Love doesn't discriminate

Between the sinners and the saints

It takes and it takes and it takes

We keep loving anyway

We laugh and we cry and we break

And we make our mistakes

And if there's a reason I'm by her side

When so many have tried

Then I'm willing to wait for it

I'm willing to wait for it

"Wait for It", Hamilton

June 13, 2020

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is wearing an ill-fitting, off-the-shoulder black dress because it's flattering on all the other bridesmaids. Love is keeping your mouth shut when hair and makeup is an hour behind schedule. Love is using a crochet needle to thread the fifty buttons on the back of her ornate wedding dress. Love is standing through a two-hour Catholic mass at the end of a line of six gorgeous Latina women without an ounce of fat on them (and Heather). And, most importantly, love is enduring it all with a smile, reassuring her that everything is perfect, and not making the day about you in any way.

Rebecca has a nagging blister on her pinky toe by the time the ceremony finally ends and the bridal party gets whisked away for photos. Valencia and Beth's wedding is an all-day, black-tie affair at a very chic, very Hollywood renovated mansion. The bridesmaids started primping and plucking at an excruciating (for Rebecca) call time of nine o'clock. With the eight bridesmaids standing on Valencia's side and two on Beth's, the suite was transformed into a virtual pop-up salon. After hours of hairspray and bobby pins and fake eyelashes, the ladies were ushered to the ceremony in a lush garden on the grounds of the mansion. And while not in a traditional Catholic church – due to annoyingly persistent same-sex restrictions – Father Brah graciously performed the full mass to the best of his ability given the resources at hand.

Rebecca is trying to be a good friend today, really trying, so she doesn't utter a word (nor roll her eyes) as the photographer orders them around. Look at the bride! Smile bigger! Pretend you're laughing! The combination of family members and bridal party feels downright endless, and Rebecca's mouth starts to ache from all the gratuitous, performative smiling.

When all her bridesmaids duties are done and she can finally relax, Rebecca is starving, ready for a stiff drink, and about a second away from ripping off one of her layers of Spanx.

A dramatic, fairy-tale staircase with wide-set steps leads up to the mansion (just one more annoyingly long obstacle between Rebecca and freedom), and the reception is hosted in an opulent ballroom. And people say she's ostentatious.

Valencia and Beth opted for a sweetheart table for dinner, so Rebecca and Nathaniel are seated with a few of the other bridesmaids and their dates. Thankfully Heather and Hector are among them, plus Paula and Scott since Paula begged not to be seated with strangers. Nathaniel proves to be the perfect date she expected by keeping her champagne flute full throughout dinner with a steady stream of bubbly liquid gold.

The rest of the high school crew – Josh and his girlfriend, White Josh and his boyfriend, and Greg – are relegated to a table on the other side of the dance floor. Hector keeps glancing longingly at them, FOMO in his eyes, while Rebecca does the opposite, avoiding eye contact with Greg at all costs. Since she turned him down as a date, their interactions have been cordial but strained. Acting like it never happened is the best she could hope for, she supposes, but it leaves her craving resolution. Tip-toeing is not her strong suit, but she also knows her bull-in-a-china-shop approach to emotional situations backfires about ninety percent of the time.

After dinner, guests get up to mingle and refill their drinks at the bar. Hector vanishes and reappears a few minutes later across the room next to White Josh, leaving Heather and Rebecca standing together at the edge of the dance floor as they wait for the newly-weds' first dance.

The slow, bluesy song selection of Come Away With Me by Norah Jones surprises Rebecca. Against the backdrop of this showy event, their dance is quiet. No planned choreography or glitz. Just the two of them, slowly swaying with the music, whispering in each other's ears.

Valencia rests her head on Beth's shoulder, a peaceful expression on her face, and Rebecca sighs. That's all she wants, she thinks wistfully. Someone to hold her and dance with her and whisper secret jokes to her. Looking around the room at all the other couples in attendance holding hands and leaning on each other, she wonders how love can be so seemingly easy for everyone except her.

Before she sees Greg's eyes on her, she feels them. From across the dance floor, Greg is watching her, the same longing on his face she suspects is reflected on her own. Except it's aimed squarely at her and her stomach lurches in a way that's equal parts anxiety and dread.

At that moment, Nathaniel comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her collarbone, resting his chin atop her head. The gesture is so familiar – he's done it countless times in the comfort of their own apartments – that her hands automatically find their home over his forearms in a burst of muscle memory. Greg quickly breaks eye contact and refocuses on Valencia and Beth, his mouth forming into a straight, tight line. To her left, Heather raises a judgmental eyebrow.

