The Wedding Project 💍

'When The Lights Go Out' - The Best Man (@FCCleary)

Orchestral music floated around Ewan Creed as he stepped through the reception, past elderly uncles and grandmothers, unruly children–and the occasional single young lady–on his way to the bar for a refill. The wedding hadn't turned out to be the "target rich" environment he'd been hoping for, but he still had eyes on one or two of Anna's bridesmaids.

Everything was easier with a little scotch in his belly. He projected a confidence that he mostly felt, but without that boost he'd be a little too respectful of everyone's boundaries, and most people, if they were honest, wanted you to step across that line. Not aggressively, of course, he wasn't a complete cad whatever Callum thought, but tickling the edges of discomfort was a promise of excitement, a break from the monotony of everyday life.

Unfortunately, alcohol also greased the doors of introspection, a pastime "Ocean" made an effort to avoid. Moaning over past mistakes, nursing anxiety over outcomes one couldn't prevent, seemed like a monumental waste of time. Just take the next step, he'd tell himself. You might put your foot down in dog shit, but sometimes you walked into the center ring and that's where the magic happened.

Armed with a full glass he turned back toward his table. There were Anna and Callum, playing host and hostess, chatting up a woman approaching middle age (once pretty, now a little thick in the waist and dressed to hide it), with a distracted little boy in tow. A cousin maybe.

A teenage boy he couldn't see was whining about leaving before someone told him to hush and be patient. Ewan smirked. I feel you, kid, but it's not all bad. After everyone had eaten they'd knock off a few formalities then he could...

Shit.

He patted down his jacket, his pants, sat down his glass and felt inside the breast pocket. His speech was missing. He had it just before the ceremony. Where...?

He briefly considered winging it, but he didn't trust himself to remember every detail he'd crafted into his speech, particularly Grandma Gwen's stories that would earn laughter from Cal's friends and stern looks from his tight-assed family. The scotch told him it might be skirting the tenets of the bro code, but it was a wedding after all and Callum's emasculation was nearly complete. It could be worse, he told himself, they'd known each other long before Anna, and Cal had far worse among his closeted skeletons.

With a sigh he collected his drink and made for the hall's open doors. He made a vague gesture toward Callum that meant 'hey my dude, I need to run upstairs and grab something but don't worry I'll be back before you have the chance to miss me,' and trusted, from Cal's equally vague nod, that the message had been received in full. He idly noted Anna's absence, likely having been drawn into some familial bridal ritual, or badgered by marital advice from a potato-headed aunt with seven divorces under her belt.

The scotch's company was less welcome outside the reception hall where the noise of tentative celebration drowned out his inner monologue. Callum and Anna were official. He hadn't seen that coming. Nobody had. She wasn't the kind of person he'd have chosen for his friend, despite the bank, despite her clear adoration, despite everything Ewan had said over the years about seizing opportunities. He had meant business; is that all this wedding was to Cal?

He wasn't the same guy he'd been in school, that much was clear, but how much had changed? Ewan "Ocean" Creed liked life simple, broken into manageable pieces that could be clearly defined. Passive income kept him fed. Some effort at the gym and a polished charm (and flashing a little of that income didn't hurt) kept his bedroom busy. His friends were as reliable as he needed them to be. Cal was different, more nuanced, more averse to risk without being crippled by fear. You could have a blast with him at parties and still be confident that he'd take on the role of designated driver if nobody else stepped up. He tethered Ocean in a sense, prevented Big Ideas from carrying him too far.

He almost thought he'd been more 'responsible' back then, but if anything, Cal seemed more focused now, less empathic. A little more like Ocean than Ocean would have liked.

He took the steps to the second floor two at a time then cursed inwardly as he left the stairwell, nearly colliding with a pleasantly curved figure in a tight sequined dress. Brush it off, mate, he told himself, shifting his leer to a delightful, heart-shaped ass. Cracks weren't permitted in his facade, not when his mission remained incomplete. Oh yeah, and he needed that speech.

"Susan, hey," he called out, wrenching his eyes upward and increasing his pace. "What's up?"

She turned with an expression he recognized. She thought she had him pinned down as the asshole womanizer friend of the groom, and she wasn't entirely wrong, but he'd known his share of women just like her and ended up bedding more than a few. The mellow of liquor and the weariness of too much dancing had yet to kick in. That's when he'd evaluate his real chances.

Instead of brushing him off, she asked, "Have you seen Anna?"

"Downstairs a few minutes ago, why?"

"I just came from there, she seemed upset and excused herself."

"The blushing bride is on the run?"

"Cut the crap, Ocean, she's not ok."

"Sorry." He lowered his gaze in deference (and to check out the generous cut of her neckline) before meeting her eyes again. "Did something happen?"

"It must have done. One minute she was over the moon and the next she couldn't leave fast enough."

"You've checked her room?"

"I'm heading there now."

Ocean leveraged a compassionate smile and gently squeezed her upper arm in a show of support, releasing it just before it would have seemed insincere. It was a transparent move and Susan clearly saw through it, but she was also worried and returned an appreciative smile before hurrying off. Score one for Ocean.

He tossed back the last of his drink, cursing again as he dribbled a bit down his front, and left the glass on a cleaning cart before fiddling his way into his room. It was comfortably dark, which returned his mind to what use it might be put within the next several hours. Susan wouldn't be a bad catch. A little less up top than he liked, but she had spirit and was clearly comfortable in her skin-tight dress. That meant confidence, and that was both the challenge and the prize. Then again, any of the bridesmaids would be a trophy worth the effort. Anna might not have been an ideal match for Callum, but she brought that popular cheerleader energy and a matching set of friends.

The scotch spoke up again: Ocean, you ass, it's your best friend's wedding, can you keep it down for a few hours at least? The killjoy had a point. He was back in his room to find the words he'd use to wish Cal all the very best, while, of course, taking him down a peg or two as tradition dictated. Seizing opportunities was well and good but one had to observe the bro code. Don't set your mates up for failure.

The sheet was where he'd left it, folded atop the dresser, and he stuffed it into his inside jacket pocket. What else am I forgetting? He didn't want to make that trip again and give the liquor time to talk him down. The crowd and the noise were where he belonged, and he'd be damned if he'd leave the circus without claiming a prize. I should probably take a piss, he thought, feeling the urge behind several drinks working their way through his system. He gave himself half a point for multitasking.

As he was leaving, he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror and the tint of scotch that decorated his dress shirt.

"Oh come on!" he grumbled, pulling the handkerchief from his jacket and rubbing at the stain. It came out quickly enough, but the spot was now wider and wetter than he intended.

"Great," Ocean Creed complained to whatever powers were listening. "This day can't possibly get any worse."