Just got your sketches. Good but not great. Where did you take them? The lightings really bad. Remember, they have to look like I did them. Stop with the regionalism shit and go even more modern, bro :)

Ian clenched his teeth and pocketed his phone. Reed knew he was at a wedding. Reed also knew he had little spare time to sit down and draw. He was, after all, off from work.

That’s what Ian told himself.

The restaurant was buzzing, glowing under the circular chandeliers. Just what Ian needed to ignore Reed’s text. ‘Fuck you, you worthless underachiever.’

Rachel zeroed in on him the second he stepped into the steakhouse. Her eyes narrowed with determination. “Hey, did you get my texts?”

“Yeah, sorry I’m late. Trying to find a parking space out there was absolute Hell,” Ian laughed, a CVS bag wrapped around his wrist. She had texted him another two times before he left the CVS five minutes off the hotel’s property, and the tingling feeling in his stomach left him sick and dizzy.

He forced another laugh. Just enough to force Ian to feel giddy – or, rather, giddier – about the whole weekend again. “Had to park at the Holiday Inn and then hike up the hill to get a spot. But, here you are. Managed to get the last few ones.” He’d try and find a closer parking spot when things were quieting down.

Rachel scoffed in disbelief, grinning. “You’re an absolute saint, Ian.”

Ian sank into the compliment, warm but not nearly enough to make him feel better. “Hey, I know I said I’d help the bridal party, but...I am a guest, too. Can you...I don’t know, pull back on asking me to run errands? I want to enjoy –”

The bridesmaid pushed the bag back towards Ian. “Can you put it by my stuff?”

“What?”

“I’m at table 4. I just – you know. I’m helping Melissa handle everything –”

“No, no, I get it.” His eyes darted about the restaurant before he found table 4. “Do you want me to put it with your purse, or –” Ian turned back to see the space Rachel had taken up was gone, having moved off to another group of guests. Standing alone with an angry rumble in his gut was not how he wanted to spend the evening, so he shook his head. Pursing his lips, he contemplated leaving the bag with Rachel and telling her to do it herself. ‘No, that’s...petty,’ he thought, thinking about every errand he had been sent on for the past couple of weeks. She hadn’t paid him back yet.

Streaks of gold spread from the recessed ceiling lights, and strikes of red, brown, and stone melded together in harmony. The scattered tables were brimming with wedding guests, and the outdoor terrace was packed with people desperate to escape the room’s humidity. Chefs worked behind a partially opened kitchen. Great plate windows turned the event into a display.

Ian considered taking a picture of it for design inspiration. He didn’t.

Forcing a smile, he left the CVS bag with her purse. At least, he thought it was her purse. It was at table 4, which was better than nothing. Dropping his things in his seat at table 11, Ian ordered a drink and started making rounds.

He found Mr. Ozechov in a corner with his wife, who looked more than happy by his appearance. “Ian, my boy,” he laughed. “How are you? Thought you weren’t coming.”

“Who said?”

Mr. Ozechov guffawed. “I didn’t see your RSVP.”

Ian waved the comment off. “Sir, I RSVP’d the moment I got it. It’s rude to keep people waiting like that.” He had contemplated not coming. He and Melissa weren’t on bad terms, but...distant ones.

“He’s the one who got Missy the chip and dip,” Mrs. Ozechov said.

“Guilty,” Ian smiled. “Besides, I’m here to support Melissa. No other reason.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mr. Ozechov said. “Because this wedding was a lot of money.”

“I don’t doubt it. The hotel’s absolutely gorgeous. I need to sketch it when things are quiet later.”

“And, you’re a good guy, but we like Daniel. Very smart. Very clever. Very good for Melissa.”

Ian sipped his drink, hoping it would settle his stomach; it burned every inch of the way down. He wanted to spit his drink into Mr. Ozechov’s face, laugh and say, “If you want me gone, just fucking tell me.” He didn’t. Ian swallowed the rage into a dark, dank part of himself and smiled. “Seems like a nice guy. I mean, from what I’ve heard. I haven’t met him formally yet, but I want to.”

“It might be...too soon,” Mrs. Ozechov said, her tone as careful as the construction of her sentiment.

“Too...soon to meet the groom?”

“Trish, he’s just here to support. He said so himself.”

Mrs. Ozechov regarded him for a moment. The look in her eyes was mixed, swirled with such affection and hesitation that Ian could feel himself drifting slowly away.

‘It’s like you don’t know me anymore.’ His stomach twisted.

“You have to excuse her. She and Melissa’ve been planning this since last year. It’s been...” Mr. Ozechov laughed. “...quite a whirlwind.” He hummed, nodding his glass at Ian. “What building are you in? We’re in Building 4, because of Trish’s foot.” He waited, eyebrows raised.

