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Eventually we ran out of cake. Not because anybody stopped — because the real tiers were gone and all that was left was foam. Lance threw a handful of it and it went absolutely nowhere and drifted, and somehow that was the worst thing that happened all night.

"Bouquet toss," announced Blaine.

"Absolutely not," said Benny. "I am putting my foot down."

"It's tradition."

"There is no bouquet. Neither of you carried one. Nobody at this wedding carried one."

"Then we'll improvise."

"There's nobody to throw it to," said Lance. "There are three of us."

"Then the odds are excellent."

And Benny Longworth — who has run hundreds of these, and who is constitutionally unable to watch an item on a run of show be executed badly — made a small noise of pure professional agony, walked to the nearest table, took the centerpiece out of its vase in one motion, shook the water off it, and threw it at Blaine.

"If you're doing it," he said, "do it properly. Back to us. Over the shoulder. Don't look."

I have thought about that a great deal since.

The man handed over the instrument of his own destruction because it was being held wrong.

Blaine caught it against his chest, still dripping with water. Then he turned his back on the three of us, and threw a fistful of white ranunculus over his shoulder into a tent containing one movie star, one wedding planner, and his ex-husband.

I did not reach for it.

I thought about it for a second, and then I put my hands up like a man being arrested. Lance dove and hit the floor.

And Benny stood there holding those flowers against his chest with an expression of undiluted horror.

"No," he groaned, shutting his eyes dramatically.

"Benny—"

"No. Absolutely not. I did not reach for this. It came at me."

"That's how it works."

"It's a folk custom, Blaine, it has no predictive—" He looked down at the flowers. Then up. "It is a nice arrangement."

* * *

They left not long after.

Lance gathered his ruined jacket in both arms, kissed the top of Blaine's head, and said, "I'm going to bed before somebody makes me have a feeling." Benny went out behind him carrying the binder and the flowers.

And at the flap, Lance turned around.

"Where did Zephyr get to, anyway? He didn't even say goodbye."

"He had a car coming," I said.

It came out easily. That's the part I keep going back over. Warm, smooth, entirely believable, because I have had a great deal of practice that week.

And the whole time I could feel Blaine looking at the side of my face.

He knew. I’m certain he knew. He heard Billy say his own name in that guest house, and Blaine Cauthorne has never in his life let go of a loose thread.