“I knew that,” Mom said hastily. “It’s fine. I’ve always known you’re g*y, honey. Are you really pregnant, though? Is Jack the father, or was it artificial insem—”

“Nope. Not pregnant. And still not g*y.”

“Okay!” chortled the DJ, looking slightly panic-stricken. “Uh, would you care to share a special memory?”

Why not? Emmaline took the mike, stood up with hardly a wobble and looked toward the head table.

Kevin sat with his arm around Naomi, but he was leaning forward slightly, his head tilted a little to one side. Was that sympathy in his eyes? Understanding?

“Right,” she said. “Um, I guess everyone knows that Kevin and I used to be together. We were...we were friends. Right from when we first met in eighth grade. Right, Kevin?”

He smiled in response. The Old Kevin smile.

The vodka whispered that not only was she an amazing dancer, but Kevin was finally listening, too. For the first time in years, maybe for the first time since he’d met Naomi. All of a sudden, it seemed as if that lovely, sensitive boy was here again.

God, she’d loved him back then.

“When I knew Kevin, he was—” the kindest, funniest person I’d ever met.

But no. Her words slammed to a halt. Her tongue was behind her teeth, trying to make the th sound, but nothing was happening. Her throat muscles seized and lurched, but nothing happened.

The stutter.

It rose up and wrapped its hot bony fingers around her vocal cords, strangling her words. No sounds came out now. Nothing. Now, she’d just be the stuttering, maybe-gay, not-engaged, not-pregnant former fiancée who was so pathetic that she’d come to this Wedding of the Damned.

“He w-was— He w-was th-the m-mo—”

Kevin looked away. Naomi smirked. Of course she did. It was her resting expression. And Lyric Adams, who was sitting a few tables away with a much older man, had her phone out, her thumbs flying away as she snickered.

Jack took her free hand.

She took it back. She didn’t want pity. Hell to the no power.

Think British, she commanded herself. Think Harry Potter or Tom Barlow or Colin Firth or—

“Okay!” the DJ said, taking the microphone back and moving to another table. “How about you, mother of the bride? You must want to share a special memory!”

Emmaline sat down.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“You lied to us?” Mom asked. “Emmaline, this is just...just... It’s practically pathological! Why on earth would you—”

“Dr. Neal,” Jack said, “I think you understand that Emmaline is in a tough—”

“No, Jack. M-Mom, I’m sorry. I r-r-really am.” Her heart sank as the words struggled to get out. She pictured the stutter leaning against a doorway, wheezing its dry, whispery laugh. Hahaha. Got you again.

“I think you need time to process your feelings,” Mom said, a world of hurt in her voice. “See you later.”

Who could blame her?

Finally, the speeches were done, though she’d stopped listening. The music started again, and Em sat there like a lump.

Jack took her hand. “Let’s dance,” he said, and she complied. Angela was fending off the best man, but she shot Em a sweet smile, flawlessly conveying camaraderie and humor with no disappointment or blame whatsoever. Somehow, it made her feel worse.

It was a slow song, something by John Mayer, and Jack pulled her close. It might’ve been sexy, if she hadn’t felt like a slab of oak.

“Hang in there,” he murmured against her hair. His chin made a crackling sound as it broke through some of the hair spray. She would’ve answered if she wasn’t terrified of either stuttering or crying.

“I have to say, I’m a little disappointed you called off our engagement,” he said, looking down at her with a smile. “I was hoping for a bachelor party at a strip club.”

Thank you, Jack, for being a perfect date and the nicest guy in the world and also gorgeous. Thanks for not making me feel worse than I already do. Instead, she just tried to smile and shifted her eyes to his shoulder. He held her a little closer, and she had to bite her lip hard.

By tomorrow night, she’d be home again in her snug little house, with her good puppy and her excellent job. Levi wouldn’t ask how the wedding was because he wasn’t that kind of boss, and Em would ask Everett if he wanted her to cover a couple of his shifts, which he always did. She’d meet with her at-risk teenagers and go to her crisis negotiations class and have a night with the Bitter Betrayeds and by then, she’d have had time to spin this weekend into a good story.

Then her dad tapped him on the shoulder. “Mind if I dance with my firstborn?” he asked.

“Not at all, sir,” Jack said, stepping aside.

So she danced with her father, breathing in his comforting Dad-smell.

“You must be experiencing some powerful feelings right now,” he said.

“Mmm,” she managed, hating the stutter even more because it made her unable to talk to her father, who did love her in his weird psychoanalyst way. He kissed her forehead, and Em swallowed and gave him a squeeze.

The slow song ended. “I’d better go dance with Angela,” Dad said. “That best man isn’t taking the hint.” Em nodded, kissed him on the cheek and watched him go.

She’d have to come back and visit her parents to make up for lying to them. She’d call them tomorrow. Angela, too.

Jack didn’t seem to be nearby, or at their table in the back, and people were giving her those embarrassed sliding glances. She grabbed her purse and walked out of the ballroom, smiling at whoever made eye contact (not that many) and grabbed the nearest parking attendant. She wasn’t about to drive, not after two (or possibly three) zillion-proof vodka drinks. “I need a favor,” she said, handing him a hundred-dollar bill. “Would you drive me into town?”

“Sure,” he said, pocketing the bill. “Where do want to go?”

“You know Nance’s diner?”

He smiled. “I absolutely do. You hungry?”

She folded her arms. “You have no idea.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

JACK COULD SWEAR he smelled bacon.

He was back in his room; Em had ditched him at the wedding, leaving him to hear about Naomi’s grandmother’s colonoscopy last year, which sounded even more horrific in Russian. All those guttural sounds.

He was a little worried. Emmaline hadn’t answered when he knocked. Hadn’t responded to his text, either. She wouldn’t have driven; she was a cop and knew better than most that drinking and driving didn’t go together.

As Josh Deiner would now understand, if he wasn’t brain-dead.

For a second, Jack could swear he felt the lake water close over his head. The car seemed so far away, lying there on the bottom of the lake. All that cold and darkness.

No. No, thanks. He dragged his mind from the memory of that cold, that grim darkness. He was here in California, where it was now fully dark, a half-moon rising over the Pacific. Fifty-five degrees, maybe. If there was a reason to live in California, it was the weather. And San Francisco, a place Jack had visited a few times. Also, California wine country. Flippin’ gorgeous.

Good. He was thinking about other things. He packed his stuff, since they had an early flight, and changed out of his suit into jeans and a T-shirt.