The last dance

The reception has gone soft and gold: fairy lights in the marquee, half the guests barefoot, your sister dancing on a chair. The band starts something slow.

Ezra appears at your elbow and holds out his hand. Rule two. One dance. You take it. He leads well, an annoyingly good dancer, and for the first verse he does the act perfectly: smiling at your aunt, spinning you once for the cameras.

Then the song changes key and he stops performing. His voice drops. Nobody's watching, you know. They're all looking at your sister on that chair. A long breath. So this part isn't for them. He looks at you, plainly, without a joke anywhere near his face, and says your real name. I need to tell you something about why I said yes.

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