Cameron drove for another fifteen minutes before entering the parking lot of the Oakridge Community Center.

I stared in confusion.

It wasn’t a hotel, restaurant, or office.

A banner near the entrance read:

THURSDAY BALLROOM SOCIAL

Ballroom?

I nearly smiled.

Cameron couldn’t dance.

At our wedding reception, he had stepped on my shoes so often that my maid of honor joked about buying me steel-toed footwear for our anniversary.

He parked, removed the garment bag and white rose, then entered through a side door.

I waited.

One minute passed.

Then another.

I should’ve driven away.

Instead, I got out.

Soft music drifted through an open window.