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As Neil wrestles the overflowing luggage cart down the marbled hallway, he thinks to himself that nobody in their right mind should pack this many belongings for a mere weekend getaway.
The two guests he’s assisting barely give him a second glance, lost in their own incessant chatter. Between them, they have five suitcases and two bloated duffel bags, not to mention the purses slung over their shoulders. Compared to their mountain of luggage, Neil’s whole life can easily fit into two suitcases—maybe even one, if he really puts his Tetris skills to use.
Neil can feel the beginnings of a headache forming right in the center of his frontal lobe, made worse by the overpowering perfume clogging up his sinuses. The end of his shift can’t come soon enough.
“I can’t believe the wedding is tomorrow!” the taller girl says, a bounce in her step, and Neil’s ears perk up immediately.
“Oh, I know!” The shorter girl smacks a piece of gum between glossed lips. “There’s a rumor they went all out.”
All out, huh?
“Of course they did. They have that doctor money.”
A fresh wave of giggles erupts between them. “Looks like breaking their backs to pay off all that student debt was worth it.”
“I heard the wedding cake has five tiers, and they found a Michelin-star caterer.”
The yapping doesn’t cease until they reach their assigned hotel room, where they finally seem to remember Neil’s existence. They drift to the side, observing with idle curiosity as Neil hefts their heavy bags from the cart to the carpeted floor.
“Wow, you’re strong,” the taller girl says, twirling a lock of hair around a manicured finger, clearly flirting.
It’s never really been Neil’s thing, manners and social niceties, and he isn’t interested, but he can use this to his advantage. So he dips his head a little in acknowledgment and lets the corners of his mouth turn up into something approximating a smile rather than a grimace.
“It’s all part of the job, Miss…”
The hair twirling intensifies. “You can call me Marissa.”
Neil will absolutely not be doing that.
“I heard you two talking about a wedding?” he asks, unloading the final bag. “Sounds fun.”
“Oh, yes! It’s tomorrow evening at Brookgreen Gardens. It’s a gorgeous botanical garden.”
“Sounds amazing. Is it a pretty big wedding?”
“I’d say so.” Marissa steps uncomfortably closer, and Neil holds the duffel against his chest like a shield before setting it on the counter. “The bride and groom invited a ton of friends from undergrad and med school. And the bride has a lot of extended family.”
Perfect. Bigger weddings make it easier to blend in.
“I hope you two have a wonderful time. Can I assist with anything else?”
They shake their heads, offering Neil their thanks and a surprisingly generous tip. Marissa, however, keeps her eyes on Neil, batting her lashes with an intensity that makes Neil wonder if she’s got a rogue lash or if she’s attempting some sort of Morse code with her eyes. He pretends he doesn’t notice and wheels the empty cart out, letting the door click shut behind him.
In the hall, he gives the air a victorious little punch. Looks like he’ll have dinner covered for tomorrow.
*
Neil doesn’t exactly love his job.
Yes, he works at a respectable upscale hotel. His manager is kind, his uniform isn’t uncomfortable, and his hours are reasonable. It’s a pretty alright gig, all things considered. But as a bellhop, his paycheck is less than stellar, and even though he makes a decent amount in tips, most of it goes toward rent. At the end of the day, he barely has enough for groceries.
But there is one hidden perk of this job that Neil had unearthed on his own, a serendipitous discovery: the hotel’s proximity to several luxurious wedding venues.
It started as a crime of opportunity, really.
The first time, Neil had been stationed by the lobby doors when he overheard a sweet old lady prattling on about her grandson’s wedding at a nearby country club, a mere mile from the hotel. Neil had just used the last of his paycheck on an unexpected car repair expense; his piece of shit Volkswagen had finally breathed its last, and he’d been living off microwave ramen for the past few weeks.
In a moment of spontaneity and desperation, he’d detoured past the country club after clocking out of his shift, praying the button-down and black slacks of his uniform would let him pass as a wedding guest.
An opportunity arose, and Neil would’ve been a fool not to take it.
It seemed luck was on his side. By the time he snuck in, most guests were too drunk to notice an intruder in their midst. The open bar had done its job, and no one spared him a glance as he helped himself to a plate of steak and buttery scalloped potatoes. Before speeches even began, he had already made his great escape, returning to his shitty apartment with a full belly and a few napkin-wrapped desserts tucked into his pockets.
At this point, Neil has crashed a total of five weddings, and he’s yet to be caught.
Neil is used to blending in, knows how to slip away into the shadows—the perks of growing up with a father whose favorite pastime was pummeling his son to the ground at any given moment.
