Two hundred people stopped talking when I walked into the ballroom.
Her hands moved lower, beneath the table.
What did they say?
I hesitated.
Then I told her.
Her expression didn’t change.
Not much.
She only closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she reached across and gripped my wrist.
Stay beside Nicholas.
I nodded.
Apparently I’m his date.
Rose stared.
Then she smiled wickedly.
Finally.
Across the ballroom, Nicholas was watching us.
And while a man beside him spoke, I saw something strange.
His right hand moved at his side.
Barely.
A shape.
Then another.
Old muscle memory.
He knew how to sign.
Or once had.
And for some reason, he’d chosen not to.
Dinner started at eight.
By then, I had been introduced to so many Valentis, associates, business partners, cousins and women wearing diamonds large enough to damage furniture that my brain had stopped storing names.
Nicholas seated me on his right.
Rose sat on my other side.
The two fake waiters remained near the bar.
I watched whenever I could.
Mostly I caught garbage.
Who cheated at golf.
Who had lost money on a real estate deal.
Whose marriage was falling apart.
Apparently wealthy criminals gossiped exactly like nurses.
Halfway through dinner, a woman named Valerie Crane, all silver silk and perfect cheekbones, looked me over.
Her smile was flawless.
“So, Nicholas.”
He continued cutting his steak.
“Valerie.”
“I must say your preferences have become more… cheerful.”
Her eyes dropped to my sweater.
A few people laughed.
I felt the old heat rise into my face.
I knew what she really meant.
Not thin enough.
Not elegant enough.
Not quiet enough.
I had learned to translate that language long before I learned American Sign Language.
I opened my mouth to make the joke for her.
Nicholas set down his fork.
“Valerie.”
The table went quiet.
“You have attended Christmas dinner with my grandmother for sixteen years.”
Valerie’s smile became cautious.
“I suppose I have.”
“Audrey has been here two hours.”
He nodded toward me.
“In those two hours, she has had a longer conversation with Rose than you have had with her in sixteen years.”
Valerie’s face changed.
Nicholas continued calmly.
“So if you’re asking whether my preferences have changed, yes.”
He picked up his wine.
“They have improved.”
Under the table, Rose gave him a thumbs-up.
I looked down because suddenly my eyes burned.
At nine o’clock, disaster arrived in the form of Walter Briggs.
Walter was Nicholas’s head of security.
He was six-foot-six, built like a refrigerator, and had spent most of the evening under the impression that I was the singer hired for the party.
At 8:57, he approached the table looking wounded.
“Mr. Valenti.”
Nicholas looked up.
“The real singer’s car broke down.”
Walter looked at me.
“Which means she’s not the singer.”
“No, Walter.”
Walter stared at me as if I had personally betrayed him.
“But my mother came tonight.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Table twelve.”
His enormous shoulders sagged.
“She likes ‘O Holy Night.'”
I looked at Nicholas.
Nicholas looked at me.
“No,” I said.
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“Your face did.”
“I don’t sing.”
Walter whispered, “Neither does my mother. That’s never stopped her.”
The band finished a waltz.
The conductor stepped toward the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our traditional Christmas performance.”
Every face turned toward the stage.
Nobody moved.
Walter looked like someone had canceled Christmas.
Then I saw Rose.
She was watching me.
I understood.
I stood.
“Play ‘Silent Night,'” I told the conductor.
He blinked.
“Are you—”
“Please.”
I wheeled Rose into the center of the ballroom.
The first notes began.
I stood beside her.
And we signed.
Not an interpretation for an audience.
Not a performance.
A conversation.
Silent night.
Holy night.
Rose’s thin hands moved beside mine beneath the chandelier.
The ballroom became still.
People who had spent years speaking around her finally watched her speak.
Halfway through, I saw Nicholas.
He stood at the edge of the floor.
His face was different.
You can watch regret arrive in a person.
It doesn’t always look dramatic.
Sometimes it looks like a man staring at his own hands.
On the final line, Nicholas lifted them.
Slowly.
Awkwardly.
He signed with us.
Rose stopped.
For a second, she simply stared at him.
Then her chin trembled.
The music ended.
Nobody moved.
Then two hundred people stood.
The applause was thunderous.
Rose wasn’t looking at them.