Rebecca begins to sweat, a panicky feeling washing over her when she realizes that they've been this way in private – so comfortably tactile with each other – but maybe this level of intimacy is not acceptable for public consumption. She can only imagine what others are thinking, especially after all their adamant declarations that they are merely platonic friends.

The song finishes and Valencia and Beth passionately kiss to wild applause, which gives Rebecca an opportunity to slip out of Nathaniel's arms.

The music transitions into Superstition by Stevie Wonder and the opening funky riff makes Nathaniel's eyes go wide. He takes her hand and gently tugs her onto the dance floor.

"You know what I'm gonna say," he says, carefree and playful, "about the bass line."

"That this is what it would sound like if Marty Macaroon was actually good?" she quips.

"Basically," he laughs, flashing a toothy grin.

They're the first two dancing aside from the newly-wedded couple, so Rebecca's intention of dialing down their physical connection flies out the window almost immediately. Nathaniel takes the lead, holding both her hands loosely in his, and she follows. His upbeat energy is a stark contrast to her own exhaustion from the days activities. But his enjoyment rubs off on her and she sways her hips in unison with the beat and lets him twirl her around. What they lack in grace and polish they make up for in enthusiasm.

He's certainly in his element, she muses, all clean shaven and dapper in his tux, owning the dance floor like he was raised in a ballroom. When he claimed months ago that one of his new Nathaniel resolutions was to stop caring what others thought of him, she was highly skeptical. Erasing a lifetime of conditioning to value appearances above all else doesn't happen overnight. (She imagines his childhood like a version of The Sound of Music with his father as the Captain and Nathaniel as Frederich, probably, who wasn't allowed to sing or play in clothes made from curtains.) But he's proving her wrong, between the karaoke incident and the way he's gleaning such delight in dancing with her. Frankly, she's not sure if she's ever seen him have so much unabashed fun before.

The dance floor fills up considerably as the song progresses and throughout she can feel the side-eyeing looks from their friends. She tries her best to shake off the nerves and embrace Nathaniel's breezy the end of the song, he secures his grip around her waist and dips her, and she squeals from the sheer surprise of it. With complete trust in his hold on her, she dramatically throws her head back, her hair cascading in a waterfall behind her.

The music subtly segues into a Michael Buble cover of I've Got You Under My Skin and Nathaniel pulls her back upright out of the dip. He offers his hand to transition into a slow dance, grinning slyly at how the dip has left her breathless.

"You think you are so slick," she teases, fitting her hand into his and resting the other on his bicep.

He draws her close with his hand on her lower back. "I guess you're immune to my charms now," he says.

"Guess so," she replies with a smirk.

"I love this song."

"Yeah?"

"You know how you played the same musicals over and over again in our office? My mother did the same thing when I was a kid. Except with Frank Sinatra."

She tips her head back and he smiles fondly down at her, though maybe it's the memory of his mother giving him that distant, dreamy look.

"I wish we could dance cheek-to-cheek," she says.

"I'm not getting any shorter, so you better have a growth spurt. Maybe there's a step stool around here," he jokes, looking side-to-side as if searching for one.

Their bodies are all wrong together, she thinks, as his chin grazes her forehead. A terrible fit. She's shocked he hasn't developed a hunchback with all the time he's spent stooping over to talk to her or hug her or any other variation of piercing her personal space bubble.

And the problem certainly isn't limited to dancing. In their few weeks as a couple, missionary sex was a challenge, his head thwacking the headboard at inopportune moments. Even when they made out, the part of him she most wanted to feel was always out-of-reach, somewhere down by her thigh. In the supply closet days, stray office furniture – namely a well-placed table and a sturdy office chair – helped bridge the height gap and consequently became an integral part of their sex-making. Not to mention all the time he spent lifting her to his level, to the point that Rebecca joked he could cancel his gym membership. All in all, it was an effort to make it work. (Yet somehow, they always made it work.)

In her periphery, she spots White Josh watching them dance and it gives her that same uneasy feeling as when she caught Greg's eye earlier.

"Do you feel like people are watching us?" she asks, her fingers tightening her grip on his hand.

"Why? Because of our killer dance moves? Or maybe because I have the most gorgeous date at this wedding?"

She lets out a nervous laugh, disarmed by his quick, cavalier reply. "No. What? You think. . .is that how you think of me?"