But of course, not every wedding has been that easy. Sometimes, he has to feign small talk with some chatty grandparent or wine-drunk aunt. But Neil is good at lying; it’s always been his first instinct. He’s good at diversions, at turning the conversation away from himself, at forcing his lips into the shape of a cordial smile.
Now, as Neil makes his way back to the front desk, he figures that tomorrow’s wedding should be a relatively easy score.
And if it’s as luxurious as it sounds, he’ll be eating well.
*
Neil infiltrates Brookgreen Gardens as dinner is being served, banking on cocktail hour leaving most guests sufficiently tipsy.
He’s dressed in a suit he’d bought years prior—a thrift store find for his uncle’s funeral. The sole of his left dress shoe had started to peel and had to be emergency super-glued together, but it seems to be holding up just fine now.
The venue is gorgeous, classy, with string lights weaving through the canopies of ancient trees. At the front entrance is a sign in elegant cursive, reading, “Welcome to the Wedding of Katelyn and Aaron!”
With practiced ease, he slips past the guests seated in the courtyard, and he’s nearly made it to his destination when a voice stops him, cutting through the clinking of silverware.
“Can I help you?”
Neil turns to find a woman with a clipboard tucked under her arm, a frown on her lips. The wedding planner, Neil guesses, and he doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m with catering. We have a guest who forgot to mention a dietary restriction. I’m just switching out her steak option with chicken.”
The lie comes easily. Neil’s suit closely resembles the uniforms of the catering team, and the wedding planner doesn’t question it, scowl softening as she steps aside to let him pass.
“Thanks,” Neil says and slips into the controlled chaos of the kitchen, surreptitiously swiping a plate of roasted chicken, au gratin potatoes, and broccolini. He settles behind a hidden alcove and digs in.
Across the courtyard, he spies the sweetheart table, nestled beneath a gazebo draped in pale pink lilies and a smattering of fairy lights. The newlyweds are seated close together, their shoulders grazing with every movement, and they look so nauseatingly in love, Neil nearly loses a bit of his appetite.
He gives the crowd a quick scan, brows ticking up when he spots the girl who’d flirted with him at the hotel in the bridesmaid lineup. He’s sure as hell going to keep his distance.
Speeches kick off as Neil crouches over his plate like a bridge troll, scraping the last of the potatoes onto his fork. All eyes turn to the front, leaving the back blissfully ignored, and he steals another entrée when everyone is distracted—steak, this time—tucking in before the maid of honor has even finished her speech.
When the best man steps up to the mic, Neil does a double-take, nearly sending the porcelain tumbling off his lap, because the best man is a carbon copy of the groom. Neil blinks, and it takes a few embarrassing seconds of staring for it to click that they’re twins.
Neil is too busy scarfing down the stolen meal to catch much of the speech, but it’s the shortest one of the evening. Quick but emphatic, clearly full of heart and heavy with history. From his perch, Neil watches the groom’s face soften, notices how the bride’s eyes are rapidly filling with tears.
A curious smile appears on Neil’s lips as the groom stands, tugging lightly at his twin’s sleeve before pulling him into a hug. The best man goes rigid for a heartbeat, hands hovering awkwardly in the air before he finally caves, wrapping his brother in a tight grip.
It’s sweet, even Neil can admit that much as his mouth curves around a forkful of steak.
Everything seems to be going well so far. At this rate, Neil thinks he might just stay for cake.
*
The dance floor is a neon-lit muddle of inebriated dancers by the time Neil starts eyeing the wedding cake in the corner.
“Classic vanilla with semi-sweet buttercream,” an old man tells Neil, appearing at his elbow like an apparition, and Neil nearly jumps straight into the air like a cat.
Normally, he hightails it out of the festivities after dinner, but the five-tier cake had looked especially appealing. Besides, he’s blended in for this long, and no one has questioned his presence or demanded to see his non-existent invitation yet. Maybe, just maybe, he can stay for a little bit longer.
Perhaps he’s pushed his luck.
Neil clocks the eyes on him before he can even locate the culprit.
Currently, Neil is hidden in the shadows of a corner table. No one, for all intents and purposes, should be paying any attention to him at all. But he feels it, someone’s absolute concentration on him, hypersensitive against the side of his face. It immediately makes his palms sweat.
Shifting, Neil tries to act unbothered as his head swivels on his neck, searching for the source of that stare, and—
There.
Neil’s eyes land on a pair of golden irises staring back at him from a few feet away by the open bar, and he nearly swallows his tongue in surprise.
Intense, is Neil’s first thought. The man’s face is a blank slate, but his gaze is sharp and shrewd, like overbright spotlights locking on a target; it’s vaguely startling to look at, especially when those eyes are trained directly on Neil. Jarring, Neil blinks once, then twice, taking in the purple and pink strobe lights reflecting off pale skin, the head of blond hair, and fuck.