She was looking at her grandson.
She touched her heart.
Nicholas did the same.
Later, when the band began another song, Nicholas held out his hand.
“Dance with me.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You don’t have to.”
“That’s generally a requirement.”
“I need you to look at people without looking like you’re studying them.”
I understood.
So I put my hand in his.
He was annoyingly good.
“You’ve done this before.”
“My grandmother insisted.”
“Before you abandoned all evidence that you were a human being?”
His eyebrow lifted.
“You speak to everyone like this?”
“No. Mostly dangerous men.”
He turned me slowly.
The ballroom moved around us.
“Gray-haired waiter,” I whispered. “Three o’clock.”
Nicholas guided me around.
The man was facing us.
I caught pieces.
Roof.
Across river.
Clear sight.
Terrace doors.
My fingers tightened against Nicholas’s shoulder.
“There’s someone on the roof of the Hartwell Building across the river.”
His expression didn’t change.
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
“Audrey.”
“I told you how this works. I don’t get subtitles.”
“What did you see?”
“He said something like ‘clear sight from Hartwell roof.’ Maybe.”
Nicholas moved closer.
“That’s enough.”
His eyes shifted past me.
A man near the Christmas tree gave the smallest nod and disappeared.
“Your people are going there.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t hurt anybody.”
He looked at me.
“You think you’re in a position to negotiate?”
“Yes.”
That almost-smile again.
“Why?”
“Because you need me.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he nodded.
“Nobody gets hurt unless there’s no other choice.”
“I can live with that.”
“Can you?”
His question sounded different.
I looked into his eyes.
For the first time all evening, I remembered exactly who he was supposed to be.
Not the man signing beside his grandmother.
Not the man teasing Mickey.
Not the man who had defended me at dinner.
Nicholas Valenti had built a life in which armed men appeared when he moved one finger.
People feared him for reasons.
I needed to remember that.
Maybe he saw it happen on my face.
“Good,” he said quietly.
“Good what?”
“You’re not romanticizing me.”
“I don’t know you well enough to romanticize you.”
“People usually decide what I am before they know me.”
“Maybe stop giving them such dramatic material.”
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
Several heads turned.
Then my phone buzzed.
Tessa.
IF YOU DON’T GET OVER HERE I AM COMING TO FIND YOU.
COLIN KEEPS ASKING WHETHER YOU WERE TOO EMBARRASSED TO COME.
I groaned.
Nicholas noticed.
“Problem?”
“My actual Christmas party is across the hall.”
He looked toward the doors.
“You really did walk into the wrong room.”
“There’s a sign by the elevator with arrows pointing both directions.”
“That seems negligent.”
“I want to go over there for five minutes.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
His face hardened.
“No?”
“The men who want me dead know what you look like.”
“Then come with me.”
He paused.
That clearly hadn’t been the response he expected.
“You’re inviting me to your hospital party?”
“I’m retrieving my Secret Santa gift from a social disaster.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m not asking you to dance.”
“Apparently neither were you here.”
Five minutes later, the most feared man in Milwaukee walked into an ugly sweater party.
The DJ turned the music down.
One hundred hospital employees stared.
I almost felt sorry for them.
Then I saw Colin.
Dr. Colin Pierce.
My ex-boyfriend.
Eight months of secret dinners and weekend trips and kisses in empty elevators, followed by one sentence before the spring charity gala.
You’re wonderful, Audrey, but you’re a lot in public.
He had attended that gala with a pharmaceutical sales representative named Chelsea Rowe.
They were still together.
Chelsea stood beside him now in a fitted white sweater decorated with tasteful silver snowflakes.
Colin’s eyes went from me to Nicholas.
He smiled.
“Audrey.”
“Colin.”
He looked at my sweater.
“Glad you made it.”
Then he looked at Nicholas again.
“Who’s your friend?”
“Nicholas Valenti.”
Colin’s smile vanished.
Apparently surgeons read newspapers.
Nicholas extended his hand.
“Doctor.”
Colin shook it.
His shoulders had become strangely stiff.
Then, because Colin had always been at his cruelest when frightened, he said, “Audrey never mentioned she was seeing anyone.”
Chelsea laughed lightly.
“Especially someone so… unexpected.”
I started to answer.
Nicholas beat me to it.
