Funny Story(63)

To which, of course, Lance replies, “What’s a Read-a-thon,” and Miles very gently nudges me forward, angling himself toward me with a little reassuring nod.

Ordinarily, I’d rather shave my legs with a broken beer bottle than give an impromptu verbal pitch, but he’s teed me up so nicely, and I’m already in a ballroom with my ex-fiancé, so what’s the worst that could happen?

“It’s a fundraiser,” I tell him.

And when I’m done telling him about the fundraiser, I find myself talking about the kids, about the staff, about our desperate need for an updated stock of kid lit, and by the end of our conversation, Lance has not only pledged ten kite-building sets for prizes but also offered to host a miniature-painting class for us in the fall.

By the time we actually make it to the dessert table, I’ve also met: Miles’s favorite cheesemonger, the owner of Cherry City Cherry Goods, Molly of Molly’s Popcorn Emporium fame, and the guy who runs the walk-up ice cream place, Frosty Dips. I’ve also had an exceptionally brief conversation with Barb and Lenore, right before a volunteer ran up requiring their assistance “breaking up some necking” in the indoor pool room.

In the last hour, the Read-a-thon has racked up: a free charcuterie board for its volunteers, one hundred gift bags of chocolate-covered cherries, an assortment of popcorn, and one large (tax-free) cash donation.

I, meanwhile, have accumulated a surplus of both awe and hunger. As Miles and I hover over the dessert table, loading a shared plate up with cookies and cake slices and individual cups of chocolate ganache, I say, still half-dazed, “I don’t understand how you just did that.”

He hands me a pink macaron, which I put directly into my mouth. “I didn’t do anything,” he says. “People care about what you’re doing.”

“Maybe,” I say, mouth full. “But I’ve been trying to get ahold of someone from Frosty Dips for a while.”

“Well, Dillard from Frosty Dips’s brother runs the hardware store slash barbershop I go to,” Miles says.

“I’ve been here long enough to just accept that sentence,” I say. “I also emailed Popcorn Emporium back in March.”

Miles frowns at that, adds a light golden macaron to the plate. “I know this sucks, but sometimes people need to put a face on something before they’re willing to help. An email doesn’t do that.”

“Thank you for being the face,” I say.

He turns toward me. “You made them care, not me.”

“Well, I think my being the fake girlfriend of the mayor of Waning Bay didn’t hurt. So thanks. Really.”

He turns toward me, smiling through the twinkling lights, and taps a lime-green macaron in between my lips. “Anytime,” he says.

I manage not to moan, but it still feels too intimate. The veranda is almost entirely abandoned, and darker than the ballroom, and despite the breeze, I feel flushed.

I clear my throat. “Should we go inside?”

“If you want,” he hums.

“Let’s do it,” I say, and start forward.

But in choosing whether to stay out here in the electric dark alone with him or go back into a crowded room, I forgot to calculate for one important variable.

The one we nearly run smack into as soon as we get inside.

Petra’s aquamarine eyes flare, for a millisecond, before her expression melts into a warm smile and a throaty femme fatale purr of “Oh my god, it’s so good to see you guys.”

To which I say nothing, largely because she’s already wrapped me in a hug that smells like sandalwood, a glossy curtain of blond completely obscuring my vision until she pulls away.

She goes for Miles next, doesn’t hurl herself at him like she did me, but instead draws up onto her tiptoes and squeezes him to her.

One of his arms comes up across her back, his other hand setting the dessert plate down on the table next to us.

He manages his own, even “You too” to her, and I wish for the floor to open up and swallow me whole or the booze to knock me out cold.

“You look beautiful,” Petra says, squeezing my forearm.

“Thanks,” I force out. “You too.”

“I love this dress,” she says. “It’s so different! Your usual style is so . . . buttoned up.”

Ouch.

Miles touches my back, his hand skimming over to my far hip, pulling me into his side. “Like a secret,” he says.

I look up at him, the gratitude in my upper abdomen giving way to an ache, a want.

“Or a librarian,” Peter adds tartly, and even though I’m ninety percent sure he didn’t mean this as a dig at me, the wind still leaves my sails at being reminded of the disparity between me and the woman both men present have loved.

Miles’s hand slides forward from my hip around my stomach, drawing me into him so that my back is pressed to his front. “Yeah, I’ve always had a thing about that,” he says.

“About what?” Petra says.

“Hot librarians,” he says, looking down at me with a faint grin that hits my heart like the first shock of a defibrillator.

“What about you, Daphne?” Peter says.

I flinch, look back at him. I don’t know if they realize they’re doing it, but Peter and Petra have drawn closer too, like this is some competitive Dirty Dancing situation.