最后，我们开始谈论我们之间的事，谈论我们唯一的那次约会，以及当时相互之间是如何真正感受的。我们愉快地交谈着，回忆我们逝去的青春萌动的少年时期。但当我听到电话那边传来的你的笑声的时候，我眼前出现一幅画面，看见你双脚撑起了桌子上，捻转着指间的一缕长发，我怀疑，我对你的那些很久以前的感情，我早就忘记的那些，是否真正消失了。电话的时间超过我的预期，是当我上班晚到会议四十分钟时我才意识到的，然而我感觉只像过了短短的几秒钟，只是简短旅行回到我们的过去。你先挂的电话，有些不情愿地，说你有几件差事要办。然后，过了两个星期，你的婚礼邀请就来了。

 

    It is one in the afternoon, and I am sitting at a fancy dining table, hot and itchy in my suit. I drum my fingers on the surface impatiently, waiting. The warm night blows the smell of barbecue from outside, mixed with the sharp tinge of cologne and perfume, and I hear water gurgling from the fountain outside, quiet conversations, and laughs. We are sitting at the reception, and as I look around, I realize that the decorations are so you. The strings of glistening yellow lights across the ceiling make me think of your house during the holiday seasons, with its life-size, blown up sleigh, all eight reindeer, and “Winter Wonderland” blasting from hidden speakers whenever someone walked by. The bouquet of soft pink roses on each white-clad table reminds me of timid choices and your cheeks in the fall. Although you are not here yet, your presence fills this room, from the quiet sound of “Canon in D” played from the cello in the background to the clink of each wine glass, sounds of celebration.

    I half-listen to the conversations of our friends around me, as they chat and punch each other on the arm and reminisce about our long-gone school days. Their faces, grown versions of their childhood selves, are of the time that has passed.

    Stephen, the one whom we used to tease for pretending to be so much more mature than the rest of us, now does look the oldest, his buzzed, dark hair prematurely graying on the sides, lines around his mouth. His suit is tweed gray with a matching tie, stiff and formal, so outlandishly different from his former leather jacket, bad-ass high school days. But if I close my eyes slightly, I can still see him as the long haired teenager, slouching into class twenty minutes late with a scowl etched on his face. Spending his youth moving from one house of his divorced parents to another, he never had the same easy, comfortable life as the rest of us. I heard that he had been going through an especially hard time lately, losing his job right after the death of his mother, but I haven’t had the time to ask yet. Right now, though, he is throwing his head back and laughing, a glass of cabernet in his hand, worries forgotten in the faces of old friends.

     Sitting beside Stephen is Toby, who pauses from his conversation to pour himself another glass of wine. I think that most friend groups have had that one awkward friend, and Toby, with his round cheeks and penchant for wearing polkadotted bow ties, was the one for us. He could never quite keep up with us, both physically and intellectually, but we always let him tag along because he was funny, and frankly, we felt a little bad for him. Although he was a complete romantic, he was also awkward and clumsy, and probably had the briefest relationships out of all of us, followed by the most uncomfortable breakups. Ironically, though, you are not the first one to get married out of us, because Toby beat you to it just last year. His wife is sitting next to him now, pretty and slender in a sapphire dress. In our teenage days, a girl like her would never have even looked twice at him, but as I watch Toby’s arm drape casually around her chair now, I think to myself that he is the one who has changed the most out of us. He is successful and confident in ways we never could have imagined, his younger self out of his cocoon, and I feel happy for him. 

    Directly across from me is Randolph, who had been the rising athlete among us. I remember that in high school he liked to think of himself as the coolest in our group, and how he had refused to take off his letterman jacket even during the hottest days of summer, though really, he was more of an average football player and didn’t get as many girls as he fantasized. I smile at the painful memories of his surprise tackles and aggressive tosses. He’s gained a little weight now and is an loan officer, an image of someone who would sit in front of the TV and watch the game rather than actually play in it. But I look at the small scar on his forehead from that intense game against our rival school, Sharpstown, and wonder if somehow, in a small part of him, he still holds his fragile fantasy.

Then there is Amy, the only other girl of our group, and your best friend. Back then, you were the one we all had a crush on, the smart one, the pretty one. We treated Amy, with her uneven bangs and fraying jeans, more like a little sister, teasing her about her obsession with a boy band whose name I can’t remember anymore, and how she used to sing crappy covers of their songs. We kind of feel bad about that now, though. She just released her second album last month, and although her celebrity is still more of a local thing, she is more famous than the rest of us will ever be, with a solid Twitter following. Sometimes I wonder if Amy has ever felt bad about being in your shadow, if she has felt jealous of your spotlight. But I feel that no, she probably never has. Because I think that she, like us and anyone who has met you, in one way or another, has been in love with you.

