Fifty-Three
before
She wasn’t at the wedding.
Mike and Janine said that she was invited, that she’d RSVPed yes.
Mikey was always telling Cary a little bit about Shiloh—like they were still part of some three-person team, even after all
these years.
“Shiloh got married—the wedding was a gas.”
“Shiloh is working at the children’s theater. That seems right, huh? You should call her.”
“I saw Shiloh when I was home for Christmas—she’s such a grumpy old man. She’s a grumpier old man than you, Cary, despite
being six months younger than you and a woman.”
“Shiloh has a kid now, a little girl.”
“Shiloh has two kids now. A boy, this time. I’m jealous.”
“Shiloh is so hard to get in touch with, have you heard from her?”
“Tanya Bevacqua told me that Shiloh is getting divorced. I need to call her.”
“Shiloh better come to my wedding. It’s in Omaha this time, she has no excuse. Did I tell you she’s single again?”
Cary had never told Mikey why he and Shiloh weren’t friends anymore... It would bother Mike too much. He needed everyone
to get along. He needed everyone to be happy.
Cary flew home the day of the wedding. Mikey hadn’t given him much lead time, and Cary had only been able to manage a couple
days of leave. He’d barely get to see his mom while he was back.
He wasn’t sure what he would have said to Shiloh if she’d come tonight. Maybe it would have been like their five-year reunion. They’d barely talked that day—just a few sentences when Cary first walked in and ran into Shiloh on her way to the bathroom. She’d asked him about his mother, and he’d asked her about graduate school, and that was it. If Mikey had been there, he never would have stood for it.
Shiloh had brought her husband to the reunion—some kid from the suburbs who was handsome enough to be on TV. (Probably not
movies, but definitely TV.)
Cary wanted to gouge the guy’s eyes out.
Sincerely.
He had no good thoughts. All bad urges.
He wanted to scream at Shiloh. He wanted to shove her husband into a wall.
He wanted to ask her how she could just stand there, alive and not in love with him.
How she could say what she’d said in her dorm room and then marry another man? What was the path from there to here? How could
she explain it?
Cary held a grudge.
But that was ten years ago. And it had been fourteen years since he and Shiloh were together—and they’d only been together for two days.
Cary had grown up since then. He’d fallen in love with someone else. Then watched it fall apart. He’d moved around. Moved
up. He’d made enough mistakes to recognize some patterns.
Cary had eventually stopped nursing his hurt feelings about Shiloh because he had other things to do. And now when he thought
about her, there was no more gravel and broken glass mixed in—he just missed her. He wanted to see her. When he thought about
the fact that she was divorced, his heartbeat picked up.
Mikey knew it.
When they sat down next to each other at the wedding reception, at the head table, Mikey said, “Have you seen Shy?”
“No,” Cary said, “I don’t think she’s here.” He’d scanned the church for her, and then the reception hall.
Mikey made a face like he felt sorry for Cary. “Sorry, pal. She’s still a flake.”
A lot of their other high school friends were at the reception. And Mikey was on cloud nine—he was so in love with Janine,
and they were secretly expecting; Cary was one of the only people who knew. It was still going to be a good night, and Cary
would have a full day to spend with his mom tomorrow. He had a list of action items for her.
He loosened his tie a little. He ran his fingers through his hair. He made eye contact with Shiloh.
Shiloh...
Sitting at the back of the room.
She waved.
Shiloh’s hair was long again. Long enough to pull up. In high school, it had fallen almost to her waist—it was as thick as
Cary’s wrist when she wore it in a braid.
She was wearing flowers. She was always wearing flowers. She was waving at him again.
Intellectually, Cary knew that Shiloh was not in fact the most beautiful woman in the world.
Some of the boys in high school had called her “Sasquatch” when she wasn’t around, even her friends. She was taller than most
of them. She had broader shoulders. She had wider hips.
Her skin was darker than Cary’s. Redder. But still like milk. Like pearls. Luminous. She had big brown eyes and eyebrows you
could see from the cheap seats. A wide, wild smile. Her eyeteeth were too prominent, and her bottom teeth were a wreck—you
couldn’t always see them, but when you could, it made Cary weak.
He was halfway across the ballroom before he realized what he was doing.
He was going to end up on his knees, crawling to her.