The groom has spotted him.
Wait, no.
Neil squints, recalibrating. That’s not the groom. It’s the best man, and shit, fuck, he’s walking towards Neil, his strides sure, his steps quick.
Neil’s spent his entire life observing facial expressions—the micro-twitches of a lip, the tightening of a brow, the unconscious ticks. He had to, with the way he grew up, and right now, the best man’s expression is subtle. But still, Neil can read it clearly.
He’s been made.
Slowly, Neil stands, backing towards the exit, planning his getaway, attempting to keep up his act of nonchalance. He pretends to check his phone as he pushes through the ornate double doors in the back, acting like he’s simply meandering the halls in search of the restroom.
The doors thud open and shut behind him, and a flash of blond shows up in Neil’s periphery. Goddamnit. Neil’s hands are so sweaty they feel close to dripping, and he subtly increases his speed. No doubt, the best man is tailing him like a hawk.
The footsteps behind him grow louder, quicker, confrontational, and Neil drops the act completely. He bolts.
The best man follows.
Neil sprints down the hall, skidding around a corner like a Looney Tunes character, his dress shoes squeaking on the polished floor. He hears footsteps pounding behind him, echoing off the ceilings. Neil runs past the bathrooms, pretense thrown out the window, twisting down a flight of stairs two steps at a time.
Neil is fast, but the best man is relentless, on Neil like a man on a mission.
A mission to catch Neil’s trespassing ass.
Unfortunately for Neil, the bottom of his superglued shoe chooses that moment to betray him, and he quite literally trips over his own two feet. He feels himself go down, flailing as he tries to hold onto anything that isn’t a flat wall to keep himself from face-planting onto the ground.
Someone grabs onto him before his palms can hit the floor. Neil snaps his eyes open, jerking his head back to see what the hell happened. The best man is holding Neil by the back of his suit, a strong grip against the starchy collar, like he’s scruffing a particularly disobedient cat.
“Um,” Neil says. It comes out embarrassingly like a squeak. The best man gently lowers Neil to the floor, then abruptly lets go, and Neil crashes onto his hands and knees. “Ow, fuck.”
The best man is blocking the hallway, casually rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, exposing thick arms and crooked knuckles, and well, Neil really doesn’t want to get on his bad side. Too bad he’s probably already there. The man doesn’t speak, and neither does Neil. They continue staring at each other, a real standoff.
Hazel eyes track Neil on the floor, making the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Neil channels all of his energy into looking incredibly unbothered, like getting caught crashing a wedding by the groom’s twin-slash-best man was all part of his grand plan.
The other man breaks the silence first. “Who are you?”
Stubbornly, Neil keeps his ass planted on the ground while he racks his brain for the bride’s name. Kate? Kathryn? Katie? Oh, right—“I’m Katelyn’s cousin.”
The best man tilts his head, observes Neil, and says, “No, try again.”
Fuck.
It’s clear that Neil's cover, which was the only thing tethering him to his nebulous attempt at courtesy, has been blown. Irritation washes over him, and he shoots the man a glare. “What do you mean, try again? I’m Katelyn’s cousin.”
“No, you are not. I have the guest list memorized.”
Neil’s mouth falls open. He spends a few seconds resembling a landed trout before his brain seemingly restarts. “There’s no way you have it all memorized.”
“I do, and I would remember if one of Katelyn’s relatives looked like…” The man pauses and leans back, dragging his gaze up and down the length of Neil’s body before waving a finger in the general direction of Neil’s face. “...that. So try again.”
Neil bristles. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Figure it out.”
The best man sounds bored, but there’s an underlying threat in his tone. Neil tracks the line of his shoulders, takes in his broad frame. This guy can definitely knock Neil out with a punch if he decides Neil is trouble.
He sighs. “Okay, fine. I crashed the wedding.” A golden brow hitches upwards, silver piercing catching on the bright lights of the chandelier overhead. “I wasn’t trying to cause any trouble. I’m in between paychecks right now, and I just wanted a nice meal. And maybe some cake.”
The best man crosses his arms, staring at Neil for what feels like much longer than what’s socially acceptable, and Neil shifts, uncomfortable. If there were any justice in the universe, the floor would open up and swallow Neil whole.
With a slow nod, the man straightens. “Come. And act normal.”
Neil’s brain short-circuits because what? “What?”
The man shoots Neil a look that screams, are you stupid? And Neil might be, because there’s no way he’s being invited back to the wedding. The wedding he just got caught crashing. Right?
A few years ago, this would’ve triggered an automatic sense of suspicion in Neil, but something about this guy makes Neil lower his guard. Maybe it’s the way he’s willing to chase a stranger out of his brother’s wedding, or simply the way he holds himself, a sort of effortless confidence that Neil has always envied in people.
