Hannah frowned. She didn’t want any of this to be easy. She wanted this to be as painful as possible so that Tom realized his terrible mistake.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Hannah said, her hands trembling.

“Hannah, I don’t know what we’re supposed to say. I guess—I just don’t want you to be angry. I’m not exactly sure why you’re so angry, to be honest. I think I should be angrier than I am—”

Hannah stopped him. “I can’t do this,” she interrupted, leaving him silent and with his mouth agape. She felt herself tearing up and wanted to get out of his sight line before she cried like a child. She stepped around him and looked for an exit. She could hear Tom saying something behind her, but she couldn’t make out the words. She felt overheated and wobbly. She wondered for a second how long it had been since she’d consumed food.

She considered finding Vicki, to make an escape, and began marching to the table where she and Uncle Joe were making small talk with Jimmy Fee and Matt’s cousins, but Hannah changed directions once she got halfway there, realizing how much she suddenly needed space. She decided she’d go exploring instead and walked out of the tent and into the clubhouse, where guests had lined up to use the bathrooms. She passed the line, opting to make her way down a narrow hallway that eventually led into a bar. It was a cozy room with dark leather furniture and low tables.

Three white-haired men in preppy golf uniforms sat on the lounge chairs. They were watching the large flat-screen television that hung over the bar. They sipped something from tumblers. Hannah assumed they were club members who just happened to be on the grounds that day. She smiled at the one man who had noticed her. He gave her a nod.

She looked over at the bar. There was a younger man, maybe in his late thirties, sitting on one of the stools, a beer bottle in his hand. He was also watching television, his eyes on whatever game was on the big screen. Even slouching, the man’s body looked too big for the bar. He had to be well over six feet tall.

Hannah stepped to the side of the man so she could see his face. He was good-looking, traditionally masculine in a way she wasn’t used to. Most actors who played masculine men in movies and on stage weren’t very masculine in person. She actually didn’t know many actors who were taller than five foot nine. Hannah instinctively began scrolling through her mental Rolodex of movie stars who might be able to play this man in a film. “Matthew McConaughey,” she muttered to herself. No. That was wrong. This man’s forehead was creased with rows of squiggly lines, like he might be a constant worrier. She needed someone more serious. “Clive Owen,” Hannah muttered this time, following the name with another negative head shake. Too serious, she thought. This man was pensive and mature but also strangely boyish. He was the kind of guy who’d look young even when he was old.