Chip points to the meal. “And this lobster? This was the best lobster ever. I’m going to write an ode to this shellfish.”
That sparks Troy’s interest. “What will you say?”
Troy and I worked a few weddings together this summer, and he’s a suave cat. His inquisitive nature makes him a good fit for the gig.
Chip regards the lobster, screwing up his brow as he thinks. “All right. I’ve been working on this for a while. I’m not there yet, but work with me.” He clears his throat and adopts an old English accent, sliding into a riff on Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 and its opening lines about a summer’s day.
“Shall I compare thee to my dream fillet? Thou art more buttery and more succulent.” He grins at us. “What do you think?”
“Nice!” Troy jumps in.
“Well done,” I second, using my best Hugh Grant tone, as requested.
“But I kind of get stuck there. I’ve been reworking the first few lines for a while now, and I can’t seem to move past it. I bet you can help, being English.”
I laugh and turn to Troy, who’s nearly bursting to take on the challenge. “You don’t need me when you have our resident Shakespeare scholar and aspiring playwright.”
Troy, seeming energized by the opportunity, snaps his fingers, muttering under his breath the actual lines from the bard’s most famous sonnet. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease hath all too short a date.” A long sigh, then he pumps a fist. “Got it. Ready?”
“I’m ready,” Chip says. “Lay it on us.”
“Shall I compare thee to my dream fillet? Thou art more buttery and more succulent. Other fish will storm your plate, try to claim your place . . . But none will win, all are but a supplement.”
Chip’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been stuck on rhyming ‘succulent’ forever.”
Troy gestures broadly, amped up by the creative exercise. “My first thought was ‘truculent,’ but that means aggressive and doesn’t really fit that well. So, ‘supplement’ it is.”
Sully’s eyes bounce back and forth like he’s watching ping-pong in the Olympics, then he bows Wayne’s World–style. “You just rhymed on the spot. We are not worthy.”
Troy blows on his fingers. “When you got it, you got it. I can rap the entire sonnet actually.”
“You can? That’s an awesome party trick. Can you do it right now?” Chip asks, sounding awestruck.
Troy glances to me as if asking for permission, and holy hell, he has it. “Dying to hear this.” I cross my arms and listen as Troy makes a beatbox of his mouth and proceeds to hip-hop his way through “Sonnet Eighteen,” starting with Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
I clap when he’s done. We all do.
The word idea seems to flash in neon above Chip’s head. “Can you do that at the wedding tomorrow? Maybe with ‘Sonnet One Hundred Sixteen’?”
“If music be the food of love, play on,” Troy says. “Though that’s from Twelfth Night. But it’s my way of saying yes, I’d be honored.”
“What do you do when you’re not . . .” Chip lowers his voice. “You know, doing this . . .?”
Ah, the question of the hour. In addition to the groomsman work, how exactly does he support his playwriting habit? Lately, I’ve begun to suspect he works the pole. How else would he know all the words to 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” and Ginuwine’s “Pony”?
“He does a little of everything,” Sully interjects proudly. “A real man of the people. Jack-of-all-trades. Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, sometimes I work as a cop. Sometimes I’m the maître d’. Other times, I’m just the pool guy.”
“Those are a lot of . . . odd jobs.” Chip’s eyebrow rises, like none of that computes.
Troy lifts his water glass and takes a drink. “Just to support the wife and me before the plays take off.”
Everything makes perfect sense now. He’s a stripper. Magic Mike meets Eugene O’Neill is my rent-a-groomsman.
Chip smiles like he has a secret. “I love Shakespeare. I quoted a sonnet when Pugalicious and I asked Ashley to marry me.”
I snap my gaze to him. “Pugalicious?”
“Pugalicious is my dog. Ashley and I met at a dog park. She has a pug too. It was love at first pug.”
“That is . . . thoroughly sweet,” I say.
“Hooked her with the pug, won her with a sonnet. Hopefully, she’ll stay for me.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, raising a glass.
“What about you? Who’s your date? Is she sonnet-worthy?” Chip asks.
“Julie,” I say quickly.
“What’s she like?”
I don’t answer Chip at first. Not aloud.
She’s like . . . the bottle of scotch you want to open but can’t because it’s on your father’s shelf. She’s like the car you long for when you spot the red Ferrari cruising around the bend. She’s the sexiest, wittiest, most clever woman—no, person—you’ve ever known, and you want her so fucking much, it’s a persistent ache.
I turn to Chip. “She’s just a great girl. That’s all.”
