“You don’t know that,” he says frostily, and I squint up at him, not sure what I’ve missed.
“You’venever seen her in the lab,” Leila retorts. “She gets the jugular on the first stick.”
She jabs an unseen needle into the air to demonstrate my prowess, and the grin she gives me is sharp-fanged and wild-eyed and so out of character that I recoil.
Julian must sense my discomfort, because he squeezes my knee. Before he can speak, though, the lights dim, and a man in stylishly baggy clothes walks to the mic to start the show. Next to me, Winonais throwing furtive glances to the now closed auditorium door, and my heart breaks for her. Brandon has been letting her down for a long time, but letting Sophie down is different. She’s been working up to this recital for months, and we both know that she’ll note her dad’s absence.
But the door doesn’t open, and we sit together, an almost ragtag crew, and watch the recital without him. It’s about as riveting as expected. With the exception of a few standouts, identifiable by their perfectly slicked-back ponytails and the dance moms crowding the aisles to record their performances, most of the kids have more enthusiasm than talent. Sophie is no exception, but she’s still satisfying to watch, her thick eyebrows furrowing in concentration as she bounces through the choreography.
They’re about halfway through the song when a door bangs open at the other side of the hall. A collective gasp fills the auditorium, a frozen moment when everyone in attendance peers at the source and decides if they need to run. A few of the dancers miss their cues, distracted, but not even their instructor notices, because his and all of our attention is trained stage right.
A tall, thin figure stalls at the door. Light pours into the auditorium behind him, and his shadow casts ghoulishly along the floor. A teacher rushes to him and ushers him inside, closing the door, and our focus drifts back to the stage. When I look back at Sophie, her mouth is set into a frown. She stumbles. I wince.
“Shit,” Winona says next to me. “I think that’s Brandon.”
It’s too dark to know for sure, but I think it’s him too. Praying he’ll stay where he is, I loop my arm through Winona’s and she grasps it tight. We focus on the dance for another song, clap as the girls take their position for the next. Here or not, we will not let Brandon ruin—
“I don’t know what you think this is,” a gravelly voice says, justloud enough to be heard over the music. “But that’s my wife you’re next to, and my daughter on that stage. So if you don’t get your ass out of this seat right now, I’ll be putting on a different show.”
Sure enough, it is Brandon—and he’s in Julian’s face, a fist curled into the collar of his sweater.
“Brandon,” Winona hisses. “What are youdoing?”
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t twitch, doesn’t make any indication that he’s heard his ex-wife speak. His eyes are trained on Julian and they are filled with fury.
“Move, asshole,” he snarls, “or I’ll make you move.”
To his credit, Julian treats being physically accosted by a crazed man spitting flecks of saliva in his face with aplomb.
“Leila,” he says in an exasperated drawl. “Can you please take care of this so that I don’t have to?”
I can’t see Leila over the two men. I don’t know if she is watching the scene unfold before her in dismay or delight.
But I do hear her voice. It carries, melodic and resonant, like a whisper in the wind, and a reptilian part of my brain tells me to sit still and listen.
“Brandon, baby,” she says. “Just sit on the floor.”
Brandon obeys instantly. The room is dark, but I watch his face slacken, see his fingers loosen their grip on Julian’s sweater before dropping away altogether. Obediently, he shuffles backward out of the row and drops, like a chastised dog, on the dirty auditorium aisle next to Leila.
The whole ordeal can’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but it feels like a bomb has just gone off in our row. I hear people chittering around us, but my gaze is fixed on the stage, on Sophie, whose smile has been replaced with a look of fierce determination. She hits every beat. When I turn to look at Winona, her expression mirrorsher daughter’s. It’s as if they have both come to the same conclusion at once:We don’t need him. We’ll be fine on our own.
When the performance is over, Brandon is the first to stand. He slaps his hands together haphazardly, and the sloppy claps echo alone in the theater before they are joined by a round of applause. From afar, he probably looks like a proud, if overenthusiastic, father, but from up close he looks eerie, like someone has taken over his body and is still figuring out the controls.
My gaze drifts, almost reflexively, to Julian. As if he can feel me looking, he turns and gives me a small, inscrutable smile. I can’t even consider what it might mean before Winona suddenly crashes into me.
“Oh my gosh, Sophie!”
Sophie giggles wickedly, having snuck up on her mom from behind. Her hair is falling out of its ponytail, but I’m relieved to find her looking so happy after the debacle that was her father’s interruption.
“You didn’t hear me coming at all!” she declares, delighted with herself. She gives her mom a hug, and Winona pulls her in close. They hold each other for one beautiful moment until Sophie bursts free and turns to me.
“Are those for me?” she asks, greedily reaching for the flowers. I hand them over, and she pulls them to her nose. “They smell so fresh! Thanks, Auntie.”
“Of course, nugget,” I start, but Sophie is already distracted, having noticed who is standing beside me.
“It’s you,” she says, aghast. “From the wedding.”
“Nice to see you again, Sophia,” Julian says, and I can tell he’s holding back laughter. Sophie turns a smug look to me, cocking a hip to the side.