He's sitting by himself, not drinking half a glass of champagne, gazing out into the middle distance. He's smiling, sort of, but it's sad, wistful, although mixed up with pleasure and a kind of pride. She knows from the expression what – who – he's gazing at. She could ignore it, she supposes, but she tortures herself by turning her head and following the direction of his eyes.
And of course, he's gazing at Callie.
She has a moment of rage. A moment of My lover! My wedding! and, unexpectedly, unreasonably for the most part You pretended to be my friend! A moment when she almost storms over and hurls the sperm donor insult at him again with as much force as she can possibly manage.
But it subsides. Because it hits her, he's the picture of circumspection. This crass insensitive ass with the maturity of a three year old and the libido of a stud bull is actually being subtle, holding back, recognizing a reality that doesn't contain him. All he's doing is gazing at someone who is not in the least gazing back at him and, for a second, her heart does a little lurch on his behalf.
"You love her." She sits down at his table.
"Well, yeah. She's my family. She's the mother of –"
"You love her."
"Arizona," he arranges his smirk, "if I loved her, we wouldn't be doing this." He waves a hand around the wedding reception. "Trust me. I broke up my childhood best friend's marriage, so . . ." His words trail off, silently acknowledging the truth.
"Thank you," she says softly, "for not getting in the way."
"She wanted you. You make her happy. Anyway," he inhales, closes the subject, adding, "I'm in love with Lexie," as his eyes take one last reflexive look towards Callie.