“Uh, Building...7,” Ian said, a gentle chuckle underscoring his words. He didn’t want to think about how abysmally his search for accommodations had been. “It’s such a slog, but it gets me my steps for the rest of the year. I asked if I could potentially move rooms if something came up tomorrow.”

“Oh, did you bring your golf clubs?” Mr. Ozechov asked, tipping his glass towards Ian. “They got some nationally renowned courses here. A couple of people plan to tee off around seven tomorrow.”

Ian smiled. “Nah, I left them at home.” He really didn’t want to think about those godforsaken golf clubs collecting dust in the closet of his apartment. He hadn’t touched them since he and Melissa broke up. He only bought them because Mr. Ozechov said they should go golfing when they were next in Florida together. The sense of obligation overtook Ian, and he sank almost $800 into something he actively hated. He only proved time and time again how hopelessly inept he was at the sport, never having the heart to say how despicably he hated it.

There were times he wished Mr. Ozechov had. Almost comically, every time Mr. Ozechov visited, he asked about going golfing. Ian wished the man would level with him and admit that watching him golf was just some kind of masochistic pleasure rather than bonding time. But every time he asked, Ian obliged, and the uncomfortable farce continued for two and a half years. At least Mrs. Ozechov was courteous enough not to say anything about it.

“Damn.” He paused. “I think they rent golf clubs if you’re interested.”

“No, I’m okay. Wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Don’t be silly, Randolph. Always glad to have you in our party.”

“No, I have...some projects I want to work on tomorrow morning. Before the wedding.”

“Ah.” The word was soft, perfumed with such disappointment it made Ian’s hands tremble. “Such a shame you had to move,” Mr. Ozechov continued. “Could’ve been you up at the altar instead of Daniel, and we could’ve been playing all summer long.” Mr. Ozechov laughed.

His stomach tightened, and the wound reopened, angry and petulant. He downed the rest of his drink in two scathing gulps.

“Steven,” his wife warned.

“What? It was funny. It was funny, right?”

‘No,’ danced its way to the tip of Ian’s tongue. The response he wanted to say – “What the actual fuck was funny about that, you fucking douchecanoe with a poor taste for buildings and people?” – burned in his throat. He smiled and nodded his head. “Going to have to side with Mr. Ozechov, ma’am. That was a little funny.”

“Ugh, you men,” she sighed. “I’m going to go find Mrs. Hammond. Enjoy yourself, Ian.” Cane in hand, she hobbled off towards the terrace. The door opened, letting whatever counted as a cool breeze sweep in. Her plastic boot smacked dully against the frame before the door closed shut.

“Oh, before I forget, Ian, I heard about those townhouses you did in Weston. They were beautiful. Did you finally get promoted?”

Ian stared, smile remaining fixed, growing falser by the second. He didn’t know how else to look. “No. I’m still a research analyst.”

“So you didn’t have a hand in those townhouses?”

“I was on the design team for them, yeah.” Ian wanted to change topics. Talk about anything. He hated those townhouses with every fiber of his being, with such a passion he didn’t know existed within him. He didn’t want to talk about them. He didn’t want to think about them. They were a stain, a tremendous blight on his career and him personally.

“Odd. I thought the move was supposed to ‘open doors for you’. That’s what you said, right?” A breath, and Mr. Ozechov said, “I thought you were a go-getter.” His words were light, jovial. The gentle smile on his face said earnestness.

All Ian heard was the underlying malice, the disappointment, the stagnation of his career. He tipped his glass back and bit into one of the ice cubes, feeling eyes turn onto him.

“Well, whoever the lead designer, or whatever their title is, pass along my congratulations to them,” Mr. Ozechov said. He let out a breath. “My wife’s right, though. I should be socializing, myself. Enjoy the weekend, okay? Let me know if you need anything this weekend, okay?” He patted Ian’s shoulder before leaving him behind.

“I – thank you, sir. I - actually, I –” He watched the older man leave, swallowing whatever was left of the comment. The smile on his lips felt so unreal it hurt to keep it up. Ian glanced around the room, wondering who to move to next, but found scattered stares in his direction. He finished off the melting ice cubes in his glass. He went to get another drink. “Something tall and strong, please.”

People floated over. They tried making small talk. And Ian matched their light tones, their smiles, their body language out of sheer instinct. Anything else felt like a betrayal.

Despite the lingering summer heat, Ian had never felt colder. And then he realized how distant he made himself, watching as people mingled, a spectator to an invited event. He knew most of the people here – former mutual friends and people from stories Melissa had told him – yet a sense of deceitfulness, of unwantedness, kept him from moving forward. ‘I am not wrong for being here,’ he told himself. ‘I was invited, just like everyone else. I just have to remind myself that. And find one person happy to see me.’

The words sounded uncertain, even in his head. Ian ignored them.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Across the room, Rachel’s phone hung in her hand.

Ian left his phone alone. He moved to one of his and Melissa’s old friends, grinning.