A feeling of awkwardness pervades Neil. Then again, he’s never been the best at social situations.
When Neil doesn’t move, the man loses his patience. He reaches out once again, snagging the back of Neil’s suit jacket. Confused, Neil hangs limp, letting himself be hauled up a few inches until the fabric pinches under his armpits. He scrambles to get his legs under him, swatting the man’s hands away as he finds his footing.
“I can stand on my own,” he snaps.
The best man’s mouth twitches, a barely there expression. “Do you want cake or not?”
And honestly, yeah. Neil really does want cake.
Without another word, the best man turns on his heels and stalks back towards the stairs. Neil, pacified with the promise of free cake, follows.
*
The best man steers them back to the reception, making a tactical detour past the dessert table to snag two plates of cake. He shoves one towards Neil, pressing it into his hands.
“Why the hell are you holding it like that?” the best man says, because Neil is clutching the plate of cake close to his chest like some sort of cat burglar.
“Oh, um, habit,” Neil mutters, straightening. “Normally, I’m shoplifting the catering. No one ever actually offered me a plate before.”
“You’re a disaster.”
“Really, I haven’t noticed,” Neil says dryly.
They retreat to a far table, away from the thumping bass of the speakers, and Neil immediately digs in, savoring the spongy, soft texture of the dessert on his tongue. Across from him, the best man takes a single bite of his own slice, and Neil watches as his nose wrinkles in distaste. Without a word, he shoves his plate towards Neil.
Neil pauses. “You don’t want it?”
The best man flicks his fingers. “Not sweet enough.”
Neil shrugs. That’s fine by him. “Suit yourself.”
As Neil starts on his second slice, the man sits back, his pale fingers tapping an unhurried rhythm against the edge of the table, and Neil is filled with the inexplicable urge to say something, anything, just so the man will stop looking at him like that, like he can read every thought swirling through Neil’s brain.
“So, you’re the groom’s twin, right?”
“Astounding observational skills.”
Neil chooses to ignore that. “What’s your name?”
The fingers pause their steady drumming before starting up again. “Andrew.”
Andrew and Aaron. Fitting names for twins, Neil thinks. “I’m Neil.”
The noise that escapes Andrew’s mouth sounds suspiciously close to a scoff.
Neil frowns. “What?”
“Right,” Andrew drawls, low, drawn out. “Just like you’re Katelyn’s cousin.”
“Oh, fuck you. It’s actually my name.” Neil pauses, mid-chew. “How did you know I didn’t belong here anyway?”
“You have…a look.”
“A look,” Neil repeats, voice flat.
“I know everyone my brother tolerates,” Andrew says, head tilted at an angle. It makes Neil feel thoroughly inspected. Andrew reaches up slowly, finger tapping against the corner of his own mouth, and Neil quickly catches the hint, fumbling with a napkin to wipe a stray smudge of frosting from his bottom lip. Andrew’s eyes track the movement. “And you are not one of them.”
“I don’t know,” Neil replies, feeling oddly insulted. “I think your brother would like me.”
Out of everything Neil has said so far, this is the one statement that makes Andrew snort, and Neil doesn’t even have a chance to snap back. “So, Neil. How did you find out about this wedding?”
Well, there’s no point in lying. Andrew’s seen through him already.
“I’m a bellhop at the St. Regis nearby. I overheard one of the bridesmaids—Mary? No, that’s not right, Marissa, talking about the wedding. Five-tier cake, and all that.” Neil scrapes the excess frosting off the slice with the edge of his fork. “She tried to flirt with me.”
Something sharp flits over Andrew’s face. “Did you flirt back?”
“No?” Neil says, still preoccupied with creating the perfect last bite. “I wasn’t interested.”
When he looks up again, Andrew looks almost pleased, a loose set to his shoulders. “Good.”
“Why? You have a thing for her?”
Andrew’s face contorts into a barely there expression that Neil guesses means absolutely the fuck not, and he abruptly stands. A strand of his slick-backed hair slips past his forehead, spilling into a thin curtain against his eyes.
“Where are you going?” Neil asks, alarmed. Surely Andrew isn’t kicking him out over a tiny misunderstanding. That little interrogation couldn’t have been that bad.
“Getting a drink.”
“Oh.” Neil looks down at his lap, feeling somewhat small at the now-empty table. Andrew makes it five steps before he realizes that Neil isn’t behind him. He stops and turns, a questioning tilt to his eyebrows, and Neil stares back at Andrew like an idiot. “Oh,” he repeats, and scrambles to his feet.