“She mentioned you.”
Colin blinked.
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
Nicholas’s voice remained mild.
“You’re the man who told her she was too much to bring to a gala.”
Every nurse within twenty feet became motionless.
Colin looked at me.
“Audrey, seriously?”
I said nothing.
Nicholas studied him.
“I’ve spent several hours tonight surrounded by people who have done genuinely terrible things.”
Colin swallowed.
Nicholas continued.
“She’s still the most interesting person in the room.”
My heart stopped.
“So I’ve been trying to understand why a man would be embarrassed to stand beside her.”
He looked Colin up and down.
“Now that we’ve met, I understand.”
Tessa made a choking noise behind the cookie table.
I turned away before I laughed.
Colin’s face reddened.
Chelsea stared at him.
“Did you really say that to her?”
“That’s not what I—”
“It was exactly what you said,” I told him.
Silence.
For months, I had imagined this moment.
I had imagined becoming thinner before it happened.
Quieter.
More elegant.
More successful.
I had imagined Colin seeing me transformed into the woman he’d thought worth showing off.
Standing there in a sweater with a ridiculous stuffed reindeer bouncing over my breasts, I finally understood how stupid that fantasy had been.
I didn’t need to become smaller to prove he had been wrong.
I only needed to stop agreeing with him.
I handed Tessa her gift.
“Merry Christmas.”
She grabbed my wrist.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the other party.”
Her eyes widened.
“Whose party?”
I looked at Nicholas.
“Long story.”
Nicholas offered me his arm.
I took it.
And for the first time since Colin had left me, walking away from him felt better than wishing he’d come back.
At eleven, Nicholas took me into a small reading room off the hotel lobby.
Walter stood outside.
Inside, a fire burned beneath a carved mantel.
For the first time all evening, there was no crowd.
No guns visible.
No one watching.
Nicholas loosened his tie.
“It’s straight,” I said.
“I know.”
“Just checking.”
He sat opposite me.
“Tell me about your mother.”
So I did.
I told him about our apartment above the laundromat.
About learning to sign before I could spell my own last name.
About ordering food for Mom when restaurants refused to look at her.
About doctors speaking to me instead of her even when I was ten years old.
About laughing loudly because she loved feeling laughter through the kitchen table when I slapped my hand against it.
And about losing her four years earlier.
“When she died,” I said, staring into the fire, “I didn’t know what to do with all the sound.”
Nicholas said nothing.
“I’d spent my whole life being loud enough for both of us. Then suddenly there was only me. Colin told me I was too much, and some stupid part of me thought maybe he was right.”
Nicholas looked down at his hands.
“I used to sign with Rose every day.”
“I know.”
His head lifted.
“She told me.”
He rubbed one thumb across his palm.
“When I was fifteen, my father told me people in our world watched for softness.”
I waited.
“He said a man who wanted authority couldn’t wave his hands around like a child.”
“That’s idiotic.”
“Yes.”
“You believed him?”
“I was fifteen.”
Fair.
“So you stopped signing.”
“Almost completely.”
“For nineteen years?”
His jaw tightened.
“My grandfather died. Rose lost the last person who spoke to her naturally.”
He looked at the fire.
“And I sat ten feet away from her at Christmas dinners and convinced myself that making sure she had the best chair, the best doctors, the best apartment and the best driver meant I was taking care of her.”
His voice dropped.
“It didn’t.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I’m supposed to argue?”
“No.”
“Most people do.”
“I think you’ve had enough people telling you what you want to hear.”
A long silence.
Then he nodded.
“Probably.”
I reached across.
I took his right hand.
His fingers went still inside mine.
“My mother used to say you watch the mouth for words and the eyes for truth.”
He looked at me.
“What do mine say?”
“That you’re ashamed.”
His face hardened slightly.
“And?”
“That you’re going to do something about it.”
We sat there.
His hand in mine.
The fire moving behind us.
Something dangerous and tender stretched between us.
Nicholas leaned forward.
Slowly.
Giving me time.
I knew what he was asking.
I moved an inch closer.
The door opened.
“Boss?”
Nicholas froze.
Mickey stood there holding the fireworks remote.
“Is it time?”
Nicholas shut his eyes.
“Mickey.”
“Yes?”