"You should know by now that I only sleep with gorgeous women. And we slept together, what, a billion times? So, you're gorgeous times a billion," he says, effortless, with a lopsided grin.

She's been called cute too many times to count. Quirky. Sexy, sometimes, in very specific circumstances. Hot, once in a long while. But gorgeous? That's a Nathaniel word. And it comes with zero hesitation and a genuine inflection that leaves no room to question whether he means it.

Of course she thinks he's attractive. Who doesn't? Nathaniel is empirically, factually handsome. Like a sexy, buttoned-up Disney prince. But as time has passed and their proximity has become normalized, their physical attraction has tempered and transformed into something more comfortable. She no longer feels like a live wire in his presence, ready to explode at any moment. She can control her baser urges now, though there are still moments when those urges bubble up and pool, hot and viscous, in her center.

"Can I ask you something?" she blurts out, her verbal filter dwindling down to a nub under his spell. (And the champagne buzz helps.)

"Of course," he says, leaning in closer to hear her over the music.

Rebecca glances at Valencia and Beth, then verbalizes a question she's been sitting on for over a year. No more appropriate place than a wedding, she supposes. "Did you really buy me an engagement ring? After our date?"

Nathaniel straightens up and looks away, ruffled by the question, and she immediately regrets her selfish curiosity.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up."

He shakes his head. "No, I just. . .I haven't thought about that in a long time."

"You don't have to explain –"

"I did. I did do that. It was impulsive and I was overconfident. And stupid. So stupid. What was I thinking?"

She hates this. Witnessing Nathaniel beat himself up, up close, in real time. And for what? Sure, it was jumping the gun in a big way. But all he did was love her with the passion she always thought she wanted.

"I still have it," he says with a clipped chuckle, a rueful smile playing on his lips, "I locked it in my safe before I left for Guatemala."

He lifts his chin, avoiding eye contact, which is easy when he's a full head taller. Her heart's breaking for him, and it stings even worse than it did a year ago. Because now she knows him, really knows him. It's beyond knowing how to push his buttons and where to find his pleasure centers and that he has issues with his father. All of that seems so surface level now. He's shown her so much more – his hopes and fears and insecurities – trusting her as a friend, his best friend. He's trying to hide the pain from her, the pain she caused, and all she wants to do is soothe it away.

"Hey," she says, straining her neck to catch his attention.

He sighs and swallows hard, pinching his lips tightly together before finally meeting her eyes.

"I'm sorry I hurt you while I was trying to find myself," she murmurs. She moves her hand from his arm to the back of his neck and rubs her fingers through his hair. "I mean that. OK?"

He nods sharply and lets out a hefty exhale.

His expression, so soft and vulnerable and naked, brings her back to the holding cell almost two years ago, when he palmed her face in both his hands, his fingers all twisted up in her hair, and whispered, "I'm so in love with you. You have no idea how much. We're in this together now. You and me. I'm not going to let you go to jail. I'll do anything. Whatever it takes."

The memory makes her breath catch in her throat. She closes her eyes, trying to ground herself by focusing on the sound of the music, the familiar smell of his teakwood cologne, the comforting lull of his thumb tracing circles on her lower back. Though they're surrounded by people, the rest of the world falls away. By some irresistible magnetic pull, they drift closer and closer together as they dance until their noses are almost brushing.

When she opens her eyes he's gazing down at her with an intimacy and intensity she's seen in his eyes before.

It would be so easy.

"Rebecca?"

Rebecca sucks in a quick breath, startled, and jerks away from Nathaniel.

"Sorry to interrupt," Greg says, totally interrupting, "but can I talk to you?"

Rebecca glances at Nathaniel and he appears just as rattled as she, his mouth parted and eyebrows raised.

"Just for a minute," Greg adds, his eyes darting between them.

"Sure," she says, taking a deep breath, trying to will her heartbeat to slow down. She gives Nathaniel an apologetic look and follows Greg off the dance floor and into the next room.

The adjacent room houses the bar and, thus, a smattering of wedding guests who are taking a break from dancing. Among them are Heather and Hector, who are sipping cocktails at a high-top table. When they notice Rebecca and Greg enter the room together, they exchange glances. Hector fidgets uncomfortably, but Heather seems keenly interested and sips loudly through her straw with raised eyebrows. "Just pretend we're talking," she whispers to Hector.

Greg comes to a stop a couple feet away from the table and Rebecca wrings her hands together, bracing herself for impact. But he surprises her, saying without an ounce of angst, "I just want to clear the air. Finally have a little post-mortem on the me asking you out and you saying no."