There’s a tiny crowd surrounding the open bar, but the moment the bartender spots Andrew, he’s already reaching for a bottle, pouring him a double of something amber. Andrew glances back at Neil, and Neil waves his hands awkwardly in front of him.
“I shouldn’t. I already stole two pieces of cake, and—”
“My idiot brother is spending a fortune on this wedding. Take advantage of it.”
“Um, okay. I’ll have a Shirley Temple, then.” Andrew makes a considering little hum, giving Neil a curious look, and Neil shrugs. “I don’t really drink.”
They end up leaning against the back wall, elbows bumping every time they lift their glasses to their lips. Andrew doesn’t make any attempt to shift away, so Neil holds his ground, feeling the warmth of Andrew’s skin seeping through his thin suit jacket.
“What’s that?” Neil asks, nodding at the drink in Andrew’s hands.
“Whiskey.”
Neil makes a face. “Neat?”
Without a word, Andrew holds his glass out. Cautiously, Neil takes it in his hands, taking a tiny, experimental sip. Before the liquid can even make it down his throat, Neil’s face puckers, and Andrew’s lips quirk up, amused, as Neil chases the bitter taste from his tongue with a long swallow of his own drink.
“It’s all yours,” Neil grimaces, shoving the glass back at Andrew.
They lapse into silence, sipping their drinks as the DJ transitions into a remixed version of some Britney Spears song that Neil can’t quite remember the name of. The quiet between them is unexpected, out of place in the typical rowdiness of a wedding, but it’s not completely unpleasant. It feels comfortable, rather.
Normally, Neil would’ve slipped out by now, would’ve made his great escape the second his stomach was full. If he were a better man, he’d feel a little guilty. But something compels him to stay here, rooted to the wall next to Andrew.
Besides, Andrew isn’t asking him to leave.
Neil nurses his drink until there’s nothing left but a few ice cubes and a lone maraschino cherry drifting at the bottom. He swishes the cherry around, then quietly slides the glass into Andrew’s line of sight. It seems that Andrew enjoys sweets, and there are few things sweeter than fruit soaked in sugary syrup. Andrew looks down, confused, and Neil gives it a little shake, ice clinking against the edges.
Reaching into the glass, Andrew plucks the cherry up from the stem with nimble fingers, popping it into his mouth. His jaw tightens as he chews, mouth working around the flesh, and Neil finds his attention drifting to the measured movement of Andrew’s sharp jaw, the line of his throat as he swallows.
A few seconds later, Andrew leans back over, letting something fall into Neil’s empty glass.
Oh. It’s the cherry stem. Twisted into a neat, tight knot.
Neil swallows, tries not to stare directly at Andrew’s smug expression. “Naturally talented, huh?” he croaks and winces at his voice, the way it sounds, the strain in it. His throat feels tight, like the air’s gone thick in his chest.
Andrew shrugs and takes an unhurried pull of whiskey. “Lots of practice.”
There’s a hint of mirth on his face that has Neil wanting to hide his own probably warming cheeks behind his hands. He scrambles to change the topic.
Normally, Neil isn’t one for making conversation with strangers. Still, something about Andrew makes him want to learn more, makes him want to learn as much as he can, to know why Andrew is standing in a dark corner with Neil, aiding and abetting him in his wedding cake thievery instead of celebrating with the rest of his family and friends.
“So, you must be happy. For your brother, I mean. That he’s married now.”
Andrew simply shrugs, a barely there movement, his gaze drifting towards the mass of bodies on the dance floor. “Aaron’s been smitten with Katelyn for years. It was an inevitability.”
Neil thinks back to Andrew’s speech, the way Aaron had pulled his brother into a hug, how Andrew’s shoulders had gone stiff, almost surprised, before he seemed to hold back just as tight, if not tighter. “You two must be close, then. If he asked you to be his best man.”
Andrew downs the rest of his drink in one swallow, trapping a shard of ice between his teeth, crushing it with a sharp crack. He’s not looking at Neil, so Neil looks at him—the slight knit of his brows, the way his lips press together as he shifts the melting ice across his tongue. The silence stretches long enough for Neil to wonder if he’s stepped over an invisible line.
“It’s a more…recent development.”
“Oh. Well, I’m glad. Family can be…” Neil pauses, searching for a word that encompasses how he feels. “Heavy,” he settles on. “Difficult. Complicated.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
Neil wrinkles his nose, lips tugging up into a wry half-smile. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Andrew stays silent, doesn’t pry, and for that, Neil is thankful. Another comfortable silence settles between them, easy and unforced, and it soothes something in Neil, the part of him that thrives on quiet companionship. Andrew is good at this, it seems, good at offering his company without any added awkwardness or pressure, at carving out a pocket of stillness in the middle of a loud room.
