“You should get back inside.” I hold up a hand, thrown by the emotional whiplash. “Wait a minute.” My laugh is hollow. “What the hell just happened?” “Mara, please.” “If you would just—” “Go back inside.” “—talk to me.” “I don’t want to talk to you!” The words are a slap to the face and I immediately stumble back. Ambrose’s shoulders fall. He looks defeated. Exhausted. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he repeats, barely a whisper this time. With trembling hands, I smooth down the bunched-up tulle on my dress. “Well, then.” My voice shakes. “Thank you for laying it out so clearly.”
