He shouldn’t be here. He’d been a neglectful father at best, and at worst? Mira remembered the nights Celine used to sneak to her window. Her tapping, light but sure, because she knew Mira would always answer, and she did, stumbling out of bed to slide the window pane open so Celine could climb inside. The two of them lying side by side in her darkened room. Some nights, Mira woke to Celine’s wild thrashing, nightmares that made her jerk and cry in her sleep. Celine never said, so she couldn’t be sure, but she’d seen the mottled marks Celine had tried to cover, and Mira never asked, because what could she do? What could either of them have done? They were poor, she had no one else, and he was her father. She was tethered to him in the way children were to the people meant to care for them. Before morning Celine would slip away, leaving Mira to find the opened window and the trail of footprints left behind. Mira would think about following Celine before stopping, realizing it didn’t matter because she knew where they led.

Tatum shouldn’t have been here but neither should most of the guests Mira saw. None of them had or did care for Celine. This was all a show meant to impress, and if Tatum hadn’t been invited his absence would have been the subject of every party table’s gossip. In view of everyone, he could be ignored as guests concerned themselves with each other.

Mira fiddled with the tag that displayed her name and table number, ready to leave, but she took a breath and she searched for where she needed to go.

“Mira? You must be Mira.”

A man stood next to her holding two champagne glasses. He was in his fifties, with gray hair slicked back. He had the beginnings of a beard, the gray hair complementing his tanned skin. He wore a silver suit with a matching tie. That’s too much silver, Mira thought, but he wore it all well.

“Yes?”

“I’m Phillip Hunnicutt. Celine’s fiancé.”

“Oh! It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She was a little taken aback by Phillip’s visible age, but he was attractive in the way older men always are. The kind of man who had the experience to know what he wanted. Self-assured, but with a slight air of haughtiness that wasn’t surprising for someone with money. He grasped Mira’s hand and held it, not wanting to let go. His eyes remained fixed on hers. “Mira,” he repeated, smiling.

“Finally.”

“Yes.”

The longer he stared the more Mira resisted the desire to pull away from him, too afraid of how he might interpret the gesture.