The Wedding Project 💍

'When The Lights Go Out' (Part Two)

The wet spot dried quickly enough, however, and back in the banquet hall Ocean fell into his usual patterns of conversation, floating between groups, always first to break away and move on. Always leave them wanting more, rule 137 addendum B perhaps, if someone bothered to write down the unspoken rules of social engagement.

Anna was still missing and Callum sat awkwardly at the head table, shifting in his seat as if the stick up his ass was rubbing against a kidney. That upstanding britfart demeanor was new too, and Ocean hoped it was just a show for the family. That phony, formal sterility emphasized Ocean's earlier concerns, that Cal was treating something important, something that would define the rest of his life, as a duty. Yes mum, yes father, my marriage shall expand our lands and ensure our right to hold our noses higher still.

Ewan understood high society well enough. He had his yacht parties, he golfed with the rich and famous, his family danced with the New York elite, but it was all part of the game. There were plenty of narcissists among the wealthy, but as a rule their pretense was a defense mechanism more than a symbol of power. The scotch asserted itself again and Ocean felt a pang of sympathy for his friend.

Sorry, my guy, the handcuffs WERE funny, and there was a time you'd have thought so too. You missed the point of it all, mate. I'm sorry.

He wandered to the head table and sat in the bride's empty seat. "How's the food, bro?" he asked, keeping his tone higher than his concern.

"You'd know if you put down your drink long enough to taste it."

Ocean raised his glass in a mock toast. "This is just my pregame."

"You're doing it wrong dear," creaked an elderly voice as Grandma Gwen joined them with a plate of exotic hors d'oeuvres. Ocean liked the old spitfire; she'd reached that age where impressing people no longer made the list of priorities. "You've got to start slow, water it down with a soda and just enough juice to get the wheels moving, then hit the gas with a couple of shots once the party starts. Afterward, you nurse the scotch to hold on to your buzz."

"That's worthy advice," Ocean acknowledged her with a sagely nod. Cal groaned softly while the two settled into a soft banter, and again when Grandma Gwen started reminiscing, once more, about his childhood. This woman was a goldmine of cringeworthy nostalgia. The scotch was entirely silent while he roared his laughter in spite of, or perhaps because of, the expressions contorting across Mr. Wallace's face.

Cal finally had enough. "Grandma," he leaned in with a stage whisper, "you're embarrassing me."

"Oh, Callum!" Grandma Gwen turned to him with an almost predatory Cheshire cat grin. "Surely you can handle a few old stories." She coughed. "I mean... it's not like..."

"Grandma?" Cal leaned in further. "Are you alright?"

She didn't answer but nodded and coughed again, patting at her chest with her free hand. The smile slipped from Ocean's face as the fork fell from her fingers. Her body went rigid. Between coughs her gasps grew weaker as she struggled to replace the air in her lungs.

"Grandma Gwen!" Ocean shouted, reaching for her, feeling his drink for the first time that night. He wasn't fast, he wasn't coordinated, and she fell to the floor unhindered. If asked, he'd never be able to say how long he stood there, horrified, while the color drained from her face and family shouted around him. The scotch took hold and drew part of his attention to the dropped fork, to the table, to the unfinished plate of food.

"Shellfish," he said softly, then with more confidence: "Shellfish! is she allergic?"

"I don't know!" Cal answered, kneeling over her and adopting the pose of a man who had no idea how to provide CPR. Another body shoved through the crowd. The priest, a quirky middle aged man who cracked jokes during the ceremony. He knelt across from Cal and felt at her neck, then loosened her neckline.