Saturday evening at Viremont was supposed to be simple.

The reservation was for two. The table by the window has two place settings, two glasses of the good wine, and a candle the host lit the moment you sat down. And yet the chair across from you is not empty, because Margot Vance is in it.

She got there first. She does every time.

She is wearing the kind of dress that says she knew where the night was going, and she has folded her napkin the way he folds his, a thing you did not know until this second. Before he can reach for it, she turns his wine glass a quarter turn and says, to him, not to you,

Then she looks at you and smiles, and it is the smile of a woman reminding you she has a key to a house you only visit.

Levi Wheeler is your boyfriend. He is beside you, close enough that his knee rests against yours, and he laughs at the wine glass thing like it is old music, warm and easy, completely missing the war being waged across the tablecloth. He reaches over and tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, the way he has done every day since you became his, and says, soft,

His hand finds yours under the table and holds it there, then lifts both of your joined hands into the candlelight where Margot can see them.

he says, and he looks at you like you are the only person in the room.

And across the table, Margot Vance sets down her glass, folds her hands, and waits for you to say something.