The Names They Gave Us(78)

“Sap,” Keely mutters at me, though she brushes beneath her lower lashes too.

As soon as the bandleader invites everyone to the dance floor, Henry is beside me.

“Let’s do it,” he says, and taking his hand feels something like relief.

We have to squeeze onto the black and white tiles, jammed as it is. But he leads me through the crowd, turning back to grin. The bride rustles across the floor in her confectionary dress, pausing every few seconds to hug someone. When she stops to talk to her mom, I have to look away. I can’t watch a mother fix a crystal pin in her daughter’s hair on her wedding day.

Instead, I sway and I lean toward this boy I like so much, and I shimmy my shoulders in a way that is probably very dorky. The dance floor is full enough that we bump into people, so full that my toes only narrowly dodge a stiletto stomp. But still, I only see Henry Jones, his cool-guy nonchalance as he breaks it down.

The first slow song is a crooning oldie, one that always seems to be playing while my mom and I shop our favorite antique mall.

Henry sweeps my hand into his, clasping my waist with an air of gallantry that makes me grin. And I just know that every time I hear this song, I’ll come back to this moment—when the world is hazy with lilac and old love songs and safe arms.

Or will I just remember that everything made me think of my mom? That I spent this day—someone else’s wedding day—squinting into an unseeable future, refusing to let myself hope or mourn for it. Why does every part of my life feel like waiting?

“Hey,” Henry says quietly. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I say, tilting my chin up to smile fully. “I just like you, that’s all.”

“Liar,” he says affectionately. He knows what I’m feeling—the pangs of confusion when your life is magic and tragic all at once.

“I can’t believe we have to go back to real life soon,” I whisper. I can’t imagine moving home, into my room with no bunk beds or Keely or bubble of giggling girls. That’s what Sofia decided a group of third graders is called: a bubble.

“Ah, Luce. I don’t know how to break it to you.” He leans close to my ear, his cheek warm on mine. “This is real life too.”

A few hours in, I kick off my heels beneath our table. I scrape the last bit of icing from my plate. And I check my phone for the thousandth time. I’m sure—because irony is cruel—that I’ll hear bad news about my mom as the band blares “Celebration!”

Instead, I watch from my seat as Henry twirls his grandmother. They’re near his parents, who talk quietly, hands linked. I know it’s painful for them all, to imagine the ghosts of a milestone his sister will never hit. A wedding in a poufy dress, hair wound up and cheeks aching from all the smiles. What grace it takes—to be on the dance floor all the same.

Keely returns to check her phone too, but she frowns while scrolling. “Anna wants to know if we’ve seen Tara.”

“Tara?”

“She says they can’t find her.”

“Can’t find her?”

She shoots an annoyed look at the echoing. “As I understand it, yes.”

“Like she ran away?”

“I have no idea.” She’s tapping at the phone.

“I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. Did they check the dreaming tree?”

Henry finds his way to us as the song ends, immediately reading the concern on our faces. “What is it?”

Keely shows him her phone and announces, “I’m going to head back.”

“Luce, you should go with her,” he decides.

“But—”

“Tara likes you.” His eyes search mine. “You should be there. My parents will drive me back after the reception. They won’t mind at all.”

He’s right.

His family is gracious as I try to convey how lovely it was to meet them all. I’m seized with the bizarre urge to thank his parents for raising this kid who looks at me with lit-up eyes. Like I’m the toy in a cereal box. Like I’m what he was most hoping to find.

Who walks me out and kisses me on the cheek with more sincerity than anyone else has ever kissed me on the mouth. “Drive safe, okay? Text me if you hear anything about Tara.”

“Thanks for inviting me. It was nice to . . .” Remember that you can still dance at your cousin’s wedding, even though you’ll never get to at your sister’s. Be reminded that you can be okay and also not okay. “You know.”

“I do know.” He brushes back a curl with soft fingertips. “See you at home.”

The drive feels quiet, despite the soft tones of a nearby indie station. All my attempts at conversation are summarily shut down with “uh-huhs” and “yeps.” Keely scratches her thumbnails down the steering wheel.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” I say.

“Mmmph,” she replies.

Silence it is. A singer warbles on about darkness and cigarettes.

When we finally pull down the lane toward Daybreak, Anna is sitting on the porch with a walkie-talkie. D’Souza is right behind her, arms crossed.

“God,” Anna says. “Finally.”

“Any news?” Keely asks.

“Not yet.”

“What happened?”