Well Matched (Well Met #3)(43)

God.

It really was him.

I coughed, swallowing the carrot, and when I looked down I wondered why the plate was blurry. I gripped the plate harder, but my hands were shaking too badly to hold it. I’d lost my appetite anyway. So I ditched it in the nearest trash can, then melted backwards till I was practically hugging the wall. If I pressed my shoulder blades hard enough against it, I could probably manage to stay upright. And while I was upright I could watch Caitlin with her father. This was a good thing.

Across the hall, Caitlin looked a little uncertain as she talked, introducing Robert to a woman that might have been Caitlin’s history teacher. But Caitlin didn’t look unhappy, and Robert looked . . .

Well, he looked good. Which sucked, frankly. I wanted him to have aged horribly so I’d feel better about all this. But he wore a well-tailored dark blue suit and a smile that I’d almost managed to forget. Sure, his face was more lined, and that dark hair was threaded with silver now, but it only managed to make him look distinguished. So unfair. When that much gray appeared in my own hair, I knew it was time for another trip to the salon.

Caitlin didn’t look like she needed me, so I stayed pressed against the wall, watching my ex-husband work the room. He said something to the history teacher that had her throwing her head back. I could hear her giggle from here. Robert smiled at her, indulgent. Winning her over. By the end of the night he would win them all over. He’d know all these teachers better than I ever had, and I’d be even more of an outsider in my own town.

That had always been his superpower: being at ease in a crowd of strangers, turning them into immediate friends. Meanwhile, my tongue grew three sizes and I struggled with the smallest of small talk at these kinds of things. No wonder we hadn’t lasted. Who wanted an antisocial walking panic attack for a wife?

I forced my attention back to Caitlin again, studying her expression. Because if she didn’t look okay with any of this, I would be on my way over there, anxiety be damned. Her hands were clasped in front of her, one of her signs of nervousness, but her smile was genuine, and she looked almost relaxed in his company. She was fine.

This was good. I could let her have this night. Let him have this night. Whatever, right? I’d had all the other nights with her. The important ones. Maybe I could just slip out the way I’d come, go to Jackson’s for a drink, and pick up Cait when this was all over. Maybe—

A hand seized my upper arm, pinching it. “Ow!” I jerked my arm out of Emily’s grip and glared at her.

My sister pinned me with her gaze, her eyes looking like fire. “What the hell is going on here? Who’s that guy walking around with Caitlin?”

“Who do you think?” I crossed my arms over my chest and raised my eyebrows. Emily squinted at them, then back to me again.

“Tell me that’s not . . .”

“Yep.”

“Caitlin’s father?”

“Well, he’s a little old to be her date.”

Emily snorted at that, but when she looked out into the room again she heaved a big sigh. “Shit.”

“Yep.”

“Are you okay?”

“Nope.” My breath shuddered in my lungs. “Don’t ask me that again.” I was barely holding it together here, telling myself it was only one evening. Admitting out loud that I was not okay with any of this made it worse. It made the tears come. I didn’t want the tears to come.

“Okay. Come on, let me get you something to drink.” She took my arm, more gently this time, and steered me back toward the refreshment table. “And when I say ‘drink,’ I don’t mean the good stuff, sadly. The punch is that sherbet and ginger ale bullshit, but it’s better than nothing. Here.” She pushed a paper cup into my hands, and I took a sip of the overly sugary confection. She was right: it was better than nothing, but just barely.

“You look nice,” I said.

“Thanks.” Emily smoothed her hands down her skirt. She wore a yellow sundress with a halter neck, a white lacy cardigan over it, and her hair was bundled up in a riot of curls on top of her head. She looked like springtime. Like a teacher’s wife in a small town.

I took another sip of the sherbet punch; the sugar was helping. A sugar rush was better than adrenaline any day. “I’m okay, Em. Honestly.”

“Are you sure?” She looked skeptical, and I didn’t blame her. But she had a job to do. She wasn’t here to babysit me. She was here to be Mrs. English Teacher, to charm parents and students alike.

“I’m sure. Go. Simon’s probably lost without you.” While he was most likely in his element here, he was as social as I was.

“I don’t know about that.” But her gaze went across the hall, and it was easy to spot her husband. He was in a light green shirt with a dark brown tie that matched his vest, in conversation with a handful of parents. He looked perfectly at ease, but he spotted us with a casual turn of his head, and his eyes turned desperate. He didn’t exactly mouth, Help me, but Emily got the message anyway.

“Go.” I nudged her, and she sighed.

“Yeah, I probably should go rescue him. But . . .” She turned back to me. “I know you said not to ask, but are you sure . . . ?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” I lifted my punch cup. “I’m pretending this is vodka.”