Gemotions

The champagne flute felt absurdly light in Amelia’s hand. She watched him across the crowded reception, pretending to examine the floral arrangement on the table. He was laughing, a sound she hadn’t heard directed at *her* in years. Good. Let him laugh.

Her smile felt brittle, glued onto her face as she approached the buffet. She piled her plate with the most expensive-looking canapés, the ones she knew he’d consider too pretentious. It was a perfect plan.

Later, she made a point of requesting a slow dance. “Oh, *you* must know the bride’s cousin,” she cooed, batting her eyelashes at a man she hadn’t spoken to all night. Anything to avoid him.