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Bastien looks at the tablecloth. His jaw moves once. That’s all. The conversation at the table has died. Then he takes a deep breath and smiles back at her. “I think that you are mistaken. My relationship with my husband predated my employment. My marriage did not. Why don’t you ask him about these alleged favors and boons that I used to win him over? I’m sure he would be happy to tell you every last detail, you evil-minded harpy.”

She pulls up and glares at him in silence.

Bastien smiles. “I am here to celebrate the academic accomplishments of people in my field. As far as my personal life goes, I have strong faith in the system. The truth will see us through.” It’s not the exact thing we practiced, and it’s not better, but he’s clearly rattled. He’s just broken the rules. He was allowed to sit here, in their august company, for as long as he could do it politely, and this is not that. I put my hand on his knee under the table. He doesn’t move it away and he doesn’t cover it either. After a while I take it back and pick up my fork.

“I hope the second course is better than this,” I say to nobody. “I’ve had MREs with more taste. Is this chicken or fish mixed in?”

The finalists present before dessert, Bastien goes third. He’s not the same presenter as he was in the classroom. Somehow, he’s more robotic. He says the right things about veterans and their needs, scan data and follow-up windows, but there’s nothing impassioned about it. It’s almost like performing an accounting report of his work. I know for a fact that he has more in the tank, and I don’t know why he’s not using it.

And then his eyes find mine, just for a second.

Me.

I’m the reason he’s not using that same, impassioned delight that Teresha McCullough displayed in casual conversation.

He finishes with a mention of next summer’s cohort, and the urgent need to put more researchers on the team to keep up with the number of veterans coming to this treatment on their own. The applause that he receives is polite only.

“You were great,” I whisper when he returns to his seat. He smiles at me and picks at his chocolate cake.

I run the night back and I can’t find the joint where it went wrong.

“So, without further ado,” Mr. Kirkfield says, “last year’s recipient. Dr. Lincoln Preston, of Fairhaven University.”

Preston comes up to the podium and sets down his notes.

“Before I begin, I want to congratulate my fellow finalists. Dr. McCullough. Dr. Fletcher. And of course Dr. Saint-Jacques, who needs no introduction.” He looks down at his notes. “Unfortunately,” he says under his breath.

Somebody two tables over snickers.

You son of a bitch, I think. You ensured he needed no fucking introduction. I rise two inches out of the chair. Bastien’s hand closes over my arm hard, even though his face is turned toward the podium. I sink back into the chair. The wood makes a small noise against the parquet.

“We are here,” Preston says, “to end racism.”

The gist, so far as I can follow it, is that the Black church is a colonial artifact keeping people locked in a cycle of victimhood. It ought to be replaced with something more authentic, which he will identify. With funding. I watch this pale man in a good suit explain it to his captive audience. I have to channel all of the willpower I have learned by sitting through endless briefings in the Army to prevent the disgust from registering on my face.

I go looking for Teresha and find her three tables over, sitting very still with two fingers on the little gold cross at her throat, not moving at all. Her face is stony, and I can guess she’s asking for a lot of patience right about now.

I look at my husband, who, to my relief, is not blank-faced. Open contempt curls across his lips. He has to look away when the grant winner is announced, because we both know that it’s going to be Preston before the name is called. We bow out almost immediately after, the second we can stand up without attracting additional attention. We walk back to the parking deck and he lets himself into the truck.

“We should have wished him luck,” Bastien says with his eyes closed. “That’s the gracious thing to do.”

I snort. “He’ll need it. Can you imagine walking into the AME Zion Church, where they love them some Jesus like meat loves salt, and telling these people they’re worshipping wrong?”

Bastien laughs and then covers his mouth with his hand.

“You did good,” I say.

“Merci.” He leans into the seat and closes his eyes. I wait for him to tell me that I did good, or at least okay. But he’s silent. I make the turn at Roosevelt and Franklin to take us home, and steal glances at him, hoping that he’ll at least tell me that I wasn’t a liability.

But he doesn’t even look at me.

I think of him, sitting rigidly in that ballroom while his colleagues took open potshots at him.

I did this to him. And now it’s too late. Now he must endure the ridicule because there’s no escaping it.

That’s not a man who chose me.

That’s a man who can’t get out.