He freezes as if bowled over by her beauty, which I can just about forgive him for. “I’m afraid we received no requests for vegetarian food.”
None? For a wedding reception of over a hundred and fifty guests?
We wait for him to come up with something, but all he does is stare at us. He’s clearly expecting Callie to say it’s not a problem. That we’ll just become carnivores for the day. Or maybe he’s imagining they’re making eye contact.
“Oh” is all she says eventually.
He has the audacity to wink at her before walking away.
“Wow.” I smile. “Something about awkward vegetarians really does it for him.”
Her forehead puckers. “How do you mean?”
I lean forward. “I think he liked you.”
“No, he was just confused.”
Oblivious, as ever, to how beautiful she is.
Callie bends closer to her plate, prods the beef Wellington with her fork. “What do you think we should do?”
“I think we have only one option.”
“Go on.”
I raise my freshly filled wineglass. “Liquid lunch.”
“I think you mean wedding breakfast.”
“Don’t even get me started on why they call it breakfast.”
•••
In the end we skip the food entirely and end up being first on the dance floor as soon as the lights go low. Callie’s laughing, leading me by the hand. Her smile is like a bulb in the darkened room.
We dance, we sing, we laugh till we’re dizzy. The perfect, perfect day.
•••
At midnight we flee, wired and wild-haired. It’s a clear night, the air potent with summer. Callie’s shoes dangle from her fingers as we cross dampened lawns toward the wing where we’re staying. Her dress swings as she strides over the dew-darkened grass, my palm locked in hers.
I look at the star-pocked sky above our heads, draw the moment to my chest.I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy as I am right now.
Callie’s talking about a book she’s reading on wild swimming by a nature writer she loves. One man’s quest, apparently, to swim his way through the British Isles. “It just makes me want to jump into the nearest river. And it’s the right time of year, isn’t it? You can’t get much closer to nature than actually swimming in it.”
We reach the top of another vast lawn. “Well, now.” I pull her to a standstill. “Look.”
“What?”
“Your ideal opportunity.”
At the bottom of a natural bowl in the lawn is an ornamental lake the color of midnight, inviting as iced lemonade. The air is hot, and so are we: even to me, the idea seems delicious.
“Are you serious?”
Dropping her hand, I shrug off my jacket. Let it fall to the ground, then bend down to untie my shoes.
“Joel, we can’t.” She glances around. “They might escort us off the premises.”
