Page 144 of The Bodyguard

And then Doc lifted his jar of moonshine and said, “To everything we’ve lost. And to what we hold onto.”

And the whole table raised their glasses, too.

AFTER DINNER, JACKand Hank built a fire in the firepit.

I was watching the flames when I noticed Jack, on the other side, sitting on one of the garden chairs, looking straight at me through the firelight.

I looked away. But when I looked back, he was patting the seat next to him, like an invitation.

And so I made my way around the fire, unsure what anything meant anymore, and I was just about to sit down beside him, when Kennedy Monroe slid in and took the seat first.

I stopped short.

“Is this the girl?” she asked Jack, as if I weren’t right there. “The one you made out with in the hospital?”

“We didn’t make out,” Jack said.

“Sure.”

“For real,” Jack said. “It was the angle. You know how that works.”

“I do,” Kennedy said, looking me over. “And, anyway,” she added, “now that I get a good look at her, I can see she’s very…” Kennedy Monroe drew the pause out so long that other people started to listen. She finally settled on, “Ordinary.”

I got it. No girlfriend would want to see suspicious photos like that all over the internet. No girlfriend would want another woman cradling her boyfriend’s head to her shoulder the way I had that night—even if it was for a good reason. Of course she would be none too pleased to see me here.

The same way I was not particularly thrilled to see her.

All to say, I jumped in to reassure her. “We definitely weren’t kissing in those photos.”

She honked out a really loud laugh—loud enough to get the attention of the whole crowd. Then she stood up—kind of unfurled herself—took a step closer to me, and said, “Yeah. Duh.”

“I was just on his security team,” I said. “We were just trying to keep him from being photographed.”

“Oh my God,” Kennedy said, her voice falsely friendly. “You’re hilarious. You really don’t need to tell me the two of you weren’t kissing.” At first her voice had a high, sweet tone that conveyed a vibe, like I trust my boyfriend. But then she dropped it like an octave and added, “That’s a given.”

Jack stood up. “Kennedy—”

“I mean…” She leaned toward Jack. “Just look at her.”

With that, she looked me over, from head to toe and back again—at a glacial pace that invited everybody else in the crowd to do the same.

I went positively stiff under the scrutiny. I found myself wondering if this was what rigor mortis felt like.

“I mean, come on,” she said. “Right?”

“Don’t get competitive, Kennedy,” Jack said, in a voice like We’ve talked about this.

“I’m not getting competitive,” Kennedy said. “The internet got competitive. Have you seen all the posts? All the comments?”

“I thought we talked about reading the comments.”

“People are texting me! DMing me! Even my mom wants to know!”

“You know nothing’s real,” Jack said, trying to cajole.

“Nothing’s real, but it’s still insulting.” She steered her eyes back toward me. “I mean,” she went on. “The whole world thinks you chose this”—she gestured at me—“over this”—she put a hand on her hip and lifted her boobs like she was going to set them on a shelf.

Even I had to admit she had a point.