    I lean back in content against my chair, stretching out my legs. Because, honestly, I think, taking a sip of wine, who wouldn't be in love with you? You are perfect, or as close to perfect as anyone can get. We have all liked you, loved you, fought over you, even, but I think that no one has loved you like I have. I can’t help but reflect back to the first and only date we had. It was during the first break of college, years ago, maybe during the week of Thanksgiving. We met up at a halfway point between our schools, in a small town. The day had started out well enough. We walked around, snapped ugly candids of each other, dared each other to try the extremely sour popsicles the town was known for. “So, is this like a date?” I had asked at one point, only half joking. You didn’t answer, but merely shoved me and laughed. I didn’t really care at that point because I was just happy to be with you, but the thought of telling you about my feelings weighed against my chest the entire time. 

    We only really started talking later in the day. Somehow, we ended up in a lonelier part of the city, in the company of a set of abandoned railroad tracks and surrounding soft maples. It was cold, and we were both shivering. I rubbed my hands together and held them against my mouth, trying to warm them. You smiled and wordlessly handed me one of your gloves, which I took gratefully. It was pink and too small for me, and I put it on. 

    You were walking on the edge of the track, one step in front of the other, balancing with your arms outstretched. I followed on the other side, a couple of paces behind you. My confidence, fueled from our long phone conversations from the past few months, was quickly evaporating. With nothing to fill the space and silence but us, I felt awkward, uncomfortable.   Trying to think of something to say, I looked blankly at how your windswept hair trailed down your back, stared at your silhouette, framed by the light from the surrounding lampposts.

 “You know,” you said suddenly, making me jump and almost lose my balance. “I’m not the kind of person you think I am.” 

    I hesitated, unsure where the conversation was going. “What do you mean?”

 “I just,” you paused. “I’m just not as…good as you think. My grades in college haven’t been very good. Sometimes I sleep in all the way till 1 or 2 in the afternoon. I get mad over small things.” 

    I fumbled with your glove, which was starting to slip off. “Why are you telling me this?”

   You shrugged uncomfortably. “I just wanted you to know. Maybe you don’t actually know me that well. Maybe you don’t even like me that much. Maybe... you only like the girl you imagine me to be.” 

    I kept walking, staring at the rusted edges of the crumbling railroad track beneath my feet. The still air hung between us for a long, awkward moment. I could hear your breath catch in your throat. 

 “I’m not that imaginative, you know,” I finally said, looking down. “I like you.” 

 “You idiot. You didn’t even think about it,” you said, and though you were still turned around, I could hear the smile in your voice.

    I don’t remember much of what happened after our date. Only that, even though that day I was given the opportunity, I missed my chance. Somehow, despite all of our small shared moments, we talked less and less, until we stopped altogether. 

    Years passed. We had graduated from college by then, and you were in Boston for your doctorate. We drifted apart, though I always remembered your birthday, and you mine. I remember getting a surprise phone call from you just a couple of weeks before you sent me your wedding invitation, to catch up as old friends. You hadn't mentioned anything about your engagement then. In fact, we didn't talk much about how we were now, but how we were before, reminiscing about our old teachers, people we liked in high school, and what they were doing now. Eventually, we started talking about us, about our only official date, how we really felt at the time. We talked comfortably, our awkward teenage days long behind us, but as I heard you laugh through the phone and pictured you sitting in your house, feet propped up on the table and twirling a strand of hair between your fingers, I wondered if the old feelings I had for you, the ones I had long forgotten about, were truly gone. We talked for longer than I expected, I realized later as I arrived forty minutes late to my meeting, yet it felt like just a few seconds, a brief trip back to our past. You hung up first, reluctantly, saying you had a few errands to run.  Then, two weeks later, your wedding invitation came.

    The sound of applause wrenches me from my thoughts. I turn and there you are, radiant and beautiful in your wedding dress, looking as if not a single day has passed since I’d last seen you. Your hair is up in a complex knot, revealing your slender neck and shoulders, the detailing and lace on your dress creating a halo of brightness around you. The cheers and calls of our friends fade into the background, and the entire room is filled with only you. I notice your new husband when he clears his throat, waiting to make a toast. He is old, obviously older than the rest of us, tall and with a receding hairline. I tilt my head, expecting to hate him, but instead I can’t help but smile. You are not looking at me; you have not even noticed me at all. Because your eyes are so focused on him, you see nothing and no one else.