I squeeze his hand.
The warmth of his palm against mine is steadier than I expected. He's nervous, I can feel the faint tension in his grip, but he's not running. George moves toward the microphone stand with the careful deliberateness of a man reconstructing his composure in real time, and I admire the effort, I do.
And then I step forward and take the microphone first.
His hand hangs in the air for one beat, empty, surprised. A ripple of delighted laughter moves through the room and I catch his expression shifting from stunned to fondness.
The microphone is heavier than it looks. I adjust my grip and resist the urge to clear my throat in that way that announces to everyone that you're buying time.
"I spend a lot of time thinking about compatibility," I begin, and my voice comes out steadier than I have any right to expect given the last four minutes of my life. "Timing, alignment, the eighteen-point framework I made George sit through on Tuesday that he will never get back."
Another ripple of laughter. George makes a small sound beside me, something between protest and affection. The two have been getting harder to distinguish.
"But watching Eleanor and Daniel—" I gesture toward them, and Eleanor's face does something complicated and luminous, like sunlight hitting water, "—I remembered something I haven't been able to quantify."
The room settles into quiet. The good kind of quiet. The kind where people have stopped checking their phones, where glasses are set down and conversations are let go. I can smell the warm scent of candle wax and someone's tuberose perfume, and underneath it all, faintly, something that I've already started to associate with standing next to George.
"Love isn't clean," I say. "It isn't a spreadsheet. It isn't the version where everything lines up and nobody has to risk anything."
I glance at him just for a second, I can't help it.
He is watching me with an expression I don't have a professional category for and am rapidly developing one.
"It works because you choose each other," I continue, turning back to the room, keeping my voice even. "Again and again. Even when it's inconvenient. Especially then."
I let the silence hold for exactly one breath. Then I lift my glass.
"To Eleanor and Daniel. Congratulations."
The room erupts in applause, a cheer from somewhere near the back, the bright sound of glasses lifting. Eleanor is crying, Daniel's arm already around her shoulders. I turn to George and hold out the microphone.
"Here you go," I say. "You can finish your toast now."
He takes it, fingers brushing mine in the handoff, and for a moment neither of us moves. Neither of us quite lets go. Then he turns to face the room with a small, composed breath, and the guests settle again, willing to follow wherever this evening decides to take them.
"To my little sister," George says, his voice finding its footing, "and her new husband."
He pauses. The corner of his mouth lifts.
"And to love," he adds. "Apparently."
The applause rises again, warm and full, and I stay beside him as it does. His shoulder is close enough to mine that I can feel the faint heat of it. I want five minutes alone with him.
Though if I'm being honest with myself, which I am increasingly committed to trying, we're probably not going to spend those five minutes talking.
