The arrow beneath it points left.

I glance at Miles, who looks delighted by my utter bafflement. He grabs my hand and leads me down the carpeted hallway, music swelling as we reach the propped-open double doors at the end.

We step through and pass beneath an arch of silver balloons into a ballroom bedecked in shimmering streamers and balloons filled with glitter. White-clothed tables topped with plump bouquets of white roses ring a glossy dance floor, beyond which a row of back doors sit open onto a veranda limned in twinkling lights, couples already standing around the high-top tables out there, chatting with cocktails in hand.

That’s when I finally notice the guests themselves, all extravagantly dressed, some nearby extravagantly perfumed, most with one obvious trait in common.

“Oh my god.” I spin toward Miles and drop my voice. “What is this?”

“It’s a senior prom,” he says, grinning down at me.

Senior, here, has a different connotation entirely. We’re probably one of three couples here who don’t remember the day of the first lunar landing.

He scoops two champagne flutes off the silver tray of a passing cater-waiter.

“This will help with the shock,” Miles says, lifting one of the champagne flutes up to my lips.

I just barely manage to swallow my mouthful of wine instead of spewing it. “Please,” I say, “explain this to me like I’m new to the planet.”

“You’re newish to Waning Bay,” he says, “so the effect’s the same.”

“What school is this for?” I ask.

“No school,” he says. “It’s a fundraiser the historical society does every year. Tons of business owners here. I thought it could be a good place for you to meet sponsors. For the Read-a-thon.”

I’m so weirdly touched by this that my whole body feels about twenty degrees warmer than it did a second ago. Then again, that could be the wine I just chugged.

“That’s sweet,” I tell him, “but it doesn’t explain why you’re here. You already had these tickets.”

“Well, first of all . . .” He leans in close, drops his voice to a whisper against my ear. “I love old people.”

“I have noticed you tend to do well with the over-seventy set,” I allow. “Then again, you’re not so bad with the under-seventy set.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I guess it’s nice being around people who’ve made it through shit, you know?” He shrugs. “Like probably all their worst mistakes are behind them, and they know who they are now, and how to be who they want to be.”

I feel my smile falling, my heart softening. There’s something wistful in his voice. And I’m not used to wistful Miles.

“Plus,” he says, brightening, “Lenore’s on the board for the society, and she badgered me into ‘doing my part’ and buying a couple seats.” He touches my back, tipping his chin toward the mahogany bar across the ballroom. “Here, let’s get a real drink.”

As we make our way over and join the back of the mercifully short line, something dawns on me: “You said ‘first of all.’ ”

Miles’s brow wrinkles. “What?”

“You said, first of all, you love”—I silently mouth old people, so no one in line will hear it—“but you didn’t buy two tickets for this just because of . . .”

I trail off as it hits me.

Well, partly I trail off because it hits me.

Mostly, I trail off because at the exact same time that it occurs to me why Miles might have two tickets to this event, the second reason why happens to walk through the balloon arch.

Blond, willowy, looking spectacular in seafoam green with one hand delicately crooked in the arm of her equally spectacular tux-wearing date.

Miles and I look at each other, mirroring each other’s shock and horror, an endless loop of Oh, god, anything but this.

“I assumed she wouldn’t come,” Miles spits out.

“Uh-huh” is all I can manage. My brain is busy planning escape routes. With Peter and Petra still standing just inside the doorway, our best bet would be to sprint out onto the veranda, pitch ourselves over the railing, and belly flop hard onto the sandy beach below.

“I’m the one who bought the tickets,” Miles is saying. “So I just assumed she wouldn’t come.”

“What do we do?” I ask him.

“I mean,” Miles says, “we could say hi? Or just ignore them? It’s a big room.”

Suddenly, the entire state of Michigan doesn’t feel large enough for all four of us.

I glance back to the doors. Peter and Petra have moved off along the wall, serpentining through the tables toward a group of people in the back corner.

“Granny Comer’s here,” Miles grunts.

“Granny Comer?” I repeat, aghast.

“Petra’s grandmother,” he helpfully supplies.

“No, I gathered that. I just can’t believe that’s what they call her. Do they secretly hate her?”

“No, they love her,” he says. “It’s me they secretly hated.”

“So they have just as bad taste as Petra, then,” I bite out.

He smiles, but it’s quick; there, then gone. “Do you want to run?”

Obviously I do.

But I’m also thinking about the picture of Peter and Petra with Sadie and Cooper, about all those sacred places in Richmond that don’t belong to me anymore, about the house that wasn’t ever really mine, and about Petra bringing Peter here, even knowing Miles already had tickets.

“Ma’am?” the bartender calls toward us.

We’ve made it to the front of the line; she’s waiting for us to order. I lock eyes with Miles. “If you need to, we can run,” he says. “But . . .” His head tips, eyes glimmering beneath his dark lashes.

“But?” I say.

“We could also stay,” Miles replies. “Drink. Dance. Have fun.”

“In a room with our exes,” I point out. “Who think we’re dating.”

Miles’s smile hitches up. “See?” he says. “Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Ma’am?” the bartender says, more loudly this time.

We shouldn’t have to leave. If they’re uncomfortable, they can go.

I turn back to her. “Two shots of whiskey, please.”

OceanofPDF.com

18

As usual, Miles knows everyone.

From the time we realize there’s a banquet table covered in desserts out on the veranda and start toward it, we can’t make it further than two yards at a time without being waylaid by another white-haired or gray-bearded Miles Nowak superfan.

My stomach is just empty enough to let the whiskey shot do the socializing, which is for the best, because when Lance the Hobby Shop Owner answers Miles’s questions about how business is going (“So-so—kids these days don’t like building like they used to”), Miles neatly pivots with, “I bet the library kids would love it. Have you thought about donating some DIY kits to the Read-a-thon?”

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.