Chapter 18: Father of the Bride

Samantha's POV

The rehearsal dinner was in the ballroom of a country club.

There were round tables with white cloths and a hundred and twenty guests.

On the far wall a screen played a slideshow loop of my sister.

Camille at six, in a tutu.

Camille at sixteen, with a trophy.

Camille and Brent on a beach, laughing at the same joke.

I stood in the doorway in my navy dress with my father's arm in mine.

"Ready?" Dad said.

"No."

"Good. Me neither."

Waylon came in behind us in the one suit he owned.

He carried a flat canvas bag over his shoulder, and he didn't look at it.

Brent's wife and her son were in the truck at the end of the drive with Waylon's aunt.

She had insisted on coming, and she had brought knitting.

All they needed was my text.

"Ray!"

My mother crossed the room to us fast, in a navy silk dress and her pearls.

Her smile was fixed on, and her eyes weren't in it.

"I've been calling you for a week," she said, low.

"I know."

"You're making a fool of me."

"Dot," Dad said, mildly. "I'm paying for half of this room. I think I can stand in it."

She looked at me.

For the first time in my life she looked at me like a person who might do something.

"Samantha. Not tonight. I'm begging you."

"Hi, Mom."

"I'll give you anything you want."

"I don't want anything from you."

"Samantha."

"I'll sit quietly through dinner," I said. "I won't make a scene during the salad."

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