“It’s eleven twelve.”
Mickey checked his watch.
“Right.”
He backed out.
“Sorry.”
The door closed.
I stared at Nicholas.
Nicholas stared at me.
Then I started laughing.
He tried not to.
Failed.
For perhaps thirty seconds, the most frightening man I had ever met sat beside me laughing until he had to wipe his eyes.
And that was the moment I became afraid for an entirely different reason.
Because I was starting to like him.
At 11:47, the ballroom began drifting toward the terrace.
The fireworks were a tradition.
At midnight, Nicholas Valenti was expected to walk outside alone, raise the first glass toward the river, and signal the beginning of the display.
Which meant whoever planned to kill him knew exactly where he would stand.
His men had reached the building across the river.
They had not found the shooter.
The roof was large, dark, cluttered with vents, water tanks and maintenance structures.
Going onto it blind would expose them first.
We needed light.
I stood half hidden behind one of the velvet curtains beside the terrace doors.
Walter was behind me.
Mickey stood beside him clutching the remote.
“Don’t press that,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“You’ve asked if it’s time five times.”
“Seven.”
“That’s worse.”
Across the glass, the silver-haired waiter stood near the stone railing talking into his phone.
His face was illuminated by a small terrace lantern.
I watched his mouth.
Nicholas stood ten yards away inside the ballroom, deliberately visible through the doors but protected by a wide stone pillar.
The waiter spoke.
He’s coming.
I held up one finger.
Mickey inhaled.
“Not yet.”
The waiter looked across the river.
He spoke again.
I caught only fragments.
Door.
Ready.
Then his head turned.
His eyes found me through the glass.
My stomach dropped.
He knew.
The waiter turned partly away, phone against his mouth.
I changed position.
Caught another angle.
Redhead.
I froze.
Another fragment.
Her too.
My blood went cold.
Nicholas saw my face.
He crossed the distance between us.
“What?”
“They want me dead too.”
His expression changed instantly.
“Briggs, take her downstairs.”
“No.”
“Audrey.”
“No.”
“You are leaving.”
“You’re not my father.”
“This isn’t negotiable.”
“Then stop pretending you’re the man who told me I could always say no.”
That hit him.
His jaw tightened.
I stepped closer.
“You said the safest place for me tonight was beside you.”
“I was wrong.”
“No. You were right. They know my face. If I leave, I’m alone. If I stay, Walter’s here, you’re here, your people are across that river, and I’m the only person who can see what that waiter is telling the shooter.”
Nicholas stared at me.
I lowered my voice.
“You need me.”
His eyes closed for half a second.
When they opened, anger had become something else.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For me.
“All right.”
He turned to Mickey.
“When Audrey says now, you press the button.”
Mickey’s eyes widened.
“My button?”
“Your button.”
“My time?”
“Her time.”
Mickey swallowed.
He looked at me.
For once, he seemed completely serious.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The ballroom clock showed 11:57.
Guests gathered near the windows.
Champagne glittered beneath chandeliers.
Rose sat in front in her wheelchair.
She found my eyes.
I signed discreetly.
Stay back.
Her expression told me exactly what she thought of being ordered around.
Nicholas lifted a champagne glass.
He moved toward the door.
The silver-haired waiter raised his phone.
He’s here.
Mickey’s thumb hovered above the button.
“Not yet.”
11:58.
The room began counting minutes instead of seconds.
Someone laughed.
The waiter spoke again.
My angle was wrong.
I shifted.
A man’s shoulder blocked me.
Walter moved him without explanation.
The waiter turned toward the river.
I saw the shape of one word.
Now.
“Mickey.”
He looked at me.
“Now.”
Mickey slammed both thumbs onto the remote.
“Merry Christmas!”
The sky exploded.
Not at midnight.
Two minutes early.
Gold.
Silver.
White.
Scarlet.
The river became a sheet of light.
The old brick Hartwell Building flashed bright as noon.
And on its roof, between a water tank and a ventilation housing, a man crouched behind a low wall.
Something long and dark lay against his shoulder.
The sudden light made him turn away.
Three rooftop doors opened.
Nicholas’s people rushed out.
The figure disappeared beneath them.
Inside the ballroom, the younger fake waiter dropped his tray.
Two men were already beside him.