"OK," she replies hesitantly, wondering why he's so strangely calm about the whole thing.

"You could have just told me you were dating Nathaniel. I don't know why you didn't."

Oh. Oh boy.

He goes on, a hint of passive-aggressive snark in his voice, "I get it. He came back and swooped in at just the right time and you chose him. You snooze you lose, I guess."

She squints. What is he trying to say? That they aren't dating simply due to someone else showing up at the right place and time? That her rejection is merely circumstantial?

Social subtleties are hard for her to parse and she thinks about what Nathaniel has told her a thousand times, as if he's a little angel (or devil) on her shoulder. This is not black-and-white, Rebecca. Her mind drifts back to their encounter with Mona. What is the kind thing to do in this situation? But Greg isn't Mona. He isn't someone she'll see once in a blue moon at a department store. He's a friend. And if she's not honest now, the truth will come out eventually.

She pinches the bridge of her nose and says, "Oh god, Greg. Um, we're not dating. We're just friends."

Greg flinches and rubs his temple. "Sorry, can you repeat that?"

She sighs, resigned, her arms going limp out in front of her, "We're not. . .we're not together."

A few feet away, Heather has stopped pretending to talk to Hector and her eyes, wide with interest, ping-pong back and forth between Rebecca and Greg.

Greg's eyebrows squish together and he turns his back to her for a moment, collecting his thoughts. When he turns back, he says, "Sorry, but you looked very much together from where I was sitting."

"I know. I know it's weird. It's. . .that's just how we are."

Greg scoffs. "So let me get this straight. You didn't want to come with me, the guy who actually wants to date you and who's been respecting your explicitly-stated wishes to give you space for over a year. Instead, you bring a supposed "friend" who happened to pounce at the opportune moment. And Nathaniel, of all people. Mr. Golden Boy. Then, you decide to rub salt in the wound by groping each other all night. Don't you ever stop and think about anyone else's feelings?" he says, his voice full of disdain, taking particular relish in his use of air quotes.

Neither of them had noticed Nathaniel enter the room, but suddenly he's at Rebecca's side.

"What's going on?" he asks with hesitation.

Annoyed by the perceived intrusion, Greg holds up a hand to him. "This isn't about you. This is a conversation between me and Rebecca."

"Funny, because I swear I heard my name a second ago."

"Oh shit," Heather mutters under her breath. Hector pokes her with his elbow.

"Anything you want to say, you can say in front of him," Rebecca says in a small display of defiance.

Greg bites his lip, not hiding his irritation.

"Fine," he says after a prolonged beat. "Here's what I want to say. On Valentine's Day, when you said you were ready for love, I thought you were talking about us," he says, his tone softening, speaking directly to her and avoiding Nathaniel's eyes. "After all this wait, I thought it was finally our time to be together."

"You said you weren't going to wait for me," she says in a low voice while she stares at the carpet.

"To be honest, I hoped the prospect of losing me would make you change your mind," he admits, his eyes pleading for her understanding. "I thought you'd fight for us. And when you didn't, I assumed that eventually you would come around and we would get back together. Everyone did. I've been waiting a long time for you to be ready for a real relationship. Not just this past year but even before that. And now we barely talk. It's like I don't even understand you anymore."

She nods, slow and measured. Then, the air around her shifts and she crosses her arms over her chest and huffs. "So you lied. You lied to me," she states, matter-of-fact.

"Not exactly," he says, putting a staccato pause between the two words, "I let you go, which was what you wanted."

Rebecca's breathing quickens and hot adrenaline starts to course through her veins. "No, you know what, this is bullshit," she blurts out.

Heather sucks in a breath.

"What you're saying is that I owe you a relationship because you waited for me, even though I told you not to?" she says, her voice rising with anger, "You're saying you put in your time so I'm obligated to date you now?"

"Obligated?" he repeats.

"And when was this magical time when you understood me? Was it when you walked out on me in the middle of an argument when I was feeling vulnerable? You know you always act all high-and-mighty, like you're this nice guy but really –"

Just as she's about to fully unleash on Greg, Nathaniel rests a warm hand on her bare upper back. At his touch, she immediately stops speaking. She looks up at him and his face is drawn, serious, and he gives her the tiniest shake of his head.

She takes a deep breath and counts to five in her head. He's right. She knows he's right.

Greg's eyes narrow as he watches their wordless exchange.

