It’s crushing to be attached to Alfie’s arm at yet another family event. Nothing personal to him, of course. I’m well aware of how much I owe him. This week, more than ever, it’s crucial to be seen together by as many people as possible, and my cousin Emmeline’s wedding is the perfect occasion. Only, I can’t help being keenly aware that, right now, while we’re eating hors d’oeuvres surrounded by breathtaking flower installations with a jazz band serenading us, Danni is at school without me, possibly feeling the worst she ever has. I’ve never felt like I’m giving a pantomime performance quite as much as I do tonight. This isn’t only fake. It’s a farce.

Eleanor is here tonight, too, though she’s sitting with her parents at the moment. She begged for an invitation when she discovered Emmeline is marrying Guadalupe Alcántara, a descendant of minor Spanish nobility. And Santi confirmed to her via text—they are, as of Florence’s party, on texting terms—he would indeed be attending.

Alfie and I float around the reception as a couple, speaking to as many people as we possibly can. See, here we are. Entirely heterosexual, quite in love, please for the love of god help us quell any rumors otherwise before my girlfriend gets hurt again.

Over and over again we smile and laugh with people while they make the same inane comments. You two look lovely together. I remember my high school love. You’re a lucky man, Alfie, this one’s going to keep you on your toes. It’s as though someone were walking ahead of us handing out identical cue cards for the guests to read aloud.

I take every opportunity possible to text Danni, but it doesn’t make me feel any less filthy. I wonder if being a walking lie is something you eventually adjust to.

“What’s Danni up to?” Alfie asks after I pull out my phone for the fifteenth time tonight.

I return it to my pocket, chastised. “I’m being rude, aren’t I?” I ask. “Sorry, sorry.”

Glancing at the room, I find Eleanor on the dance floor with Santi, holding one of his hands as they sway. She’s so enraptured by him she doesn’t notice me looking.

Looking past the dance floor, I see Mr. Paget-Harrington, standing with my parents and Mr. and Mrs. Smythe, parents of one of the younger Bramppath girls. Mrs. Smythe belongs to the alumni association along with Alfie’s mother. Mr. Paget-Harrington spies me looking, and gestures us over.

“Hide your phone,” Alfie warns. “Dad’ll rip you to shreds if he catches you. It’s his latest thing. Apparently screens kill brain cells.”

“Noted.”

We don identical smiles as we join the group.