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again.” He tapped his bottle to hers.
    “Either way, I have a big weekend ahead, doing my thing, making women beautiful.”
    “Do you enjoy it?”
    “I do.” She nodded with a strange wash of rising, hot tears. She hid them with a dab of her napkin. “Ruby-Jane says it’s my superpower.”
    “It’s good to do something you’re good at and that you love.”
    “I think so.” But how could she give words to the underlying truth? That she ached to do it for herself. How she envied women with smooth skin who wore sleeveless tops in the summer with low v-necks.
    On her days off, when she cleaned her apartment, she wore a tank top and scooped her hair into a ponytail, feeling free.
    “I was thinking maybe you could come to church next week. See me off on my inaugural Sunday.” He pushed his hand through the air as if sailing.
    “Church?” She cut a bite of roast beef. Funny how talking with him encouraged her appetite. But church? “I don’t think so.”
    “Didn’t you go for awhile? When we were in high school?”
    “Until my mother suddenly stopped going and started working Sunday mornings.” She shrugged. “Wasn’t sure I liked it all that much anyway.”
    She bought the message about a loving God. She really did. But when she tried to reckon with Him about the night she was trapped in the trailer fire, about the pain and agony of second-and third-degree burns, she couldn’t find love in any of it.
    If God delivered those young guys out of the fire in the Old Testament, Daniel’s friends, why didn’t He do it for her? Did He love them more? She’d concluded that He must.
    “Why didn’t you go on your own?” Tom said as a commotion arose from the sofas.
    A shrill, “I can’t believe you’re here!” shot through the room before Ginger could answer. One of the bridesmaids, Miranda, launched from the couch and into the arms of a man standing just inside the drawing room doors.
    “I told you I’d make it, baby.” He swept her up, kissing her, wanting her.
    Ginger turned back to her plate, feeling every movement, every emotion of the couple at the door through the ugly lens of jealousy.
    She would never have that . . . never. Even if some man did want her, one look, one touch at her relief-map skin and he’d turn away. Experience was her truth.
    “Cameron, you made it.” Eric broke his trance withSportsCenter and football highlights, coming around to greet the most recent guest.
    “Cameron Bourcher,” Tom whispered toward Ginger. “I met him at the bachelor party. He’s a Wall Street dude, comes from money, almost engaged to Miranda. Or at least she thinks so.”
    Ginger glanced toward the door, at the cuddling couple surrounded by the wedding party. “Looks to me like she might be right.”
    Cameron bent down, giving Miranda another kiss, holding her close, his arm about her waist. Her smooth-skinned waist.
    “Now we’re all here.” Bridgett beamed, wrapping her arms around Eric. “What an amazing weekend. Our wedding, darling. So far, so perfect. Except, oh—” Bridgett turned to the bar. To Ginger. “Ginger, I’m sorry. Now there’s no room for you. Cam will be sharing with Mandy.”
    Everyone stared at her. Even the chandelier light seemed to brighten and angle Ginger’s way, spotlighting her embarrassment.
    “Oh, okay, n-no problem.” But yes, a huge problem. Floor, open up, let me in . The slight comfort and ease she’d allowed herself, sitting with Tom, vanished under the hot stares of the beautiful people.
    “What? No.” Tom slipped from his stool. “Don’t kick her out. Cameron can bunk with me and Eric.”
    Cameron laughed. “No offense, Tom, but I didn’t fly a thousand miles to bunk with you and the groom.”
    “Of course, of course,” Bridgett said, moving between Tom and Cameron, batting down the contention. “I’msorry, I should’ve planned better. Oh, bother, we don’t have any more rooms in the house. Lindy could share, but she’s such a light