Neil doesn’t feel any urge to fill the space between them with chatter. Especially not with small talk—neither of them seems to give a fuck about that.
Still, with all of Neil’s socially awkward tendencies, he’s somehow able to learn bits and pieces about Andrew, unearthing little fragments—what Andrew does for work, the most embarrassing story he’s willing to share about Aaron, any bachelor party horror stories.
Andrew answers each question in earnest, his entire body turned toward Neil like there are magnets in their chests that want to come together.
He’s a freelance photographer. He’d offered to photograph Aaron’s wedding, but Aaron had barred him from touching a camera, insisting he actually enjoy himself for once. In high school, Aaron had mispelled his date’s name on a promposal poster (“Was it a difficult name to spell?” “No, her name was Jessica”). During the bachelor party, their cousin, Nicky, had slipped into a hot tub fully clothed and ended the night in the ER getting stitches while wailing about being too beautiful to die.
Neil can’t help but laugh, bending over his knees, tears almost in his eyes, at the monotone, dry way Andrew recounts the bachelor party’s downward spiral. And Neil finds himself sharing as well—the story of how he once acquired a pet turtle (a guest had abandoned the little guy in the hotel bathroom), how he’s never been to prom, how he found himself in the business of wedding crashing in the first place.
Andrew listens raptly, keeps his eyes on Neil the entire time, a steady, even gaze.
“Well, you should probably go enjoy yourself,” Neil says, suddenly self-conscious of his own blabbering. Nearly an hour had slipped by without him noticing. “Hang out with your friends and family, like Aaron wants you to. Instead of being stuck here with me.”
“Who says I’m not?” Andrew shoots back, and something blossoms in Neil’s chest, warmth all the way through and all the way down. As Andrew shifts, Neil notices the restless twitch of his fingers, a rhythmic pinch of index finger against thumb.
“Due for a smoke?” Andrew’s eyes snap to his, narrowing into golden slits, and Neil tips his head towards Andrew’s twitching hands. “Not the most subtle.”
“Trying to quit,” Andrew mumbles, sounding genuinely annoyed by his own biology.
“Distraction, then,” Neil suggests. Straining his neck, he scans the crowd, pointing his chin towards a swaying figure at the center of the dance floor. “The girl in the purple dress. Rate her dance moves.”
Andrew barely spares her a glance. “Two out of ten.”
“Wow. Someone’s a harsh critic.”
“She is doing the sprinkler. How unoriginal.”
“Think you can do better?” Neil challenges, and Andrew’s nose scrunches up, not unlike a displeased cat.
“I did not say that.”
“It’s implied.”
Neil reaches out, fingers hovering for a heartbeat, long enough for Andrew to pull away. When he doesn’t, Neil’s fingers circle Andrew’s wrist, giving him a tentative tug towards the dance floor. To Neil’s shock, Andrew follows. It’s not a total surrender; his brows are wrinkled in slight discontent, but still, it leaves Neil feeling oddly victorious.
“Aren’t you supposed to be inconspicuous? You are a trespasser.”
“You’ll back me up if someone questions me, right?”
Andrew lets out a huff, a sound which Neil has concluded is Andrew’s way of laughing without really laughing at all. He follows behind Neil like an orbiting planet, a kite on a string, and the answering adrenaline spike in Neil’s chest feels even better than the plates of free cake he’d been given.
Neil isn’t much of a dancer, but like with everything else in his life, he throws his body behind his instincts. It’s clumsy, uncoordinated, and he’s pretty sure his internal metronome is a few beats behind the actual song, but he doesn’t care. Andrew looks amused, the furrow between his brows smoothing as his lips quirk up into something resembling a smile.
That’s the goal here—making Andrew smile, making him forget all about his need for nicotine—and Neil is pretty sure he’s achieving it. He doesn’t need to worry about anything else. Something tells him he can make a fool of himself, and Andrew will still stick by his side.
Andrew is awkward on the dance floor at first, standing still with his arms crossed over his chest, watching Neil dance. Slowly, his arms drop to his side, body movements morphing into a little bob, like he’s a water buoy in the middle of the ocean, smoothing out into a reluctant sway.
Neil isn’t drunk, hasn’t swallowed more than a single drop of Andrew’s whiskey, but he feels a little like he is. He feels loose, warm, like his smile is too bright on his face. Andrew watches Neil intently, his stare like a physical weight as Neil reaches out again. This time, Andrew closes the distance, presses their palms together, and lets Neil pull him a little closer.
“Twirl me,” Neil dares him, and grins as Andrew does just that.
Andrew steps in, his hand guiding Neil’s upward. He spins Neil once, then twice, and Neil squeezes his eyes shut as the world blurs into streaks of color. Then Neil gets cocky, decides to play a game he made up just this second, decides to see how many rotations he can handle before he’s too dizzy to continue.
