Save the Date: The Occasional Mortifications of a Serial Wedding Guest Read Online Free PDF

anywhere at this resort, not least because I knew he’d be there. We were at opposite ends of a long table and so did not talk, but our eyes met, and when they did I would quickly look away, a theme repeated throughout the meal. After dinner, the crowds quickly dispersed into their separate groups, him with his friends, me with mine, and no commingling between. It was a slight disappointment. The next day, I kept scanning the pool deck, gazing laser-eyed and keen into the waves, thinking of what I might say in case he suddenly appeared. There was no sign of him, though, and I started to doubt my initial interpretation of his look, his Facebook friending of me. Maybe he didn’t actually want to meet again at all. On the other hand, maybe I had to be patient.
    The next night, at the rehearsal dinner, he and I were seated at separate tables. I was across from two friends: Natalie and her fiancé, Luke, who she’d later marry in Connecticut. To the left of me was my newly appointed Best Wedding Friend (BWF), a man named Fred. Fred had gotten to Jamaica early as well, and in the last few days together we’d found the easy harmony of destination-wedding friendship, with all the necessary confidences shared, jokes told, drinks drunk, and our separate lives communally affirmed. We were similar enough at the same time that we were suitably dissimilar: He was gay and stylish and, a matter of key importance, he’d never beaten me in a debate competition. He lived in New York, too, and we’d promised to hang out in the city. We probably meant it.
    Fred had known Boyd from college, though they hadn’t run in the same crowd. He’d been brought up to speed, of course, on my hankering for restitution of an ancient wrong. He leaned inand reported, “He’s looking at you. Oh, oh, he’s coming in for the kill . . .”
    He was. Not for the kill, per se, but for something. It could be the kill.
What was the kill, anyway?
I turned to Fred to ask, but Boyd was already in earshot, loping toward us in khaki pants and a baby-blue golf shirt that, I wanted to mutter to Fred, only emphasized the lobster hue of his face. (Destination Wedding Tip: SPF.) He stopped, gave us a sort of leering half smile, and slapped my BWF on the back. Fred, who’d been sipping his drink, held back a cough. Boyd then turned to me. “Hello, Ms. Doll,” he said, wasting no time pretending he didn’t know exactly who I was. “I trust you’ve had a splendid evening?”
    I nodded. “Highly splendid. The most splendid.”
    “We have something to discuss,” he said. “Can I interest you in a nightcap back at my villa? As an added enticement, I have a bottle of Jamaica’s finest. And cigarettes. And—”
    My suave demeanor was toast, because despite all the plotting and planning, I’d never successfully figured out what I might say in this initial interaction. I was terrible at this, really. I would have sucked at espionage. I relied on the oldest trick in the book: postponement. “Oh, hey, there’s Lucy. I have to talk to her,” I mumbled, departing hastily and snagging a fresh glass of wine on my way to the bride, who was gazing dreamily out at the water and moonlit sky.
    “Did I just see you talking to Boyd?” she asked, snapping to attention. She had always been an excellent multitasker.
    “He invited me back to his villa,” I told her. “For a nightcap. Who says ‘nightcap’?”
    “Boyd does. Also, he told David he got that villa on purpose just in case he needed ‘extra room for guests.’” Lucy looked at me pointedly.
    “What’s he going to do, house the wedding band? He hasn’t even spoken to me since he got here!” I said.
    “Well, he just got here,” was her response. “You should give him a chance.”
    “You think?” This was not the first time I’d been given this advice. There were plenty of paired-up couples in my life who seemed to see me as a hard-hearted ballbuster who never opened up, who refused to