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A shadow creeps across Dezmond and me; Jordan. The older man looks like a panther about to tear out his son's throat. “Apologize to her,” he says coldly.

Dezmond's lips peel over his teeth in a poor excuse for a grin. “Ex-fucking-scuze me?” he laughs.

“Apologize to her.Now.”Jordan isn't playing around. I was anxious that everyone saw me slap Dezmond, but Jordan doesn't give a shit if the whole world sees him chastise his adult son. It thrills me to watch him do it. Being bullied by Dezmond, especially the times no one could know about, had been flattening my soul day by day. Jordan taking him to task is invigorating.

The two men face off. There's a murmur of voices from the partygoers. I can't see their expressions because I'm transfixed on the scene in front of me. Jordan isn't budging. He clamps a big hand onto his son's shoulder. When Dez did that to me ithurt.

Scrunching up in pain, Dezmond hisses loudly. He bunches up the muscles in his neck, about to boil over. Is he going to fight back? Hit his dad in front of everyone?

My pulse is off the tracks—I'm holding my breath. Jordan could lift Dezmond off the ground and throw him over the cliff if he wanted to. Imagining Dez crawling on his knees while scraped and bloody is the epitome of vindication.

Dezmond grinds his teeth. “Fine.” He hacks the word out, then shoots his attention to me. “Sorry, Lori. Guess I got caught up in the moment.” There's nothing apologetic in his face or tone. He's a proud man who endured a public shaming and this is the best he can manage.

No, it's worse than that.

The spiteful way he's looking at me sends a message.He's silently broadcasting how he's going to make me pay for humiliating him. It's a look that burns with pure hatred. But then he looks at his dad, and I know it's not just me he hates.

He shoves out of Jordan's grip. Storming out from under the umbrella lights he scans until he spots Jake. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

“What, now?” Jake asks, forehead scrunching. He's holding a sandwich in one hand, a new bottle of beer in the other.

Dezmond narrows his eyes into slits. “Yes, now. Party's over with.”

Jake shrugs before tilting his head back to finish the beer in a single chug. Then he grabs a second sandwich, carting both out as he follows Dezmond around the side of the house. Chico and the others stalk at their heels. After a minute I hear an engine rev loudly, then peal out.

My heart sings at the fact they left. Slapping Dezmond was risky, there's no doubt in my mind. But if it's the catalyst that ends this sham engagement party, I'll take it.

I smile up at Jordan. “Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I whisper.

“You were handling it fine.” He copies my smile. “I just couldn't stand by and do nothing.”

“Because he was embarrassing you?”

“No.” His voice falls down a hole until it's a rumbling echo. “He doesn't get to touch what doesn't belong to him.”

“Can I ask something, Iris?" The speaker is a white woman with curly red hair pulled back in a painful looking braid. Mrs. Pomoran teaches yoga at a small gym on the edge of Crestwind. She'd often fight with her husband in the plaza where my dad liked to gamble, red face twisted in a shriek, demanding to know which girl he was blowing their money on at the club that night.

I don't recall a time they've been happy together. It's clear they should get a divorce, but until they do, Mr. Pomoran pays our utility bills with the number of apology-bouquets he buys each month.

My mom is sitting in the mostly empty kitchen. Mrs. Pomoran scoots her chair closer. "The thing I want to ask is, well, how to put it gently?" She takes a big swallow from her glass. I try to remember if this is number two or three. "Whatever happened to your husband?"

My heart drops into my stomach. Mom keeps her smile on but it's a facade of politeness. "You ask me like I know the answer, Jean."

"Because you've got to knowsomething."Pressing her palm to her chest, Jean says, "From one woman to another, men can be disgusting. Flighty. They wander." She pulls her chair forward another inch. "Did he run off with that waitress from the club? Mona, I think her name was. That's one of the rumors. Tell me the truth, I promise your secret is safe with me."

You and everyone else in the room,I think, scanning the remaining people. Not more than twelve, but every single one is actively eavesdropping while pretending they aren't. Mrs. Pomoran asked the question they all wanted to.

My mom closes her eyes, sighing. "I really don't know where Samson went. He took his money, some clothes, and that's all I know."

"You're kidding! He won't answer your phone calls? What about—" she stops herself, seeing me watching. "Has he tried to contact his daughter?" When my mom shakes her head, Jean scowls. "That's awful. What sort of a father abandons his family?"

Staring into her glass with a faraway look in her eyes, my mother smiles sadly. "People do all sorts of things for their own reasons."

"Taking his lottery winnings all for himself tells me all I need to know about him," Jean huffs. "Disgusting man."

"I guess so," she replies softly.

Shooting a wary glance at the room of nosy on-lookers, I power-walk to the round table. My mother and Mrs. Pomoran see me coming. I smile nice and big. "Hey, guys?"