Instead, he looks right at Neil, as if I never existed. “The second item of business is a packet I sent you. Don’t miss it.”
At that, he turns and walks away.
I exhale, and Neil turns to me with a cheery smile. “That was super fun. How about a glass of champagne?”
“Okay?”
With an arm wrapped around me, he steers me toward the bar. “Have I mentioned how good you are at this fake-wife thing?”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Neil finds me a very yummy glass of champagne to sip. I hold it with my wedding-ring hand. As I raise and lower it, the soft lighting glints off the diamond. I can feel eyeballs on me as Neil leads me through a maze of tables set for ten people each.
He stops at a table right in front of the stage, pulling out a chair for me. “Madame, this seat will have an excellent view of the stage. Clap loudly when I make my introduction.”
“You have to speak?”
He shrugs. “Only for a moment.”
I’m about to sit down when I see his ex, Iris, just ten feet away. Her dress is a column of emerald silk, asymmetrical, and very beautiful. But she’s staring at me with laser eyes. “Uh-oh.”
“Ignore her. At least my mother switched the seating around.”
This means that Iris is at the neighboring table instead of ours. But that doesn’t stop the dagger eyes as I sit down.
We’re no longer in high school, I remind myself. Iris’s opinion doesn’t matter. That’s my new mantra. Although I never was very good at meditation.
Our table fills up rapidly, which is a nice distraction. I’m introduced to an internet billionaire, a talk-show host, and a journalist.
Neil’s mom and sister are seated at Iris’s table. That’s fine with me. I don’t need their drama.
The tech billionaire starts a conversation with Neil, and I pretend to listen. Really I’m just staring at the enormous diamond on my finger. It’s heart-stoppingly beautiful. Well done, Earth.
Dinner is served in several courses—first a creamy leek soup, followed by a filet of salmon with mushroom risotto. And the good food makes me feel more relaxed.
“I didn’t know rice could taste this good,” I say with a sigh. “This stuff is magic.”
“Don’t tell me,” Neil says. His plate has a portion of salad. “I don’t eat white rice. The glycemic index is too high.”
“That is a tragedy.” I fork up another bite of cheesy goodness. “Now here’s a question—do they serve dessert at a benefit for diabetes?”
“Depends on your definition,” Neil says. “Last year it was a tiny no-sugar-added cheesecake or a dish of raspberries.”
“I will temper my expectations.”
Neil gives me a warm smile, and once again I relax. This is just a minor adventure, I remind myself. A strange little journey. Might as well enjoy it.
When dessert is served, I choose the tiny cheesecake and Neil goes for the fruit. I’m startled to see Iris take the stage and adjust the microphone.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Iris Montclair, and as a board member of the Ones and Twos Foundation, I’d like to thank you for your participation tonight.”
There is a polite round of applause.
“She’s on the board of your family’s charity?” I whisper.
Neil shrugs. “It’s her day job, such as it is. Planning this event is, like, three quarters of the work.”
A number of brief yet boring speeches follow Iris’s introduction. Raising money for charity seems to involve an endless stream of thanking people.
But it’s all good, because I have a fresh glass of champagne and the promise of a close-up sighting of Justin Branaman.
Neil’s mother reaches out from the neighboring table and pokes her son in the arm. “You’re next.” And at the next polite smattering of applause, he rises from his chair and strides up to the stage as if he were born to this.
I suppose he was.
“Good evening.” He spreads his arms in a dapper welcoming gesture. “My name is Neil Drake, and in a roundabout way, it’s my fault that you’re here this evening. Years ago, when I was still a teenager, my father started this foundation, looking for a cure. He wanted to save other parents from the worry and pain of looking after kids with diabetes. He also started a second foundation with the goal of curing my hockey addiction. But that one flopped.”
Neil gets a quick laugh.
“Thank you for coming together tonight to do what you can for type 1 and type 2 diabetes. And it’s my absolute pleasure to introduce our keynote speaker for the evening, Mr. Justin Branaman.”
Two or three hundred people—including me—applaud wildly as a long-haired man carrying a guitar strides onto the stage.
Neil shakes his hand and thanks him for coming.
“My pleasure,” the rock star says in his gravelly voice. “I’m a big hockey fan myself.”
I let out a loud squeal of excitement. Oops.
“I’m a fan of your music,” Neil says. “And apparently so is my wife.”
Another laugh rolls through the room, and I feel my face begin to burn in embarrassment.
Neil hands the mic to Mr. Branaman, gives the audience a grin, and heads off the stage.
“I was diagnosed with diabetes at the age of fourteen,” the singer says. “And it was a big shock. I spent a lot of time worrying about becoming the school freak, you know?”
The audience chuckles. It’s pretty hard to think of a Grammy-winning rock star as an outcast.
“I was caught up in the drudgery of daily injections and blood-sugar sticks. I was angry. Even then, I was composing songs, but they weren’t any good. Not a lot of words rhyme with insulin.”
I giggle. Loudly.
Neil slides into his chair and puts an arm around my shoulders. “You really dig this guy, huh?” he whispers.
When I glance at Neil, his hazel eyes are just inches away. He’s so close that I can feel the heat of his body.
Just like that, the man on stage fades into unimportance. Neil is every bit as interesting to me as the rock star standing ten feet away. But I can’t let him know that. “He’s kinda yummy,” I say under my breath. “Girls appreciate a guy who can sing.”
“Why?” Neil whispers back.
“Because they feel their feelings.” I’m barely an inch away from him now in an attempt to stay quiet. “A guy who’s singing is allowed to be emo. It’s a rule.”
His handsome smile appears, so close that I could kiss him without moving. “Emo, huh? I wouldn’t have thought that was your type.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I whisper. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
Those beautiful eyes dance, and I’m in danger of falling into them. I force myself to look away and listen to a rock star make a speech.
“…I was focused on all the wrong things,” he’s saying. “I was worried about being a cool teenager when I could have easily been a dead teenager. That’s just the way teens work. But the people in this room know better. And we can do better. Diabetes still kills more than a million people every year. That’s way too many. Like many of you here tonight, I’m dedicated to educating young people, curing diabetes, and saving lives.”