When she speaks again, she's much more calm and composed. "I just don't think we should be together. I don't think we're right for each other."

"Not right for each other," he repeats, bitterness oozing from his voice. "You know, maybe you're right. Because you two are perfect for each other, aren't you?"

Heather winces.

"Quite the Prince Charming you've got here," he says sarcastically, gesturing to Nathaniel. "This guy threatened Josh's family. Propositioned you in an elevator when you were engaged to someone else. Fired you. Cheated on his girlfriend with you for months."

Nathaniel's hand remains steady and reassuring on her back, rising and falling in tandem with her every breath. He doesn't flinch or waver or try to defend himself. He simply takes the criticism, unmoving.

"And you're no better, Rebecca," Greg barrels on, "Every time we have a disagreement, you run straight to alcohol. Which is great for a recovering alcoholic. Real sensitive. And is there anyone you haven't tried to sleep with while you were supposed to be with me? Have you ever had a relationship that didn't involve massive amounts of cheating?"

For a tense beat, Greg and Rebecca stare at each other and a familiar glimmer of remorse reflects back in his eyes. Getting a taste of her own medicine hurts, even if she can tell he'll regret it later. She worries her lower lip with her teeth and her shoulders slump, though she says nothing.

Greg's anger seems to temper then, seeing her deflate in front of his eyes. His voice turns softer, more resigned. "And, you know what, you had sex with my dad. You did. You did that. And I thought I was mature and evolved and I could move past it, but. . .it'll always be there, looming in the back of my mind. I'm sorry."

Her eyes begin to fill with tears, at a complete loss for words. What could she possibly say? It's true. All of it.

She's not even sure what he's looking for. An apology? She's done that so many times before. Does he want an emotional reaction? To see her suffer for her sins? Does he want her to fight for them? To say he's wrong and she's changed and things are going to be different now?

No matter what he wants, she's not prepared to give it and she's too exhausted to try to read his mind.

"I guess it's good then," she says, her voice cracking, "That we're not going to be together."

She blinks the tears away the best she can and flees from the room, heading to the door.

Fight and/or flight. Usually in that order.

Except this time she didn't lash out when cornered. Baby steps.

Rebecca hears Heather say, "Dude, not cool," as she storms out.

She's a sad, twisted version of Cinderella, leaving the lavish lobby in a flurry and spilling out the front entrance. And the long staircase is as treacherous as the fairy tale. Somehow it seems twice as long as it did earlier in the day and more difficult to navigate in the partial darkness. The soft glow of the twinkle lighting on the bannisters creates a romantic ambiance she wishes she could fully appreciate in this moment of turmoil.

Afraid of tripping and creating even more of a disastrous scene, she pulls up the front of her dress and ambles down the stairs as carefully as she can. About a quarter of the way down, one of her shoes slips off and her inertia pitches her forward a few more steps before she can stop herself. With a groan, she surrenders herself to the moment and plops her butt down on the step. Fuck it. She's going to lose it, right here, right now, in this romantic mood lighting, on the steps of this beautiful mansion.

She covers her face with her hands and takes a few long, deep breaths. The day had gone so well up until this point. She concentrated all her energy on supporting Valencia and being the friend she needed on her wedding day. Maybe she can't make up for all the times in the past she was too self-absorbed to be a good friend, but she was really trying. Of course something had to happen to ruin it.

From the top of the staircase, a click-clack of shoes descends down the staircase at a quicker clip than someone burdened with high heels. The noise stops behind her and she knows it's Nathaniel without even looking.

"I know what you're going to say," she sighs.

Nathaniel walks down a few more steps until he's in front of her, holding her lost shoe in his hand.

"You're going to say," she goes on, "that I don't owe Greg anything. I don't owe him a relationship or sex just because he waited. It doesn't work that way. You don't put in time or nice gestures and automatically get rewarded with a relationship."

He raises an eyebrow but says nothing in return.

"And you're going to say that I shouldn't beat myself up for things that happened in the past. I'm a different person now. And I can't change my past mistakes, I can only move forward. And you know me and think I'm a good person. Blah blah blah."

He tilts his head to the side, opens his mouth and then closes it.

"And you're going to say that I did the right thing not lashing out, even though I really, really wanted to."

Finally, he speaks, giving her a tiny shrug. "I was just going to ask if you wanted to finish our dance."

She laughs, breathy and disbelieving, "Our dance?"

He squats and palms her ankle, sliding her high heel onto her bare foot. Then he takes both her hands and helps her to her feet.

