The Wedding Toast

Camila had known, weeks in advance, that Dominic would be at the wedding — best man, inevitably, since he and the groom had been inseparable since university. She had told herself, with the particular confidence of someone planning around a problem rather than solving it, that this would be fine. It was fine, technically, for the ceremony and most of dinner. It stopped being fine somewhere around his toast, when he thanked "everyone who'd taught him what actually lasting looks like," and did not, quite, let his eyes land on her table when he said it.

They ended up outside together anyway, the way exes at weddings always seem to, drawn out onto the same stretch of terrace by the same excuse of needing air. Neither of them had planned it. Had either one genuinely wanted to avoid the other, the venue was large enough to make that easy. Instead they had both, independently, chosen the one balcony with a view of the parking lot, which told her something she wasn't ready to examine directly.

"Good toast," she said, which was true and also the safest thing available to say.

"I rewrote it about four times." He didn't look at her when he said it, which she recognized, uncomfortably, as exactly the thing he used to do right before admitting something. "The first draft had a line in it about you. I took it out."

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't really a toast to Theo and Jade at that point. It was just — something else, wearing a toast."

What she wanted to say, standing there with a glass of champagne she had stopped drinking from ten minutes earlier, was that she'd have liked to hear it anyway, the wrong speech, the something-else. What she said instead was nothing, for long enough that the silence itself became the more honest answer of the two.

Rarely had two years of careful distance collapsed so quickly into four sentences on a balcony, and rarely had she felt less equipped to know what to do with the collapse. This wasn't a scene that resolved the way weddings liked to pretend everything eventually resolved — not into a reconciliation, not into a clean goodbye either. It was simply two people standing in the specific kind of proximity that neither grief nor romance fully explains. Each was aware that saying too much tonight would mean something neither of them could take back, on a night that belonged, properly, to someone else.

"We should go back in," Dominic said eventually. "Jade's about to cut the cake."

"We should," Camila agreed, and didn't move for another moment before she did. Inside, she found her seat again, and did not look, for the rest of the night, to see whether he'd found his.