The centerpiece is right in front of my face, and Dante pulls one white lily out of it slow.
Dante: Bettina hates lilies.
He says it at a normal volume. The whole table hears it anyway.
Dante: She says they smell like funerals. She told me that on our third date.
I don't know what to do with my hands. I don't know one fucking thing about their third date.
A server steps up fast, like he's been waiting all night for a sign.
Dante: Take them all out. My wife is allergic to funerals.
The lilies are gone in under a minute. Nobody laughs, but a few people look at me like it's my birthday.
Dante: You're welcome, wifey.
Lola: Thank you.
He lifts my left hand off the tablecloth and turns it palm up, in front of everybody.
His thumb drags across my bare wrist, back and forth, slow, like he's reading a word there.
Dante: Where's the scar?
Lola: What scar?
Dante: The bike chain. Bettina fell off her bike at twelve and tore her wrist open. Mark the size of a thumb.
My wrist is smooth. Not one mark on it. I've never fallen off a fucking bike in my life.
My heart beats so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Lola: It faded.
Dante: Scars don't fade, sweetheart. Not that kind.
He's still holding my wrist. He could break it right here over the dessert plates.
I look at my mother. She's across the table, and her face is a wall with one crack in it.
She picks up her water and drinks, and that's the whole rescue.
Dante: Rosa. Your daughter's wrist. Tell me about it.
Rosa: She was always clumsy. Scraped herself up plenty as a kid.
Dante: That's not what I asked you.
Rosa's mouth opens and then shuts. My father studies his whiskey like the answer is at the bottom of it.
He doesn't look at me. He never does, not when it costs him something.
Dante lets go of my wrist and stands. He buttons his jacket, calm as a man walking out of a bar.
Dante: The bride's tired. She's been lying down all day, haven't you, Bettina.
Then he turns to the room. All those faces, all those phones, all those smiles that cost money.
Dante: My wife wants to thank every one of you for coming tonight.
He leans down to my ear. His breath is warm and his voice is flat as a shut door.
Dante: Get up. Smile for the guests. Now.
My legs get me up. My mouth does what it's supposed to do, and it feels like peeling my own face back.
The room claps. Somebody's flash goes off and I'm blind for a second.
Dante puts his hand on the back of my neck while I smile. It's gentle, and it's not gentle at all.
Dante: See? You can do it when you try.
While the clapping is still going, his mouth comes back to my ear. So quiet nobody else can hear.
Dante: One missing scar. One dog that never existed. One mother who won't look at you.
Dante: I'm keeping count.
My smile stays on. Under the table my hands are shaking, and he feels it, because he squeezes my neck once like he's proud.
Dante: Smile until the last guest leaves.
Dante: Then you and me are going to have a real talk about that wrist.