“I don’t think the boss would like it,” I told him.

“The boss likes regular clients who keep coming back and paying him money.”

“That is true, but I’m going to pass.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he told me. “You don’t want me to make a scene, do you, Terry?”

I wagged a finger at him as I got up. He put his hand on the small of my back to lead me to the dance floor. I hadn’t taken more than a few steps before Chris was there.

He said, “Thank you for bringing her to me, Bard. I can take it from here.” He took my elbow and led me onto the floor. He took my right hand in his left and put his other arm around my back.

A Hollies song, more of my father’s generation than mine. The first note—distorted and sustained—then breaking into a woozy, boozy, bluesy electronic melody. I knew the song well. I used to play it over and over when I was sixteen, thinking of Chris every time I heard it. Someone so besotted with love for another that all he needed for his existence was air. It was how I felt about Chris back then. I would have drunk poison for him.

I regarded him now. His eyes were flat, but his mouth was smiling. His voice was very soft and low. “Are you trying to make me look bad?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Keep your voice down.” I didn’t answer him. He said, “You’re my woman. You don’t dance with other men.”

“He insisted,” I whispered. “I didn’t want him to make a scene. I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“Well, you just fucking did.”

I had had it. “Are you effing kidding me? This is what you’re saying to me after you’ve been basically … screwing your girls with your clothes on?”

“Smile.” I forced out a smile. His voice was a growl. “Smile like you mean it. This is my party.”

I consciously relaxed my face and gave him a soft smile, trying to follow his dance steps. He was a good dancer. He was good at everything.

I hated him.

The voices in four-part harmony—like angels coming from the sky—singing how she was his sustenance, his sole reason to live.

Chris took my hand and laced his fingers with mine. “Jealous?”

“No, I’m not jealous.” I remembered to smile. “I don’t care who you screw.”

He said, “Your anger is a strange reaction for someone who doesn’t care.”