“Someone who can keep me in style. A classy divorcée,” he says.

Beth chuckles, but her eyes narrow. If I noticed the way she looked at him when we sat down, you better believe she’s noticed that touch he gave me just now. “What if you meet someone you’re totally into, but she’s not divorced?”

“Any woman can get divorced,” Christian says, “with the right motivation.”

An hour later, Beth slurs her words. Her eyes are red. Her updo is coming down from its pins. She’s taken off her shoes to hit the dance floor while the DJ spins the top hits of our high school years.

I haven’t danced like this since before I was married. I haven’t drunk like this, either. When the music slows and couples pair off, I duck away from the dance floor and head for the restrooms, where I pee forever and then spend another five minutes at the sink, trying to get my head on straight.

The alcohol and mediocre hotel banquet chicken fight a battle in my stomach. I dampen a paper towel with cold water and pat my face carefully, doing my best to preserve my makeup. It’s kind of a lost cause. I freshen my lipstick, baring my teeth at myself in the mirror. A good and happy life, I remind myself. One that does not include Christian Campbell.

Any woman can get divorced, according to him, but that’s not true. A woman who depends on her husband financially can’t simply leave him. A woman who has vowed to protect her only child from any more upheaval and trauma can’t rip his family apart.

In the hallway, I pull out my phone to check for texts. There aren’t any, of course. At sixteen, Eli is old enough to stay home alone. Old enough to get into trouble, too, except the sort of hijinks I got into at his age don’t seem to be in Eli’s wheelhouse. I hadn’t been one of the “popular” girls, but at least I’d had friends. Eli’s been teased and bullied as “the weird kid” since elementary school … and although my heart breaks for my son … he is weird. An outsider. Fretful. Easily pushed off balance. Friendless.

I sense Christian before I look up and see him.

“There you are. Don’t tell me you’re leaving already, Jewelann. We haven’t had the chance to really talk. So many other people around,” he says.

The reunion’s supposed to go on for another forty minutes or so. I can hear the music still playing from the ballroom, but people are drifting out of the double doors and off into the night. I tuck my phone into my bag. He moves closer before I can reply.

“You look so good tonight.” His voice drops low. He lifts a hand as though he means to touch me but holds back.

“I look good every night, Christian.”

His eyebrows raise a little bit. His smile worms a slow tingle of heat through me. “How long has it been since we last saw each other? Ten years? Longer?”