The answer is five.
Honestly, he could’ve gone a few more times, but his broken shoe fails him once again, and he tips over, nearly crashing into the group next to him. An arm loops firmly around his waist, pulling him upright, and Neil’s arms latch themselves against broad shoulders, automatic, fingers bunching in the fabric.
“Steady,” Andrew murmurs, and something fizzes up in Neil’s stomach, makes him feel a little weak in the knees. Perhaps his Shirley Temple did have alcohol in it. “You dance like you have two left feet.” Andrew’s voice is deep, a vibration that slips up the nape of Neil’s neck and settles.
“Oh!” a bright voice interrupts, and Neil nearly gets whiplash from the dichotomy.
Neil whirls around and finds himself face to face with, shit, the bride. Today really isn’t his day.
“Andrew!” Katelyn exclaims, cheeks flushed from dancing and alcohol, eyes bouncing between Andrew and the stranger currently clutched in Andrew’s arms. “I’m surprised you’re on the dance floor!” She beams at Neil, bright and curious. “And who’s this?”
Unfortunately for Neil, his brain chooses this inopportune moment to stall.
“This is your cousin,” Andrew says for him, and Katelyn startles, her smile shifting into a confused slant.
“My….my who?”
Neil shoots Andrew a look of utter betrayal. “Uh, I’m your second cousin. Mother’s side.”
“Ah.” Katelyn nods vigorously, clearly pretending to remember Neil when she’s never met him before in her life. “Right, of course! Hello…” She pauses, racking her brain for a name that will never come to her.
Aaron appears then, arm snaking around Katelyn’s waist, raising his beer bottle to Andrew in greeting before his eyes snap to Neil. He squints, suspicious. “I didn’t know you brought a date.”
Neil watches, endeared as the tips of Andrew’s ears turn a dusty shade of pink. Andrew clears his throat, and Neil ducks his head, attempting to hide his laughter against Andrew’s shoulder. It feels a little bit like karmic retribution.
“No, no, babe,” Katelyn corrects, patting Aaron’s arm. “He’s my cousin.”
Aaron’s eyes narrow even further. “Your…cousin.”
Neil stares back at Aaron, guileless, an unspoken challenge couched in indifference, until he’s rescued by the opening notes to what he thinks might be an ABBA song. Katelyn immediately springs forward, grabbing a very skeptical-looking Aaron, pulling him towards the center of the dance floor.
“I love this song! Aaron, let’s go!”
Aaron waves as he’s hauled away, shooting Andrew a bemused look, which Andrew eloquently returns with a middle finger.
Neil spends the rest of the evening like that, in the corner of the dance floor with Andrew. They banter between songs, frequently and intensely, small quips to piss each other off, eventually spiraling into full-on heated debates about doomsday bunkers and zombie apocalypse survival rates. They argue over ice cream flavor rankings, and Neil spends way too much energy trying to convince Andrew to do the robot. (He fails.)
Neil can’t remember the last time someone kept him this entertained with conversation. But Andrew… Andrew. Speaking with him makes Neil feel ridiculous, almost giddy, makes a sense of excitement ripple in the pit of his stomach.
It’s so easy, so unbelievably easy to spend time with this person he’s just met a few hours prior. They just talk and talk, Andrew with his deadpan humor, paired with a quiet curiosity that makes Neil feel thoroughly listened to and understood. They exist together in their own bubble, the wedding around them fading into inconsequential background noise.
It’s a very low-stakes sort of socializing. They don’t have to try at it; no effort is put into being comfortable with each other. They just are, and Neil can’t remember feeling this way with anyone else before.
*
“This is the last song of the evening,” The DJ’s voice booms over the mic as Neil is in the middle of recounting a recent work horror story. He’d been close to reaching the climactic plot twist, Andrew’s arm resting against his waist, their knees occasionally bumping together as Neil leans in close, speaking into Andrew’s ear to be heard over the bass.
“Everyone, please clear the dance floor so our newlyweds can share their final dance together.”
At this moment, Neil feels a soft, bruising sort of melancholy—a stomach-sinking reminder that he never belonged here in the first place. They drift off the hardwood as Katelyn and Aaron take the center of the ballroom, swaying to a slow, sweeping melody.
Andrew turns to Neil, his eyes focused, intent. The silence between them grows, and Neil’s not afraid to break it, but this silence feels disparate. Weighted. Feels like they both have things that they aren’t saying.
“I should probably go,” Neil finally settles on, voice rough from use.
“You’ve clearly overstayed your welcome.”
Neil lets out a laugh, loud and unrestrained. “Thank you for the cake. And for not kicking me out.”
