“Where were you?” my mother hisses as I re-appear, flanked by Gabriel on one side and Ray on the other.

Thanks to the vodka, I smile sweetly and apologetically at her.

“Sorry, mother,” I say. “I didn’t mean to worry everyone.”

Her face softens, and my father walks up to her, head held high without speaking. He doesn’t even have to ask her to adjust his tie, she just knows it’s what he wants.

Five years ago — hell, even two years ago — I’d have watched this and thought this is what I should be working toward. But now, watching my mother just understand what my father’s demanding of her just sends a shiver down my spine.

Then it’s time. The lights go down over the audience. The lights on the stage go up. Over the loudspeaker, a faceless voice tells everyone to please look for the nearest exit in case of an emergency, and then we’re all herded onto stage, where I’ll be sitting for at least an hour in an uncomfortable metal folding chair.

As the oldest, I sit next to my mother, though Grace gets to sit closest to the edge of the stage since she’s holding a baby and might have to go at any moment. I, on the other hand, don’t have to do anything. My job is to sit here and look pretty, just another piece of my father’s perfect family.

The broken piece, sure. The piece that everyone thinks should be grateful to be allowed on stage at all.

Years and years of keeping sweet have made me pretty good at sitting quietly and smiling gently, but the years haven’t really made it easier. My face still feels like it might crack into a thousand pieces.

Everyone’s seated. There’s a row of American flags behind us, enough red, white, and blue to outfit an entire parade, as if one flag simply wouldn’t do.

A speaker walks out. I think it’s the president of the college, but again, it’s not my job to pay attention, so I don’t. He starts talking about what a wonderful man my father is, his lovely family, his hard line on morals, all the good he’s done for South Carolina. There’s polite applause. Someone else gets up there and praises my father more.

I’m not listening. Not even a little. Over on the side of the stage, barely visible, Gabriel’s standing, hands folded in front of himself, watching attentively.

It’s distracting. No matter how much I try not to think about him, about how good he looks in a suit, about the calm, self-assured way he carries himself, about the way he smiles at me sometimes when he thinks no one is looking.

My mind’s not here. It’s back between the curtains, just the two of us alone. Gabriel, on the phone, telling Ray I was praying for strength.

He didn’t have to. I’m positive my father would love proof that I’m the problem he thinks I am.

But he did. And he smiled at me and it felt like it was a hundred and fifty degrees backstage, close enough that I could smell his shaving cream from that morning. Nearly close enough to feel his body heat.

And his eyes. I swear I can feel it when he looks at me, like fingertips tracing over bare skin, my heart pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. Whenever I’m near him I have the insane desire to touch him, run my hands along the muscles in his arms, sit on his lap and let him kiss my neck…

A molten knot of desire starts to unfurl inside me, and suddenly I snap back to reality, because I am on stage behind my father, sitting next to my mother, and fantasizing about my bodyguard.

I look down at the floor of the stage, fold my hands in my lap, and cross my legs. It doesn’t help, but it’s probably better than nothing. I feel a little lost and adrift, out of my element with the sheer intensity of everything.

I knew I had a silly, girlish crush on Gabriel. Of course I do. He’s handsome, sexy, has that voice, and isn’t related to me, but this feels more intense than some crush.

My father drones on. I look out at the audience, trying to calm my nerves, but I glance over at Gabriel instead. He’s looking straight at me.

And suddenly I realize what this is.

This is lust.

I almost gasp out loud. I feel like an idiot. A total, complete, childish idiot, because I’m twenty-six and just had the crashing realization of what lust feels like.

It feels like being completely and utterly unable to stop thinking about your bodyguard with his shirt off. I feels like thinking about his hands on your skin every time you close your eyes, like thinking of straddling his lap while you kiss him, tongue in his mouth—

“Ruby, are you alright?” my mother murmurs.

I freeze, and for a split second, I wonder if she can somehow hear my thoughts. Then I smile sweeter and turn my head slightly.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“You’re bright red.”

“I shouldn’t have worn this cardigan on stage is all,” I whisper.

She nods once and turns her head forward again. I settle back against the uncomfortable chair and pretend my palms aren’t sweating, refocusing my attention on my father.

I’ve thought I was in lust before. When I was fifteen, I went to an all-girls, very Christian sleepaway camp. We were heavily supervised, of course, and there were to be no boys whatsoever on the premises.

But there was an all-boys camp about two miles away, and like Ray told Gabriel: I’ve always been a handful. Another girl had a cousin at the boys’ camp, and apparently he was being sent there in the hopes that it would reform him, because she somehow arranged for her, me, and another friend to meet him and some friends outside his camp.

His name was Douglas, and I kissed him. I kissed him several times, and once, we even used tongue. I didn’t even really like him — I met him that night and never saw him again — but as a teenage girl who may as well have lived under a rock, kissing a boy was one of the most thrilling things I ever did.

And of course, within a couple of days I was completely miserable about it. Totally consumed by guilt. I’d heard endless lectures on the demons who cause lust. I’d been raised with the notion that my very first kiss would happen at the altar, on my wedding day.

Now my stupid, thoughtless teenage actions had robbed my future husband, whoever he may be, of that special moment with me. I cried. A lot. I prayed for the lust in my heart to be taken from me, for me to no longer feel that horrible, sinful feeling. I felt awful about it for years, and I never told a single person.

Not even Lucas, my ex-husband, though for the record we did kiss once before our wedding day, because we wanted our actual first kiss to be private. It made us feel very rebellious.

But that wasn’t lust. None of that was. I never even came close to feeling that for Lucas, no matter how hard I tried.

This is it. The real thing, like devils dancing gleefully in my belly. Except this time, I don’t feel bad about it. I tried to live the way my parents wanted, and look where it got me.

The auditorium bursts into applause, and I start clapping automatically, the smile still on my face. To be honest, I’m kind of thrilled with my dumb realization. I’m sort of amazed that I can lust after someone.

I can’t do anything about it, of course. Gabriel works for my father, and despite lying to Ray, he could start reporting on me at any time. Getting anywhere close to him would be dangerous for me and dangerous for him.

This won’t go anywhere, because it can’t. But I’ve still got my little secret, and I’m defying them in this small, personal way, by lusting after someone and not even feeling bad about it.

For no reason, I glance over at Gabriel. His eyes flick to mine, and I look away.

No, I tell myself. Not a chance.