“Then yes,” he said with another firm nod. “Consider the past erased, history wiped clean. There’s nothing between us except this moment on, Clara. How does that sound?”
Suddenly I found myself wanting to backtrack. I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Most of Boone’s and my past was paved with the kinds of memories most people only dreamed existed, but there were plenty of the other kind too. Did I really want to let go of the good for the sake of easing up on a little, or even a lot, of the pain? Should the bad, instead of the good, dictate the past? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?
Suddenly I wasn’t so sure what I was saying. Or suggesting.
“I don’t want you to think it’s because I regret the past or regret you or us or anything like that . . .” I twisted in my seat to face him. The dress’s seams stretched from the movement. Too many crab legs.
Boone gave me a sad smile. “I know. It’s just too painful. Sometimes you have to know when to let go.” His hand lifted to my cheek and formed around it carefully, like he wasn’t sure how to touch me anymore, or if he even should. When his eyes locked onto mine, they mirrored his smile, then his hand fell away from my face. “Consider this our unified letting-go moment.”
For one brief moment, I felt lighter, as if a burden had been lifted from my back. A moment later, I felt something heavier press down upon me. Something that felt more crippling than the weight of the past. Something that felt a lot like regret.
Boone tugged at his bow tie for the who-knows-how-many’th time that day and pretended to get back to his meal. All he did was shuffle piles of seafood from one spot to another; not a single bite made it to his mouth. “So this business of yours . . . there’s quite a buzz in Charleston’s upper echelon circle about it.” Boone waved his fork at my father and his silver-haired, cigar-wielding counterparts. “What’s the deal, Clara? I thought you were against all of that capitalist, bottom-line, going-public, high-profits-no-ethics style of making money. Are these expansion rumors true? Is world domination in the five-year plan for your business and, by the way, what exactly is your business?”
I pinched at the waist of The Thing in the hopes it would give a little. My stomach felt like it had been steam-rolled and vacuum-packed inside a sheet of rubber. “I’m sorry, Boone, but I can’t do the future tonight either. Tomorrow, yes, but tonight . . .”
I scanned the room. Everyone was trying hard, or trying not so hard, to not make it obvious they were talking about Boone and me, enlightening those who didn’t know what had happened between us or speculating about what would happen between us now. I felt a hundred eyes on me, and none of them felt particularly kind or accepting.
“Tonight, I can barely make it through the here and now.” I reached for my drink and sucked the rest of it down. I dug out the cherries when I was done and popped one into my mouth and held out the other for Boone.
He bit it right off the stem I was still holding. For some reason, I felt something contract around my navel when he did that. Something that wasn’t due to The Thing.
“Oh-kay, so what do you want to talk about or do now?” he said, chewing on the cherry before swallowing it. “If you want to do or talk about anything.”
I found myself eyeing the dance floor. It was empty again. A big shining floor for couples to dance, a live band playing sounds meant to move one’s body, and enough food and drink to make the most ornery of people merry . . . and not a single soul was out there. Not even the bride-and groom-to-be, who were still outside from what I could see, flailing their arms and making faces that didn’t lead one to believe they were playing charades.
“Let’s do what we always used to,” I said abruptly, shimmying out of my seat as fast as I could without ripping open a seam. I reached for his arm and gave it a tug.
“What was that?” he asked, not needing a lot of encouragement to go along with me.
I kept my hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled him toward the dance floor. From across the room, I felt my parents watching the two of us like they were watching history repeat itself. Like they were already scheming how to mitigate this scandal and keep the fallout a secret from the rest of the world. Who they’d have to bribe, threaten or owe a favor to in order to keep their daughter’s reputation in pristine condition.
I picked up my pace, as difficult as that was with The Thing suctioned to my body. I didn’t stop until we were in the center of the dance floor, where everyone in the restaurant would have a good view of us. The oldest Abbott daughter, stuffed inside a dress that had been in fashion three decades ago and was two sizes too small, standing with the infamous Boone Cavanaugh, who came from a family that was the proverbial gum on the bottom of these people’s shoes, who was dressed like he’d spent the afternoon skipping through a field and shooting a commercial for some sit-com about escaped mental patients.
Boone cocked his brow a bit higher, waiting for my answer.