She looks over at the girl and then back at me uncertainly. “What if she doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“You won’t know until you try.”
She shifts from one foot to the other. Automatically, her hand slips into mine. It’s such a sweet, vulnerable gesture. I feel it in my chest, like she reached into my rib cage and squeezed my heart.
“Okay,” she decides. “I’ll try.”
I give her an encouraging wink. She drains her punch and tiptoes up to the girl. Isla is awkward about the introduction, but the girl seems to appreciate the effort. Within seconds, they’re talking. Soon after that, they’re smiling.
“Hello there! Are you Isla’s father?”
The woman from behind the punch bowl is the one who spoke. She’s blonde, petite, with far too much makeup daubed around her eyes. I’m assuming she’s one of t
