I’m just looking out for you. Like I said, shit gets real at the top. You’ve got a position to defend.” This cracks him up.

“Thanks for the support. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get to the front lines.”

His laughter lingers even as I turn my back and walk away. It takes everything in me not to throw a middle finger in the air, but there are cameras here, and we both know his fuckery is an expression of endearment. Ray still sees himself as a big dog teasing the runt of the litter, which may be as close to brotherly love as I’m liable to get in this lifetime, so I’ll take it. Let him laugh. We both know this runt is doing just fine.

The dance floor is clear except for a few couples on the periphery still hugging in circles or cycling through their stock sequences of dips and spins—and Elizabeth, of course. All eyes are on my Elizabeth, a slip of fire, red satin fluttering at her feet. In this moment, she is not just desirable. She is desired. And she is mine. Is there anything more seductive than knowing I’m the one they all wish they could be? The political perv has been replaced by Nick Carpenter—all of what, twenty? He rests his fingers on my wife’s lower back. Lizzie twirls under his other hand and lets him spin her toward his chest, where he catches her body and twists with it. They laugh. Guests form a crescent moon around them.

“Excuse me,” I mumble, pushing my way through a crowd that’s nearly an audience. “Coming through.” I say it loud enough to amuse the guests, as though I’m Bogie going after Bacall. People applaud when I cross the shiny parquet floor, tap this kid (who should have shaved) on the shoulder, and say, “May I cut in?”