Page 20 of Mile High Ex's Dad
I pull a blank card from the pocket inside my binder, reach for my pen, and begin writing the name neatly. Fast. Efficient. This is fixable. Already fixed, essentially.
Except Camille isn’t interested in fixed. She wants spectacle.
“Was this really too complicated?” she asks, not quietly enough. “Assigning seats? We’re not exactly planning a coup.”
There’s scattered laughter. Not much, but enough.
Enough to send heat rushing into my face.
I place the handwritten card down and straighten. “Mrs. Laurent will be seated here. Dinner can proceed.”
Camille looks at the card as though I’ve set down a used napkin. “A handwritten place card?” she says. “At my rehearsal dinner?”
There’s that laughter again, a little freer this time.
Ethan takes a sip of champagne and says, “Come on, Camille. Maybe this is what counts as luxury on her budget.”
More laughter. This time from his groomsmen too.
It lands like a slap, and for half a second I can’t move. I’m suddenly so aware of my body I could claw my way out of it. The coat hanging open now over my dress. The heat in my face. The old, vicious instinct to make myself smaller even though I can’t, even though I’ve never once in my life truly been allowed to.
Camille folds her arms. “I asked for Talia. I was assured she was competent.”
I say nothing. Because if I open my mouth right now, I might say something that costs me the paycheck I came here for.
Because they know exactly what they’re doing.
I do need the money, and they can smell it on me, apparently.
Around us, guests pretend not to stare while staring anyway. A server freezes beside the wall, tray trembling almost imperceptibly in her hands. And I stand there at the edge of the table, binder still clutched against me, feeling the full weight of the room press in.
I keep my voice steady. “The issue is resolved.”
Camille tilts her head. “Resolved would have been not letting it happen.”
“She stepped in last minute,” Ethan adds. “You can’t expect perfection.” He says it like he’s defending me. He isn’t. “She’s doing what she can.”
Camille glances between us. “You know each other?”
Ethan takes a sip of his drink. “We used to.”
A few people nearby are listening now. Pretending not to, but listening.
I say, “The mistake is handled. If you’ll excuse me, I need to keep dinner moving.”
Camille doesn’t move. “I’m trying to understand how someone looks at a room like this and still manages to make it feel sloppy.”
I stare at her, and she stares right back.
Then her gaze drops. Slow. Deliberate. Taking in my coat, my chest, my waist, my hips. When she looks back up, she gives me a little smile. “Oh,” she says. “I see.”
My stomach tightens. “See what?” I ask.
Ethan laughs softly into his glass.
Camille shrugs. “Why it feels off.”
I don’t say anything.
