15
THE SPEECHES ARE over. Mine went well. I think. I got a decent amount of laughs, and I saw Bobbi wiping a tear during my emotional section at the end. When I first stood up, I thought about my hands, and my eyes met Mac’s and I swear he could tell what I was thinking, and he winked at me, which should have been off-putting—I am not usually pro-wink—but Mac’s wink was confident, quick, sexy. It matches his voice, somehow.
Joel’s speech was fine. He had practised it to within an inch of its life, I could tell, but it was heartfelt, if a bit stilted. Bobbi’s speech was very sweet but far too long. Hayley’s father’s speech went off track from the very beginning and he never course-corrected, and he made a joke about the Spreadsheet that didn’t land. Luke’s father laughed at his own jokes well before he got to the punchlines. Overall, there were no disasters. The buttons, the speeches, the ceremony—all the hard bits are done.
Now there’s just one more hurdle. A moment I have only just realised I am dreading. At every wedding I’ve been to, after the bride and groom do their first dance, the DJ or MC then welcomes other couples onto the dancefloor to join them. And as I watch Hayley and Luke dance, I realise that is what is about to happen here, and I feel intensely aware that I am not part of a couple. Which is fine, I can wait for the initial first moment of couples dancing to end and then the dancefloor will break up into informal groups. It’s just the idea of Joel standing up and walking out there to dance with someone else, while I remain seated, that I need to mentally prepare for—that little heart skip of pain.
The song ends, and there it is, the DJ welcoming other couples onto the dancefloor. I can see Joel and Bianca standing up together, my parents holding hands as they walk that way, Jean following Bobbi.
I weave my way through tables, heading out of the marquee altogether. I’ll get some fresh air outside until the dance is over, then I’ll join Hayley on the dancefloor. I see Mac on my way out, standing near the bar. I have been avoiding being alone with him most of the day, although I can’t even pinpoint why.
That’s a lie. I know why. What if I throw myself at him again? I can’t risk my mouth being in the vicinity of his. I can’t risk hearing that voice. There’s a limit to my desire. I have dignity.
He reaches out and touches my arm as I walk past him.
‘Hey,’ he says.
I pause.
‘Dance?’ he asks. He’s smiling in a way where his eyes are crinkling at the corners, and even this little detail I find irresistible.
‘You don’t need to dance with me,’ I say. I am assuming he’s standing all the way back here because dancing isn’t something he enjoys.
He takes my hand, and tugs me gently towards him. ‘I’m a good dancer,’ he says. ‘Trust me.’
I hesitate for a moment, and then I walk with him onto the dancefloor.
I expect him to be joking and to be actually a terrible dancer, but he holds me with ease, skilfully directing us around the floor.
‘You really are good at this,’ I say.
‘Did you think I was lying?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say, laughing a little.
He grins at me. Those crinkling eyes again. ‘I had to do some ballroom dance training, for a role once.’
‘Well, I’m impressed.’
‘People always are.’
‘Ohhhh. Dancing is one of your moves then?’
‘My moves?’
‘Like, a move you would pull out at a wedding to charm an unsuspecting woman.’
‘Like the celebrant? Where is she anyway?’ He pretends to look around.
‘She left after the ceremony.’
‘That’s a shame.’ He smiles at me. ‘If I was going to make a move while dancing, I would probably dip you a little bit.’
‘I hate being dipped.’
‘Who hates being dipped?’
‘Dipping is too showy. And it comes with a risk of being dropped.’
He laughs. ‘Okay, what if I spin you?’
‘Spins are acceptable.’
He twirls me under his arm, once, twice. It’s so seductive, to be the object of this attention, I can feel myself being swept away. I’m trying to remind myself that these are the emotions of being in a wedding party, of wearing a glamorous dress and having my hair professionally done and fake eyelashes being glued to my eyelids and being on a dancefloor with a handsome man—there are a million reasons why what I am feeling is not real.
As the song goes on, we are getting closer and closer, and my arms are around his neck now. We are smiling at each other. Over Mac’s shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Hayley watching us and then, behind her, Patrick with his camera pointed our way.
Right. Patrick. I am focused on Patrick.
‘Did your mothers get a new place sorted?’ Mac asks me.
‘Yes, they did.’
‘So which one of us gets the good bed tonight?’
The question feels loaded.
‘Rock, paper, scissors?’ I suggest.
‘Sure.’
I choose rock, I always choose rock, there is probably something psychological there, and he holds out an open hand, paper. He looks at me, and closes his hand gently over my fist.
‘I win.’
He holds it there, and for some reason, it makes me almost want to cry.
‘The bed is yours,’ I say.
‘You should take it,’ he says.
‘No, you have it.’
The song has ended, and I step back from him.
‘That was a really nice dance, thank you,’ I say, my voice more formal than I want it to be but, also, I am hoping he understands everything I am trying to convey. I can’t let myself fall for you .