More Bitter Than Death by Dana Cameron

room through a temporary gap in the bodies and saw Duncan holding forth, expressively and charismatically, alternating humor and seriousness. People were clustered around him, either because they were truly interested in what he had to say—his information was usually interesting and useful, if nothing else, and he had influence in the field as a professor at an important department in New Hampshire—or to bask in his reflected glow. Larger and larger concentric circles formed around him, satellites gravitating toward a bright star. At one point he leaned in, as if speaking confidentially, and the people around him leaned in too; then he exploded up, nailing whatever punch line or conclusion to a shout of laughter.
    I looked away and took another sip of my drink; I wasn’t so curious about the story as I was about my feelings, now that I’d seen him, testing them gingerly, the way you step on ice that you know is probably too thin to support you. When I got done being fascinated by the melting ice floating and clinking unheard in the glass, I looked up and saw that Laurel was watching me.
    She did a little chin jerk and eyebrow thing, asking me wordlessly if I was okay; I just rolled my eyes and nodded. There was no reason for me not to be okay, I just found myself going over a long-buried past and wishing I didn’t need to. I’d successfully avoided it for over a decade; I didn’t see why I should bother digging it out now. Laurel nodded and turned, immediately caught up in another round of where-can-we-meet-and-talk with yet another passerby.
    “Hey.”
    Meg and Neal had come into the bar. I hooked Lissa’s abandoned chair by the stretcher and pulled it over for them.They sat down, one butt-cheek each on the chair. “Not interrupting anything, are we?” Meg asked.
    I couldn’t detect any layer of hurt in her voice, but I was acutely aware enough of having been less than gracious in my dealings with her all day. “Nothing at all,” I said. I had just been about to excuse myself, but this seemed like a good time to make sure Meg and I were cool. “You guys got time for that congratulatory round I promised?”
    “Always,” Neal said. “Meg’s told you, then?”
    “Word’s been getting around.” I leaned over to Sue and Laurel and shouted, “Meg and Neal just got engaged. Two of my best students!”
    “Well, I know what we need to do, then!” Laurel once again easily caught the attention of the harried waitress, who came right over. Other tables might go dry and pine for a sup of beer, but those who sat with Laurel never would. “Got any champagne?” she shouted. “We’ve got an engagement to celebrate!”
    “I wouldn’t call it champagne,” the waitress said, shaking her head, looking alarmed. She glanced around her, and seeing none of the other staff, said confidentially, “I’d stick with the hard liquor and beer, if I were you.”
    “Thanks for the warning,” she said. “Emma?”
    I looked around. “Whiskey’s okay with everyone?”
    Everyone nodded. “Whiskeys all around, then,” I said. “Single malt, if you’ve got it.”
    By the time she came back with our drinks, Lissa had made it back with the popcorn and her colleague. I explained to them what was going on and lifted my glass. The others fell silent for a moment.
    “To Meg and Neal!”
    “To Meg and Neal,” the others chorused. One of their friends—the Gypsy-clad woman—already in the know, wandered over and added, “And all the babies to come!”
    “Go to hell, Jordan!” Meg said.
    Quick as lightning, she flicked a piece of popcorn and landed it squarely on Jordan’s chin. The young woman clearly knew to expect it, and her laughter infected the rest of the party.
    Suddenly it seemed that everyone was swarming around our table, and the energy of the bar changed, shifting to our side of the room. Meg and Neal answered all the usual questions—no, they didn’t have a date set, but probably after Neal defended his