Chapter 7: The Car Ride Home

The stem of Margaret's glass lay in two pieces on the white tablecloth.

A waiter ran toward her with a napkin.

"Leave it," she said.

She stood, smoothed her navy silk over her hips, and walked out of the ballroom with her back perfectly straight.

Harold watched her go and then kept talking.

"...and to the next thirty years," he said, and lifted his glass.

The room lifted theirs.

Kendra sat at the end of the table with her face burning red and her eyes on her plate.

I pushed back my chair.

"Han," Nathan said, catching my wrist. "Don't."

"Let go."

He let go.

I followed Margaret through the lobby and out to the hotel's front steps, and Nathan came right behind me.

"Hannah, wait."

The doorman looked away.

It was cold, and my bare back felt every degree of it.

I turned around on the top step.

"You left me at that bar for forty minutes," I said.

"I didn't see you."

"You didn't look."

"I was told..." He stopped.

"Told what?"

"To keep close to Kendra and keep my head down. That's all I can say."

"Told by your father."

He didn't answer, which was an answer.

"You want to know what really hurt?" I said. "It wasn't the restaurant. It was your hand."

"My hand?"

"Under the table at Lantern Room. You put it on my leg as if you were checking that I was still yours."

His face went white.

"Han, that wasn't..."

"I didn't feel loved, Nathan. I felt claimed. You didn't ask me anything with that hand. You parked it."

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