If he hadn’t been wearing that white shirt, bright almost to the point of glowing, I might not have even seen him. But he was. The boy who had asked me to dance, standing by the water’s edge. I couldn’t miss him. No, more than that. I can never picture him in anything else.
The real surprise, though, was that he sawme. When you come across someone on the beach at night, contemplating the ocean, you don’t exactly interrupt. It’s one of those unwritten rules. So I’d just walked behind him, keeping my head down, when I heard him say, “All done for the night?”
It’s funny, the little details you remember from the things you cannot forget. The sand cool on my feet. The weight of my shoes, shifting as they swung in my hand. And again,that shirt bright in contrast to my own black dress, so dark I wondered later how he’d even seen me at all.
“Yeah,” I answered. “I got off early, for once.”
“Is it early?” He looked back behind him, over the dunes, where the party was still going on, shadows of figures distantly visible moving above. “Man. It feels late to me.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to this, and felt like maybe I should keep moving, give him the space he’d clearly come out here to claim. But he was the one who had started talking.
“Weddings take a lot out of you,” I answered. “Or so I hear.”
“You hear? You should know. You go to tons, right?”
“Iworkat tons,” I corrected him. “It’s different from being a guest. You’re at a distance, an observer. Almost scientific.”
“Huh,” he said. He had a bit of a Northern accent, enough to notice. “I never thought about it that way. Then again, I mow yards for my job.”
“That’s not emotional?”
“Maybe for the grass.”
I laughed. “I never thought about itthatway.”
“Oh, the world of landscaping is fascinating. Except that it’s totally not.”
We stood there for a second, both of us facing the crashing waves. Out on the horizon, I could see a fishing boat, its lights twinkling as the water shifted.
From behind us, there was a loud whoop, followed by cheering, and we both turned to look. In profile, I saw he had long lashes, a jut I hadn’t noticed to his chin. “Your family’s having fun,” I said.
“My dad’s family,” he corrected me immediately.O-kay,I thought. He gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry. It’s just... complicated.”
“Family usually is,” I said.
“Is yours?”
I considered this for a moment. “Not really.”
He laughed. “Oh, I get it. Youarestill on the clock. Counseling morose guests gone AWOL from the ceremony, just part of the job.”
“No, no,” I protested, holding up my hand. “I just mean... my family is only me and my mom. Well, and William. Not much to complicate.”
“William?”
“Her best friend, my godfather-basically-my-father-except-he’s-not,” I explained, using the term I’d come up with back in elementary school during Meet My Family week, when this issue first arose. “My real dad died when I was three.”
“Wow. Sorry.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t really know him, at least that I remember. So it’s not like I miss him or anything.”
He slid his hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels. “My dad and I used to be super close. I was his little buddy, all that. Then, three years ago, he ditched my mom for his secretary. Such a stereotype. He couldn’t even be original aboutcheating.”
His voice was tinged with disgust, saying this. Now I said, “I’m sorry.”
A shrug. “Not your fault. And yetyoumanage to apologize anyway. He never has. Weird how that works, huh?”
“Definitely,” I said. “How’s your mom doing?”