"Stay right there," he says, wrapping one arm around her waist and taking her hand in his. With her a step higher, their height is almost equalized. He sways back and forth and cozies his cheek against hers. "See, now we can dance cheek-to-cheek," he murmurs.

She smiles and presses her cheek to his, following his shallow steps back and forth.

"Greg hates me," she whispers, her voice choking up.

"No, he doesn't. The opposite of love isn't hate. It's indifference."

Rebecca pulls back and shoots him an incredulous look. "What, did Doctor Plátanos teach you that?"

"He's a wise monkey," he says with a laugh, "No, actually I read that in a book once."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying he's upset because he cares. You care about each other."

She sighs and closes her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder and letting out a huge exhale.

"That's it. Just breathe. Everything's gonna be OK," he whispers, firming up his arm around her waist.

"There's no music," she mumbles into his jacket.

"Well, I can fix that," he says. He clears his throat and then begins to sing quietly in a slower adagio than the song's usual tempo, "I've got you under my skin. I've got you deep in the heart of me."

She smiles against his shoulder and nuzzles into the crook of his neck. The rhythmic beat of his heart under her ear and his soothing voice are all she needs in this moment. It's like coming home. Her soft place to land.

"So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me. I've got you under my skin," he croons, his voice bottoming out on the lowest note.

It's funny, she thinks. When their relationship was romantic, every time they came together it was fireworks and explosions. Like every time he touched her she was on fire, always on the verge of spreading out-of-control. Their touch was searching, needing, aching with a want that could never truly be quenched. But now when he holds her, she feels safe. Protected. Supported. Loved is a word she doesn't want to use, but it's there, lurking in the background, threatening the balance.

"I tried so not to give in. I said to myself this affair never will go so well. But why should I try to resist when, baby, I know so well. I've got you under my skin."

She lifts her head, returning her cheek to his and wraps both arms around his shoulders, drawing him even closer. His free hand joins the other around her lower back. The classic junior high dance pose, she thinks with semi-fond remembrance.

When she looks up over his shoulder, she sees Paula standing a few steps away, concern in her eyes. Maybe Heather told her about the argument and went looking for her. Rebecca gives her a subtle, reassuring smile. Everything's OK, mama. Paula returns her smile, the corners of her mouth quirking up knowingly. This will be a conversation for another day, she's sure.

"I'd sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near. In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night and repeats, repeats in my ear. Don't you know, you fool, you never can win. Use your mentality. Wake up to reality. But each time I do just the thought of you makes me stop before I begin. Cause I've got you under my skin."

He trails off but continues to rock them slowly back and forth. When he pulls away to look into her eyes, the angle is disarming. She's rarely able to regard him this way, with their eyes parallel, bearing witness to every small flicker of emotion in his eyes.

He wets his lips with his tongue and her eyes droop, following the motion.

"I've been thinking," he says, his voice low and scratchy.

"What?" she breathes. Her heart starts to pound.

"Remember when I said I think we're meant to be together?"

Her stomach drops and her heartbeat crescendos until she can feel it ringing up to her ears.

"I do."

"Maybe I was right all along."

She searches his eyes, wondering if he's saying what she thinks he's saying. A hot flush burns her cheeks and she squeaks out, "Yeah?"

"Maybe we're meant to be together, but like this. As friends."

She exhales sharply, breaking eye contact. The champagne must have gone to her head. The romantic lighting, his singing, and his strong arms around her. . .she must have been swept up in the moment. She shakes her head, trying to get her wits about her.

"Yeah," she says, "Of course. As friends. Maybe you're right." She loosens her arms around his shoulders, putting some distance between them. She swallows hard and says, "Thank you for being my date tonight. You really showed up for me. With Greg. Thank you."

"I didn't do anything."

"Yeah you did. You were there. You stood by me."

"You're welcome then," he says, smiling warmly.

"So," she exhales, "ready to go back in and cut a rug? As a bridesmaid I have an obligation to ride out this party until the very end. Oh! I can teach you how to body roll."

"I'd like to see you try," he jokes, offering her elbow to guide her back up the stairs.

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is wearing a stiff tux through a Catholic mass in ninety-degree Los Angeles summer heat. Love is dancing like only she's watching. Love is fishing bobby pins out of her hair because she's too tipsy to find them all. Love is tucking her in and leaving, even when something deep inside you screams for you to stay. And most importantly, love is enduring it all with a smile, for her, and expecting nothing in return.