Page 58 of Hate You More

“I frew too soon,” she cries, waving an empty paper cone.

Clara’s grip on my hand loosens as she makes her way to the kid. “It was perfect timing,” she says gently.

The girl frowns, her words hiccuping. “But it’s all gone.”

“It was very kind of you. We didn’t have anyone to throw confetti for us.” She glances back my way, maybe for corroboration. But I don’t know where she’s taking this. “Thank you for making our day so, so special.”

The girl hesitates as Clara lifts the small bouquet she’s been holding since the ceremony. Pulling a bloom free, she holds it out. “This is for you.”

The girl’s eyes widen as she reaches for it.

“For your excellent confetti work.”

She takes the flower slowly, suspiciously, though her tears disappear almost instantly.

“If you want, you can make very special confetti out of it to throw when your . . .” She glances the dad’s way.

“Uncle.” He smiles, relieved, touched, and a dozen other things I can only guess at.

“When your uncle comes out.”

“How?” the little girl asks.

“Just pull the petals.” And she shows her how.

“Thank you,” a woman—the girl’s mother?—says, stepping closer. “She was just so excited. And now you get to throw confetti twice.” The little girl is suddenly all smiles. “Hey, why don’t I take a couple of snaps of you both?” The woman reaches for her phone. She probably thinks she’s doing us a favor, seeing us here alone.

“Oh, that’s okay.” Clara’s gaze glides across the street to where her friend with the camera should be. But something in the moment has shifted. At least, for me.

“Here, use mine,” I say, pulling out my phone and handing it over as I ignore Clara’s questioning look. I don’t have an answer. Unlike her, I’m not trying to make anyone feel better. It just feels right somehow.

Maybe because none of this interaction is staged—not the stranger holding my phone or the little girl clutching a flower. Maybe it feels like this recording, this proof of our marriage, shouldn’t be staged either.

The woman steps back a few feet as Clara slides her hand back into mine. The contact is warm and natural, and the little girl beams up at us from the side of the steps.

“Perfect.” The woman lifts my phone. Snaps a couple of times. “How about a little smooch?”

“Kisses for love!” the little girl puts in.

Startled, Clara looks up at me, and something in my chest shifts. Something like a donkey kick, wild and inconvenient. A realization maybe that, one way or another, this woman is going to ruin my carefully managed life.

“Come on!” encourages the mom.

I put my hand to the small of Clara’s back. She startles a touch, but it only lasts half a second before she tilts her face. Our second kiss. Now this is a wedding-day kiss. Soft and slow and sweet. Real in a way it shouldn’t be.

Supporting her back, I lean into her. Her arm drops and her knee lifts, sliding along my leg. In my mind’s eye, I see how perfect this’ll look for the cameras.

Incidentally, it’s as perfect as it feels.

Chapter 16

Troy

The town car pulls up in front of my building, and the driver gets out to handle Clara’s bag.

Sitting forward, Clara looks up at the building the car has just pulled up in front of. “This looks . . .”

“Do not say like a glass dick.”