The band providing entertainment at the engagement party was a blues trio favoring sentimental love songs, mellowing the effects of liquor from the open bar. Sean’s friends from his film career were clustered around the future bride and groom or forming blocks of small reunions on their own throughout the room. Michael drifted aimlessly through them, from Sean’s cousins discussing deep-sea diving to a conversation on wedding traditions conducted by a handful of Sean’s college friends. “Forget it, pal, I think toasts are the best man’s job,” one of them laughed.
The best man conjured Nat King Cole’s rendition in Michael’s brain, although the song seemed incongruous to the title bestowed upon him. He thought of a friend’s adaptation of the lyrics, a bitter tongue-in-cheek version plunked out on a piano at a dinner party once. The best man who never knocked on her door, the best man, the one she’s not waitin’ for. I was the best man for missing, who never makes the scene ... He took a sip from the glass in his hand, listening to the ice cubes clink against the sides.
“Hey, Mick, do you think this tie is me?” Sean flicked a paisley tie from beneath his blazer as Michael joined them. “Dane says it’s too loud for an evening event.” Beside him, the friend in question flashed a grin framed by a pinkish-red beard.
“It’s nice,” Michael answered. He ignored the polite guffaw from Dane’s throat as Sean re-tucked his tie. “Considering you only own two others.” When he raised his eyes from his drink, his gaze fell on Kate. She stood across from him in a white dress, a flower tucked in the knot of hair pinned low on her neck.
It amazed him that she was there–the same polite smile as before, her head tilted lightly to the side as she listened to Sean’s story. Her glance, when it met Michael’s, slid away again into another part of the room after a faint smile.
“I could’ve worn the one with the little E.T.’s,” Sean reminded his friend. “Would that be appropriate for the occasion?” His eye swiveled towards Kate, his hand reaching to squeeze her fingers. “Let’s ask the lady in question if it’s the wrong choice.”
“My opinion is worthless,” she answered. “I know so few people who wear ties– almost none of my clients dress professionally.” As their hands parted, Michael noticed there was no ring on her finger–apparently, Sean had not thought of one before his impromptu proposal.
“Michael here has a whole section of his closet devoted to ties,” said Sean. “So he can wear a different one to every book event if he wants. Which is strange for a guy who spends his days holed up with a keyboard–”
“Oh, Sean, you will never understand the plight of writers,” said Dane, shaking his head. Dane was a film critic, hardly a writer, although he referred to himself as an ‘industry outsider’ within the realm of Sean’s friends. “Will you ever learn that not everyone loves playing the scene as much as you?”
“Give me a break, I’ve only had two drinks this evening,” said Sean. “After three, maybe I will.” This punch line received a round of laughter from his friends as he inspected the contents of his glass.
“Refill time,” announced Sean. “I need one–Kate, you need a new glass of wine, Mick–”
“I’m good,” answered Michael. He moved aside to make space for Sean to squeeze past. Already Dane was seeking new company, no doubt aware from past experience that Michael was not a kindred spirit on the subject of film reviews. Across from him, Kate pressed her lips inward.
He felt the need to move, to escape, before this awkwardness consumed them. This was nothing like the moment in the airport, the two of them stranded in a crowd of strangers. In re-meeting, they were reduced to pitiful small talk as acquaintances whose past connection was made trivial by recent events.
Michael cleared his throat. “I–I should apologize,” he said. “For not saying something earlier at Sean’s apartment. I was tongue-tied for a moment, as they say.”
She met his glance. “I was taken by surprise,” she said. “It seemed awkward, no?” With a faint laugh that sounded forced to the surface.
“Sean is–” he began, before Kate interrupted.
“It seems like too much of coincidence, doesn’t it?” she said. “My meeting you in the airport, on my way to meet Sean.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered,” he said. “I mean–if we had somehow known–”
“When Sean asked me to come to Chicago, I knew it was ... I knew it was because of our relationship in Mexico. Although I didn’t expect this, quite–” Her eyes flickered in the direction of the guests milling around them.
“I didn’t mention I was from here,” said Michael. “I didn’t mention anything that was ... that was personal,” he continued, his fingers rubbing the glass between them. “Perhaps if I had...” he trailed off, momentarily, uncertain what to say. “Perhaps we would have realized this connection sooner, right?”
It seemed like a neutral statement for the occasion. The possibilities lingering in his mind since San Francisco dissipated with this statement, like a fog lifting from city.
“Perhaps it’s best not to mention it at all,” said Kate. There was something more intense in her eyes as she met his own. “It might be best for everyone to just pretend it didn’t happen. Less awkward than explaining why we didn’t say anything. Even if it was harmless.”
“It was,” Michael echoed, surprised by the note of reassurance in his voice so incongruous with the thoughts he banished moments ago. “If we had said something at first, it would have seemed funny even.” He forced his tone to sound lighthearted, as if they were laughing over something. The look on Kate’s face was closer to a blush than a flush of good humor.
“Maybe, like you said, it would be for the best to pretend,” he said, gently. “We’ll just forget about the whole thing.” His fingers reached to touch her arm, hesitating before he left them fall at his side again.
Kate’s lips moved to reply, then morphed into a smile as Sean approached, a glass in each hand. She accepted the wine glass and took a long sip from it as Sean clinked his whiskey glass against Mick’s.
“Isn’t this fantastic?” he said. “This band is rockin’–they did the soundtrack for Wyatt’s movie, which sucked with critics, but what do they know, right?” He winked at Kate.
Michael coughed politely. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, offering a flat smile as he edged towards escape at the approach of Sean’s script continuity officer, a brash woman whom Sean claimed had a secret crush on him during his first film. He caught a glimpse of two doughy hands seizing Kate’s shoulders, red nails like barbs against the sleeves of the white dress.
At the bar, he ordered another drink, this one more gin than tonic. As the ice cubes clinked into the glass, he studied his hands resting on the polished surface before him. The lines in his skin seemed more like the first signs of age than creased knuckles; he imagined Kate’s smooth hand in his before feeling a sense of guilt.
A hand squeezed his shoulder. “Mick, excited they’re dragging you forth from your hole again?” asked Dane. “A week at the mercy of Sean’s future in-laws and bad British cuisine–I don’t envy you, mate.” He lit a cigarette, then motioned for the bartender to approach.
“A week?” repeated Michael. “A week where?” A sense of foreboding stole over him.
“In England,” said Dane. “That’s where the wedding is–you’ll be leaving early as the best man, I assume.” To the bartender, he added, “One cosmopolitan, please.”
England? Michael pictured himself holding an umbrella over Sean’s head, a downpour soaking Kate in a white wedding veil. A woman in an oversized hat like Queen Elizabeth’s stationed in a crowd of somber guests in bowler hats. Surely this was a mistake– surely the ceremony was destined for a chapel in Chicago, a nearby park, a place in keeping with Sean’s haste to the wedding.
He turned and glanced over his shoulder at Sean, who was standing a few feet away in a circle of friends. The look on Michael’s face betrayed the nature of Dane’s conversation, apparently–an incredulous glance which made Sean cringe slightly. His lips mouthed something unintelligible, but the discomfort of his body language was answer enough for Michael.
With a sigh, he turned back to his glass, staring at its contents as if the proper reaction to this scenario might be hidden at the bottom.