The group to my right shifts slightly, and before I know it, I find myself enveloped, engaging in small talk.
“We’re with the bride’s side,” a middle-aged white man says, his accent heavy.
“Groom’s,” I say, pointing to myself. I don’t elaborate further, carefully asking question after question, finding out how each person in the group knows Maggie, encouraging further discussion about her so I don’t have to offer up anything of my own.
They all speak about her with such fondness.
“She’s been through so much, you know?” one woman says, her eyes glistening. “It’s so nice to see her finally have something good in her life.”
I nod as if I have any idea what she’s talking about, as if I agree with her definition of my father as “something good.”
A tray of drinks is passed around, along with some kind of meat skewered on toothpicks, and I grab one of each, glad to have something to do with my hands.
Everyone in this circle knows Maggie well, but a few also know my father. One of Maggie’s cousins shares a story about the first time she met him, how he came over for Christmas and knocked over a candle, almost setting the tablecloth aflame.
The group laughs, and I force a smile, but my skin prickles.
I shouldn’t be here.
The people in this room, they have genuine affection, genuinelovefor Maggie and my father. They all share something I’m not a part of. I look around, seeing one smiling face after another.
I don’t belong.
I excuse myself, mumbling something about using the restroom, and step away from the group.
Coming here was a mistake. I thought I’d be able to face my father, but I don’t know if I can pretend to behappythe way these people so clearly are. I don’t know if I can fake it, if I can hide how I feel.
I’ll just leave. I can still go to the wedding; I’ll get there a little late and slip in the back. I don’t have to be here tonight. I’ll go back to the hotel and—
I halt mid-step, hearing a familiar voice before I see him.
He’s laughing, the corners of his eyes crinkled behind his wire-frame glasses. He’s traded his elbow-patched cardigan for a dark-blue suit, and he’s clean-shaven, the scruff that I felt this morning against my cheek completely gone.
I don’t move, unsure whether to approach him or leave, but then his gaze meets mine.
He blinks, surprise lighting his face. His mouth parts for a second before breaking into a wide smile.
For the first time this evening, the muscles in my shoulders relax.
I walk toward him, and he meets me halfway.
“Hi,” he says, his expression and tone conveying both puzzlement and delight.
“Hi,” I respond, my mind whirring. Is he one of my father’s medical colleagues? Or is the desi community in Aberdeen truly so small that everyone knows each other? It seems hard to believe. “What are you doing here?”
The strap of my purse slides off my shoulder, but before I canadjust it, his hand is there. He lifts it back into place, his fingers sliding over the bare skin of my upper arm.
My nerves jump to life, heat rushing through my body, memories of last night flashing in my mind.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says. His hand trails down until he’s cupping my elbow, and he leads us to a quieter corner, giving us just the tiniest bit of privacy. He leans against the wall and watches me, a disbelieving grin on his face. “I thought you said you hated weddings.”
I almost laugh.If he only knew how much I hate this one in particular.
“I do,” I say, “but I need to be at this one.” I shake my head. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, though.”
Hesitation flickers in his eyes. “And is it a good surprise or—”
“Good,” I say. “Definitely.”
