roaring back, like a forest fire hit by wind.
I told myself that if I ever saw her again, I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t let myself feel what I felt before.
Well, now it’s happening, and I realize I don’t have a shred of control. I can’t stop myself from wanting to jump up on that stage, pick her up, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her away. I want to tear that sundress off of her and bury my face between those breasts . . . I want to take her back the one way I know how . . . by taking possession of her body again.
I want that, and I can’t stop myself from wanting it.
I can barely stop myself from doing it.
I have to grit my teeth hard and clench my fists at my sides.
That’s what I’m doing when Cal stands up to speak. Simone watches him cross the stage. Finally, her eyes pass over me.
I can tell the moment she spots me. She goes rigid in her chair, her expression changing from mild interest to absolute shock.
She’s looking right at me, our eyes locked.
And I can feel myself glaring back at her, my jaw clenched and my whole body stiff with the struggle not to run up on that stage. I know I probably look cold and angry. But I don’t know how else to look. I can’t smile at her, that would be absurd.
I don’t know what to do. And that frustrates me more. I hate that I’m here in this moment, without warning or preparation, forced to look at this woman I loved for so long. I hate this. I hate that I can’t read her expression. She looks upset—that much I can tell. But is it because she’s afraid? Because she doesn’t want to see me? There’s no way to know.
Cal is getting a great response from the crowd. I can hear them cheering after almost every line.
The roar of the crowd is right behind me, but it seems distant and muted. Simone’s face seems to fill my whole view.
It’s like the billboard all over again. But this time, she’s so close I could actually touch her . . .
I wrench my eyes away and try to focus on my actual job. I’m supposed to be making sure nobody’s about to take a pop at Cal. He looks invincible up there behind the podium—just getting into the swing of his speech.
I scan the crowd like I’m supposed to be doing, even though I know my brain isn’t filing information in the usual way. I should be looking for people whose expressions don’t match the rest of the crowd. Whose movements don’t line up. People reaching into their jackets, people who look antsy, like they’re trying to psych themselves up.
Riona said that Solomon had been getting death threats, but the vast majority of threats mean nothing. Even the crazies who try to take action barely ever succeed. The last assassination of a politician on American soil was the mayor of Kirkwood Missouri, way back in 2008.
So I don’t actually think anything is going to happen today. But I’ve got to keep a lookout anyway. I promised Riona. I can’t get distracted just because the woman who ripped my heart out happens to have appeared in front of me.
Cal is winding down. Yafeu Solomon will be getting up next.
I take another sweep of the crowd, then I look at the stage where Cal stands tall behind the podium. I see a banner of flags across the top of the stage. The arrangement is odd—they’re not hung level with each other. In fact, a couple of the flags are hung in a diagonal line, leading directly down to the podium.
From an aesthetic standpoint, it looks strange. I wonder if Jessica had to move them, after I made her change the floral arrangements.
I see the flags kick up just a little with a change in wind. It’s a still day, but the flags are light enough that they show the direction of even the tiniest breath of air.
In fact, they almost look like they were arranged to do exactly that . . .
Cal introduces Yafeu Solomon. Solomon strides forward, joining Cal at the podium and shaking his hand.
“Good afternoon, brothers and sisters,” he says, in his deep, calm voice. “I am so grateful to you all for coming out in support of our cause today. I don’t think there is a greater tragedy taking place in