Marcus blinked, holding the microphone in midair. He looked at me, then back at my father.
“Are you sure?” Marcus asked. “Emily has been talking about your toast all week.”
“Give it to the maid of honor,” my father said, his voice dropping an octave.
He did not offer any further explanation, nor did he look toward his youngest daughter as she spun across the floor in her white gown.
At half past eight, I followed my father toward the back exit doors of the lobby, away from the noise of the brass band. The air near the exit was cooler, smelling of the damp grass outside.
The heavy brass handles of the double doors were cold when he reached out to grab them. Before I could ask him what was wrong, he turned and gripped my wrist.
His grip was tight, pressing the metal of my silver wristlet watch deep into my skin.
“We are leaving,” he whispered.
“Emily hasn’t even tossed the bouquet yet,” I said, trying to pull my hand back. “We can’t just walk out on her wedding reception.”
He leaned closer, his eyes dark with a sudden, sharp panic.
“Get in the car, now,” he said.
He did not wait for my response. He pushed through the heavy doors and stepped out into the damp evening, leaving me standing alone in the drafty corridor.
The cold autumn air hit me as I walked out to our vintage Ford Explorer. Its rusted wheel wells looked dark and jagged under the tall sodium lights of the parking lot.
My father was already in the driver seat, his silhouette perfectly still against the glass. He had the keys in his hand but had not started the car yet.
I climbed into the passenger side and pulled the heavy door shut, the latch catching with a metallic click.
