But enough.
Amelia looks embarrassed the second she asks. “Sorry. That’s personal.”
“No,” I say. “It’s a good question.”
Legend’s hand finds the back of my chair.
I don’t look at him.
Vows.
The word moves through Amelia like cold water. I see her face change. She asked the question and immediately regretted opening that door. Her hand drifts to where her ring used to be, then stops.
I wonder what Jeremy promised her.
I wonder what part of those promises he broke first.
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “I want them to be honest.”
Derby mutters, “Dangerous concept.”
Amelia looks at him.
He shrugs. “Most vows sound like lies with flowers.”
“That is depressing,” Janie says.
“That is Derby,” Lottie says.
Amelia’s face goes quiet.
I close the notebook. “Come with me a minute.”
Her eyes flick to Derby.
Then to Legend.
Then back to me.
“I’m not in trouble, am I?”
The question slips out before she can soften it.
The whole table hears.
Derby’s face goes dark.
Legend’s does too.
I keep my voice gentle. “No. You are being rescued from cornbread politics.”
Cornbread says, “That’s a real issue.”
I stand and lead Amelia toward the back hallway, away from the table, away from the men, away from the wedding notebook and everyone’s eyes. We pass the old cell doors, the iron hinges, the scratches worn into brick by people who had once wanted out of this building more than anything in the world.
I hate that those scratches feel relevant.
We step into the old booking office off the clubhouse hall. It’s small, square, and windowless except for one barred interior window that looks back toward the hall. Filing cabinets line one wall. A scarred desk sits near the corner. There is a couch that has probably seen both naps and threats.