“Well.” Alyssa sighs. “Rob and Dezzie are having an argument about what time they need to be at the airport tomorrow. They disappeared somewhere. And I sent Ryland off to get us some drinks. Shall we mingle?”
We make our way toward Jon’s parents to congratulate them. Jon’s mom was our fifth-grade teacher, and his dad was the dean of our high school. From there we run into Kevin’s siblings, and before long it’s time to go in for the reception. Kevin’s family has always been quite prosperous, and I suspect they are paying for this evening, because everything is lavish, from the frescoed ceilings, to the mountains of white peonies, to the 1920s-style brass band playing jazz standards.
I take a sip of champagne, happy to be with my friends in such a beautiful environment. The vibe even seems to work on Rob, who pulls Dezzie onto the dance floor as soon as the grooms are done with their first dance. Alyssa and Ryland are close to follow. Which leaves me at the table with Marian and Javier, who are so busy canoodling they don’t notice I’m alone.
I survey the room for someone to talk to and see that Seth is leaning against the bar, staring at me. He looks good in his white linen suit, albeit rangier than the last time I saw him, like he’s lost muscle—maybe since gyms have been unsafe for so long. Thank God I never worked out to begin with.
“Dance?” he mouths, pointing between himself and me.
He is so handsome I almost want to say yes.
But I shake my head. “I can’t,” I mouth back.
He pouts. Which he should not, as he knows I’m a terrible dancer. If I attempt it, I will topple over and kill Jon’s and Kevin’s elderly relatives. Manslaughter by foxtrot.
Still, I’m happy that he asked.
Happier still when he saunters across the room anyway.
“Molly Malone,” he says in greeting. “Get up. You have to dance with me.”
I stay put. “Please. You know I’m not going to do the goddamn Charleston, or whatever.”
He looks out at the sea of linen- and gold-clad guests who all seem to know how to do complicated steps to old-timey music. “Come on. Look how much fun they’re having. I’ll teach you.”
“No. I’m too uncoordinated. I can’t even do the electric slide. I can’t even do workout videos.”
He laughs and raises his hands in defeat. “I suppose I do recall you falling over when we had to waltz at Porter Carlisle’s debutante ball.”
“Yep. Right into her grandma.”
“Hmm. Is there anyone we hate here? We could weaponize you.”
“Perfect crime.”
“Fine. But come outside with me. We can watch the sunset.”
We stop at the Prohibition-themed bar and Seth orders us French 75s. I take a sip of mine as we walk outside, and it’s tart with lemon and sharp from brut champagne, and it cuts through the humidity nicely.
“Classy joint,” I say, gesturing at the mosaic floors of the terrace and the elaborate balustrades setting off the bay, which is pink, reflecting the sherbet sunset.
“You know this place was built by a circus impresario, right?” he says.
“Circus impresario. Is that still a job?”
“Looking for a career transition?”
I gesture at the lavish mansion behind us. “Seems like it pays pretty well.”
“Not worth the risk of getting eaten by a tiger.”
“Do you remember when that tiger tried to eat Roy from Siegfried and Roy?”
“Of course. You were perversely obsessed with it.”
“Because it was like an Edgar Allan Poe story.”
“Maybe you should talk to your therapist about your lingering Siegfried and Roy schadenfreude.”
“Oh, come on. The tiger was named Mantacore. Imagine owning a tiger, naming it Mantacore, trapping it for years, and then expecting it not to eat you.”
He laughs. “I’ve missed your cultural observations.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “It’s been a while.”
I don’t add: you could have had all the dated early-aughts references a man could ever want. Because I was right here.
Waiting for you.
Something flashes in his eyes. “I know. I wanted to reach out to you but I…” He shakes his head, like he’s at a loss for words. “I’m sorry.”
For a second, we just look at each other. Neither of us speaks.
This would be the moment, in one of my scripts, where he says how much he’s missed me.
But he doesn’t. He looks away.
I remind myself that the beats of romance are narrative devices. Not real.
