entire life story. Maybe that’s how he sucks them in so profoundly—he makes them feel like they’ve known each other for years. I, on the other hand, am not a natural. The social anxiety licks at my nerves, keeping my heart rate well above a normal pace. I smile at the strangers and laugh at everything they say, doing what I do best and manipulate people’s emotions with my words. I pretend they’re all avid readers, and the words I’m speaking are printing on blank sheets of paper for their greedy eyes to consume. Somehow, it works to the point of discomfort as all of their eyes are ensnared on me as I answer their questions about my career. I heed Zade’s advice and keep it all vague and surface-level but find pretty words to make my life seem more interesting than it is. Even Zade appears to struggle with looking away, and the notion gives me a small bit of confidence. But on the inside, it feels like my stomach is a black hole, crumpling my insides like a wadded-up piece of paper. On several occasions throughout the hour, Zade wraps his arm around my waist and squeezes, his grip firm and reassuring. Those small touches are anchors, leveling my head and reminding me that I’m not alone. Mark seems to appear out of thin air, joining the two couples gathered around Zade, listening to him speak about some interaction he had with another senator. I guess the story is supposed to be funny as the couples are both tittering out laughs, but I can barely digest a single word he says. “Zack! Adeline! I’m so glad to see you two made it,’ Mark announces boisterously, interrupting Zade’s story. He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. I have a feeling the tale was fabricated entirely anyway. Seems I’m not the only one good at bullshitting. “Mark,” I croon joyfully, as if this man’s face brings me any type of delight. He eats it up as he shakes hands with Zade and offers me a warm hug. Or what’s supposed to be warm. It feels like hugging a cold-blooded reptile. Next to Mark must be his wife. An older woman with beautiful red hair—the color of ripe cherries—matching red lipstick, and a black dress that seems to hang on her frail body. She widens her lips into a beautiful smile as Mark introduces her to Zade and I. What irks me is he doesn’t tell us her name, he just says my wife. As if she’s merely a possession and not her own person with her own fucking identity outside of her marriage to this wretched man. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Adeline. I’m Claire,” she says, gripping my hand in a light handshake. She offers the introduction to Zade as well, and the devil takes it a step further and kisses her hand, trapping her gaze into his own. It wasn’t sensual by any means. Something about it seemed comforting, like he was making her a promise that even she didn’t know she needed.