Outside, the older waiter turned from the railing.
Walter opened the terrace door.
The man stopped.
Walter smiled.
“You should probably stay.”
Nicholas’s phone buzzed.
He read the message.
Then looked at me.
“They have him.”
My knees nearly gave way.
“Anyone hurt?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Nobody.”
Behind us, two hundred guests erupted into applause.
They thought the early fireworks were intentional.
Mickey sat down on the floor.
“Mr. Valenti?”
Nicholas looked at him.
“Yes, Mickey?”
“Was that right?”
Nicholas smiled.
“That was perfect.”
The clock struck midnight.
One.
Two.
Three.
The crowd turned toward Nicholas.
Everyone expected the tradition.
The boss stepping outside alone.
The first glass.
The old ritual.
Nicholas looked at the terrace.
Then he looked toward Rose.
He walked away from the door.
The ballroom quieted.
He crossed the floor and stopped before his grandmother.
Then the most feared man in Milwaukee knelt in front of an eighty-seven-year-old woman.
Rose stared at him.
Nicholas raised his hands.
They trembled slightly.
This year, he signed, you go first.
Rose’s face broke.
There is no other word for it.
All the control she had worn that night disappeared.
She reached for his cheek.
Then she took the champagne glass.
Nicholas stood behind her wheelchair.
I walked beside them.
Together, we went onto the terrace.
Cold air hit my face.
Smoke from the fireworks drifted over the river.
Rose raised her glass.
Then she handed it to me.
Her hands moved.
I spoke for her.
“To the woman who walked into the wrong room.”
My voice shook.
Rose continued.
“And reminded us that sometimes the wrong door is the only one that leads where you were supposed to go.”
People raised their glasses.
Her hands moved again.
“And to my grandson.”
She looked at Nicholas.
“Who finally remembered that a man does not become strong by cutting away every soft thing he loves.”
Nicholas lowered his eyes.
Rose touched his face.
“He becomes strong by being brave enough to keep them.”
For the first time all evening, Nicholas Valenti looked like a man who didn’t know what to do.
So I did what my mother would have done.
I took his hand.
The entire ballroom raised its glasses.
Afterward, when everyone had gone inside, Nicholas and I stayed by the railing.
The last fireworks faded.
He took off his jacket and put it around my shoulders.
“Half was enough,” he said.
“What?”
“You told me you could only understand half.”
I smiled.
“Sometimes half is everything.”
He looked at me.
“I owe you my life.”
“No.”
His eyebrows drew together.
“No?”
“You don’t owe me your life. I don’t want that kind of debt between us.”
“Then what do I owe you?”
“Learn to talk to your grandmother.”
A breath of laughter left him.
“Done.”
“And don’t send Walter to threaten Colin.”
“I hadn’t planned to.”
I stared at him.
He sighed.
“I had considered sending Walter to look at him.”
“No.”
“Very firmly?”
“Very firmly.”
“Fine.”
He looked toward the river.
Then his expression became serious.
“There are things about my life you wouldn’t approve of.”
“I already assumed that.”
“I can’t change everything tonight.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
He turned toward me.
“But?”
“But if you ever expect me to become part of your life, I’m not living inside fear. I won’t be told where I can go. I won’t be protected by being controlled. And I won’t pretend bad things become good because the man doing them is charming.”
Nicholas absorbed that.
“Am I charming?”
“That was your takeaway?”
“I’m trying to survive the conversation.”
I laughed.
Then he nodded.
“I understand.”
“No, you understand the words.”
I tapped his chest.
“Understanding happens later.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
Then returned to my eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question surprised me more than the attempt would have.
I smiled.
“Yes.”
So he did.
Not like a man claiming something.
Like a man asking twice without speaking.
His hand touched my cheek.
Mine rested against his chest.
And somewhere behind us, through the ballroom windows, Rose Valenti saw the entire thing.
I knew because when I opened my eyes, she was applauding.
Nicholas turned.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Rose signed something obscene.
I laughed so hard I had to grab his arm.
The next morning, Nicholas knocked on my apartment door at ten o’clock.
I opened it wearing flannel pajamas, one sock, and no makeup.
His tie was perfectly straight.
I looked at it.
He looked defensive.
“I checked it four times.”
“Obsessive.”
