The premiere was the kind of event Sam usually treated as a formality, thirty minutes of photographers and a seat near the front she'd stopped feeling nervous about years ago. Tonight her hands wouldn't settle no matter what she did with them.
"You're fidgeting," Naomi said, adjusting the strap of Sam's bag before handing it over. "You never fidget."
"I'm fine."
"You've checked the door three times since we got here."
Sam didn't answer that, because there wasn't a version of the truth that didn't sound ridiculous out loud. She hadn't seen Gio since the flowers started arriving, three months of roses and short cards signed with nothing but his handwriting, and some part of her had been checking every door for three months straight, not just tonight.
"Whatever's got you like this," Naomi said, not unkindly, handing over the clutch she'd been holding, "you might want to settle it before the cameras notice you haven't."
"There's nothing to settle. I'm fine."
