Caleb looked at me over my father’s shoulder.
“Emily, please.”
Every eye turned to me.
A month earlier, that would have destroyed me.
I would have folded under the pressure.
The sweet girl.
The forgiving girl.
The dying girl.
The girl who didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.
But dying, or thinking you are dying, burns away certain manners.
I stepped forward.
Owen’s hand loosened, letting me choose.
I faced Caleb.
“You came back when you heard I might live.”
His lips parted.
“That’s not—”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
He looked around at the guests.
“Don’t do this here.”
A laugh moved through me.
Soft.
Dangerous.
“You left me here.”
He stared.
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