“Walter checked it twice.”
“Worse.”
He told me the men from the hotel had been identified.
The threat was over.
More importantly, nobody had been killed.
Then Nicholas stood awkwardly in my hallway.
The man who could silence a ballroom didn’t seem to know what to say.
“Why are you here?”
“Your mother’s rule.”
My heart moved.
He lifted his hands.
Dinner.
His signing was terrible.
I bit my lip.
You and me.
He made the next sign backward.
Tonight.
I was trying not to smile.
Then his hands stopped.
He spoke aloud.
“You can say no.”
I looked at him.
At the man who had spent a lifetime believing strength meant never revealing need.
Then I signed yes.
Nicholas frowned.
“Rose didn’t teach me that one.”
“Watch the eyes.”
He did.
His smile arrived slowly.
“Seven?”
“Seven.”
“No armed men at the table.”
“Agreed.”
“No buying the restaurant.”
“I can’t promise that. I already own it.”
I stared at him.
He grimaced.
“Bad start?”
“Terrible.”
But I went.
I won’t tell you that one date fixed Nicholas Valenti.
It didn’t.
Love doesn’t magically transform dangerous men into saints, and women who believe they can heal someone by sacrificing themselves usually discover that sacrifice is not medicine.
I learned that from my mother too.
So Nicholas had choices to make.
Real ones.
Over the next year, he separated himself from businesses built on intimidation, closed operations he refused to explain to me, lost friendships with men who preferred the old rules, and spent more nights than he liked meeting attorneys and accountants who helped turn inherited darkness into ordinary, legal companies.
It cost him money.
It cost him power.
Once, it nearly cost us.
I told him I would leave if fear became the price of loving him.
He believed me.
That may have mattered more than anything.
And I had work to do too.
I stopped apologizing before I laughed.
I stopped ordering salads when I wanted pasta because Colin had once told me fitted dresses looked better when I skipped bread.
I stopped treating my curves like evidence against me.
Nicholas never asked me to become smaller.
Sometimes he asked me to become quieter.
Usually when I was yelling at a football game.
I ignored him.
Rose encouraged me.
Six months after the Christmas party, Nicholas asked me to marry him.
He did it with his hands.
His signing had become beautiful.
We married the following summer on the hotel terrace above the river.
Rose signed the ceremony beside us.
Walter cried harder than anyone.
Mickey asked three times whether it was time for the rings.
A year after I opened the wrong ballroom door, I stood beneath the same chandeliers again.
This time, all two hundred guests wore ugly Christmas sweaters.
Rose had made it mandatory.
Nicholas wore red.
His sweater had an enormous knitted reindeer with a fluffy nose.
He hated it.
I had bought it.
Walter had learned enough sign language to perform “O Holy Night” for his mother.
He stood in the center of the ballroom moving his enormous hands carefully while she cried at table twelve.
Mickey had learned exactly one sign.
Now.
He used it constantly.
Valerie Crane sat beside Rose and signed badly but enthusiastically.
Children crowded around the old woman.
People spoke to her with their hands.
Nobody left her sitting at the edge of conversations anymore.
Shortly before midnight, Nicholas found me near the terrace doors.
“You disappeared,” he said.
“I walked twenty feet.”
“Same thing.”
I adjusted his reindeer nose.
“Your tie is crooked.”
“I’m not wearing a tie.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
Across the room, Rose lifted her glass.
People began gathering for the midnight toast.
Nicholas offered me his hand.
One year earlier, I had entered that ballroom believing I was too loud, too curvy, too expressive, too ridiculous and too much.
I had walked through the wrong door because of a stupid sign near an elevator.
I’d worn the wrong sweater.
I’d met the wrong people.
I’d stayed at a party any sensible woman would have run from.
And somehow, in the middle of all those mistakes, I had learned something I wished I’d understood years earlier.
Being too much for the wrong person does not mean you need to become less.
Sometimes it means you are simply standing in the wrong room.
Nicholas squeezed my hand.
Rose raised hers.
Across the ballroom, Mickey held up the remote and looked at me.
I nodded.
Now.
The sky over the river exploded into light.
Nicholas pulled me against him.
And this time, when two hundred people turned to look at the woman in the red Christmas sweater, I didn’t shrink.
I smiled.
THE END