Andrew simply shrugs, eyes still fixed on Neil’s. It takes them too long to drag themselves towards the back of the ballroom, both of them moving slow like molasses, too caught up in their little bubble to rush any kind of goodbye.
“And thank you for the dance,” Neil adds softly. Something flashes in Andrew’s expression, but it’s gone before Neil can decipher it. It feels like he should say something else, but all that comes out is a small, “Well. Bye, Andrew.”
Andrew doesn’t say a word. He simply taps two of his fingers to his temple in a lazy mock salute, and he doesn’t walk away until Neil steps out into the cool evening air, door closing behind him.
When Neil slips out of the venue, his stomach is full with good food and cake, and yet, he feels oddly empty.
*
It’s close to midnight by the time Neil gets home.
He showers and pulls on a pair of worn-out sweatpants, flopping his tired body into bed, but his brain doesn’t get the memo.
Immediately, his mind slips back to Andrew—his tiny smile, his unapologetically stiff dance moves, the way he spent the entire evening with Neil, a solid hand resting against Neil’s body—the two of them talking about anything and everything, like they’ve known each other their entire lives rather than for a single evening.
Maybe that’s what this experience was, a one-night hallucination. Maybe Neil will wake up in the morning, and it’ll be like Andrew never existed.
As Neil closes his eyes, Andrew’s voice rests in the back of his mind, wrapping around him like a blanket as he drifts off.
*
The next day finds Neil back in uniform at the St. Regis, standing in front of Marissa’s door, waiting to haul ten thousand bags back to the lobby.
“Oh, it’s you again!” Marissa beams as the door swings open. “Neil, right? Just the person I was looking for.”
Neil blinks. His uniform doesn’t include a name tag, and he’s pretty sure he never told Marissa his name. “Um, yeah.”
“Wait, I have something for you.” She fumbles through her purse, pressing a folded scrap of paper into his palm.
Neil stares, confused. “What’s this?”
“It’s from Andrew. He told me to give this to you.”
A rush of air leaves Neil’s lungs. “What?” he says again, sounding incredibly stupid.
“Andrew? Aaron’s grumpy twin?” Marissa winces. “Don’t tell him I said that. He told me to give this note to the bellhop who checked me in, if I were to see you.”
“Oh,” Neil breathes, fingers tightening around the note. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t know you knew Andrew,” Marissa continues, and Neil chooses not to respond, shoving the note into his pocket before loading up her bags.
The second Neil drops her luggage off with the valet, he ducks behind the parking lot and shoves his hand into his pocket, fishing for the note. On it is a ten-digit phone number, written in a careless scrawl.
Something light and hopeful swells in his chest.
Neil punches the number into his phone without hesitation, pressing it to his ear, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. He counts the rings: one, two, three, then a telltale click.
Neil waits a few seconds, the silence on the other end stretching taut. “Hello?” he says, unsure.
“Wedding cake thief,” comes Andrew’s voice, familiar, low and gravelly, almost grounding.
Neil leans his head back against the brick wall, a grin stretching across his face. “You’re one to talk. You were my accomplice.”
“Hm. Crashing other nuptials any time soon?”
Neil rolls his eyes, helplessly fond. He can imagine the quirk of Andrew’s brow, the slight lift at the corner of his lips. “I don’t know. The last one will be pretty hard to beat.”
It’s quiet, other than the slow rise and fall of Andrew’s breath, then, “Need someone to help you steal more cake?”
Neil pauses, chewing on his bottom lip. He thinks he understands what Andrew isn’t asking. Do you want to see me? Can I see you?
“Are you offering to be my partner in crime?” Neil aims for the vibe of a casual throwaway line. He misses by a mile. It comes out more expectant than anything, and he winces. I want to see you again.
Andrew lets out a tiny huff. “You still owe me.” I want to see you, too.
“I suppose I do. I clock out at 6 PM today,” Neil says, before he can talk himself out of it. “There’s a taco truck nearby. Dollar tacos on Sundays.”
Andrew’s response is instantaneous. “I’ll pick you up.”
“Okay,” Neil replies, and he’s positive that Andrew can hear the eagerness in his voice. Absolutely ridiculous.
“See you soon, Neil.”
Neil checks his watch—only five more hours to go.
Maybe, he’ll take Andrew to that one ice cream parlor a few blocks from the taco truck. There has to be a flavor there that’s sweet enough for Andrew’s particular tastes. Maybe, they’ll spend the entire evening together again, just talking, learning more about each other, enjoying each other’s presence.
Neil would like that. He thinks, maybe, Andrew would like that too.
He tucks a smile into the collar of his uniform. “See you soon, Andrew.”