Her old phone beeped, and she pounced on it. It was an e-mail from Agent Jasmine Fuji. Can I stop by tonight?
Hanna paled. The woman was relentless. Sorry, it’s prom night! she replied, glad to have a legitimate excuse.
“Honey, are you okay?” Mr. Marin asked, noticing Hanna’s stricken expression.
Hanna quickly exited the e-mail program. She tried to nod, but she felt tears filling her eyes. “Not really.”
Mr. Marin walked over to her. “You know, I bet a lot of beautiful prom queens went stag. Think of all the starlets who go alone to the Oscars—it’s really no different. It’s alluring, actually. It means you can stand on your own.” He picked up the cordless phone from the coffee table. “We’ll call my driver. I’ll have him stop at the florist’s on the way there and order you the biggest corsage money can buy.”
That just made Hanna cry harder. “Thank you.” She snuggled into his large, solid body, inhaling the smell of his spicy deodorant and piney cologne. All of a sudden, it felt like the old Hanna and Dad, the relationship in which she could tell him anything. Before Isabel. Before Kate. Before A.
She took a deep breath and pulled away. “It’s not really about prom, though. It’s about . . . other stuff.” She shut her eyes. “Things are kind of . . . a mess.”
“What do you mean?”
Hanna licked her lips. If only she could tell him. If only he would accept everything she said as horrible mistakes that she totally regretted and that she’d never make again. If only he could track down A and just make this all stop.
But she couldn’t say anything. If she told him anything, not only would his political career be ruined . . . his next job would be bending metal in a prison yard.
“Is this about prom queen?” Mr. Marin asked gently.
Hanna cocked her head. “Why would you ask that?”
Mr. Marin shifted his weight, looking guilty. “Don’t be mad. But I heard you talking to Mike the other day about how you’d rather die than campaign against Chassey Bledsoe.” His brow furrowed. “That’s not really a nice thing to say, Hanna. Every rival is worthy of a good campaign.”
Hanna’s mouth fell open. A mix of emotions surged through her—betrayal, guilt, regret, embarrassment, frustration at A.
“It’s not what you think,” she admitted. “I didn’t really mean it.” But was that true, either? Part of her had laughed at Chassey as a competitor. Suddenly, Chassey’s teary-eyed face when she’d lost flashed in her mind.
Mr. Marin put his hand over hers. “You know what I do think? That you’re a good person. That you do the right thing—when you win and lose.”
Then his gaze lighted on something out the window. Mike’s car had pulled up to the curb. He stepped out of the driver’s seat, dressed in a tux. He held a huge bouquet of roses in his hand.
Hanna shot to the mirror in the hallway and checked her makeup. She smoothed her dress and adjusted her crown. When the doorbell rang, she whipped it open. “Where have you been?”
Mike shrugged. “Sorry, I was running a little late. There was a crazy line at the florist’s.”
Hanna placed her hands on her hips. “Haven’t you heard of calling? I’ve sent you a million texts today! I wasn’t even sure you were coming!”
Mike looked her up and down and smirked. “You must have been pretty sure.” He sighed. “I told you I was coming, Hanna. And you always jump all over me when I call while driving.” Then he eyed Mr. Marin, who had drifted into the kitchen. “I shouldn’t have been so mad about the burn clinic, either. I talked about it a little bit to Aria, and she made me feel like an idiot for even considering you might be with Sean. I should have just believed you.”
Hanna eyed the roses. They were purplish-black, her favorite. Mike had a worried, pleading, please-love-me hangdog expression on his face, too. Maybe he did feel bad. Then she glanced at her father lurking in the kitchen. She did sort of want to take pictures.
“Fine,” she said, primly kissing his cheek. “You’re forgiven.” And then she turned to grab her dad so he could take all those awkward pictures she’d always wanted.
After a traffic-heavy drive to the Four Seasons, Hanna walked into the large, ornate ballroom. The air smelled overpoweringly of grilled scallops. Girls in long silk gowns giggled in twos and threes. Boys in well-fitting tuxes looked almost like adults. A few couples were already slow-dancing, and there was a line for prom pictures in the corner. Every wall was awash with color, the Van Gogh masterpieces come alive. Irises took up the wall behind the dance floor. A huge Starry Night mural covered the space behind the tables, whose linens and plates were replicas of other works. The prom committee had bought huge stars and moons made out of papier-maché and arranged them around the room in art installations.
“Whoa.” Mike nodded appreciatively. “Trippy.”