‘Shit. Shit. What did I say wrong?’ Ian wondered, his stomach falling as the slightly taller guest – whose face had expressed a confusing mix of disappointment and reassurance – glanced over his shoulder. Ian hesitantly followed his eyes back to the wedding party, though he wasn’t sure where the guest’s stare was landing. He stole glances back in the quiet moments.

The guest’s face was soft-looking under the golden lights. His lips were parted slightly in apprehension, eyes the same color as steel. The bridge of his nose was arched and gently pointed down. The world was hazier as if everything within an arm’s length of them didn’t matter anymore: faces obscured, music garbled, edges eased. Every feeling was written clearly across his face, though maybe it was just Ian’s ability to tune in, but the flush of pink on his ears and cheeks suggested embarrassment. Confusion. Hiding something deeper that Ian wanted to uncover.

That he wanted to be right.

But the guest barred his teeth and sighed. “That’s...fine. Okay, now pretend we’re talking.”

Ian was perplexed yet intrigued all the same. “We are talking,” he pointed out, uncertainty slipping from his tongue. The tone was not what he was expecting. “Anything, in particular, you want to talk about, or – ”

“No, like – my sister’s looking at me right now, and I need to make this look convincing. So, just talk to me. Or, at me. That’s...fine, too.”

His brain shorted, mouth hung ajar. “Uh...o-okay? What, um...”

The taller guest sighed, discomfort washing over his face. He waited.

“Oh, my God. I usually have, like, a list of topics I go to. Why am I blanking out now?”

“I don’t know, but this’s good stuff. Keep going. Looks really organic.”

Ian drew in a slow, labored breath and asked, “What...uh, what do you do when you’re not making me forget conversation topics?”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh, God, not that. Anything but that. I’d rather eat my shoe than do small talk. It’s just...empty, polite words, and it’s so...” “Insincere” hung in the air with such obviousness, but the guest didn’t say it. He pursed his lips and asked, “What, what about more specific questions? What’s wrong with those? Like, if you were on a deserted island and could only bring three things, what would you bring?”

“What a basic question.” Ian glanced around to make sure no one heard him.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yeah, it – well, okay, the question itself isn’t basic, but the ‘deserted island’ aspect is.” Ian hummed. “Okay, here’s one – someone comes up to you and offers you just enough money to do one of your bucket list things. Which one do you pick?”

“I’d argue that’s more of a basic question.”

“It requires thought.”

“So does the ‘desert island’ one.”

“We have very different ideas of what ‘basic’ means,” Ian smiled, his stomach settling. “My question still stands, though. For me, I’d build my dream house with a studio for me to work in.”

“What style?”

Ian raised a brow, heart fluttering at the question. Two words, and he suddenly felt his knees turn to jelly, and no amount of him felt like he was overstepping, oversharing. “Um, I-I don’t know. Older styles are...” He wouldn’t say “charming” or “beautiful”. Architecture school had taught him that no one liked the old styles, even if they said they did, and that beauty was so subjective it was basically taboo. “...kind of eh, but I’d want to do something groundbreaking. I don’t know what. I want to, kind of figure out my own style, like Frank Henry Sullivan, and....” Ian stopped himself, gauging the guest’s reaction.

Gray eyes lingered on him, waiting. The gentle downturn of his lips suggested Ian was explaining too much, but everything else screamed to know more.

Ian could feel his stomach plummeting again, words useless to everyone else but him falling from his lips. Ian breathlessly laughed. “Sorry if I’m rambling.”

Over the lake, the sky lit up red. Shimmers of fireworks fell to the earth, their sound ripping through the air.

“No,” the slightly taller guest said, “you’re...fine. Honestly, it’s just refreshing to hear someone ramble and hear the passion in it.” He glanced down, remeeting Ian’s stare a second later. His face was redder. “I don’t understand it, but at least it’s...interesting. I’d rather ask questions than have it all watered down, you know? And it has more depth than a puddle.”

Ian’s stomach settled back into place. His hands shook at his sides. He wanted to touch him so badly, put his hands on the guest’s shoulders, and thank him. For what, Ian didn’t know.

“It’s better than being asked if I enjoy my job, which I do not.”

Another burst, white and blue. People started moving to the terrace.

Ian sighed. “You know, when you say things like that, saying you don’t like small talk, you make a conversation really hard to continue.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“At the same time, though...you make yourself more mysterious.” ‘Enticing.’

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes,” Ian nearly said. He didn’t. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“This whole thing is uncomfortable. Not knowing anyone, feeling out of place, desperate for...deeper conversation.”

“Very conflicting feelings.”

Two pops, one yellow and one green.

“What do you mean?”

“Desperate for conversation but don’t want to talk to anyone?”

The guest wrinkled his nose, frowning. He stared for what felt like eons, gray eyes fixed on Ian, scrutinizing him before he grunted, expression melting into regret. “I – sorry. Okay. Yeah. Honestly, it’s way more complicated than that. ‘Small talk’ is so...uncomfortable to me. It’s polite and nice and so...fucking empty. I’m not really interested in your thoughts on the weather or how your day’s been. I – deeper things are what hook me. Why places you’ve gone to stick with you. Hobbies that you’re passionate about.” He froze, watching Ian for a second before he glanced over Ian’s shoulder again. His gaze dropped. “At the same time, I get where my sister’s coming from. I’m making myself more miserable not talking to anyone, actively discouraging it, because I know I’m never going to see anyone from here again after this.”

Ian nodded slowly. His stomach fell again. He pressed a smirk to his face, trying not to think about never seeing this man again. “I get that. Conflicting, but I get it.”

The frequency of the fireworks grew, and the world beyond the darkness started glowing a menagerie of colors.

The guest sighed. “Trust me, I know how stupid I sound. I know this will be a clean-cut thing, very little drama, and then...I go home and let this event fade into oblivion.” He eyed Ian, recklessness shooting through his stare. “Unless, of course, you decide to stop the wedding –”

“Oh, my God. Don’t say that. I don’t want her back. She moved on, and I’m fine with that. Honest.”

“Shit. I-I’m sorry. Sorry. That was my bad. I-I shouldn’t –”

“Don’t,” Ian told him, letting slip a scant amount of helplessness with the word. “This is going to be smooth sailing. I can assure you of that now. My being here is not a hiccup to everything. I don’t –” He glanced around, gauging, making sure no one could hear them. “Don’t joke about that. Please. There’s a reason why I’m helping the bridal party.”

“You’re a sacrificial offering?”

Ian sighed, frowning. He disliked the descriptor but was unable to find a suitable substitute. He didn’t like, either, that it was said so casually, like his efforts in supporting the bridal party were all for naught in the end. ‘I’m just helping them because they asked,’ he thought. But still he smirked, chasing away that dreaded feeling in his gut. “Kind of, sure. I just...I know being here is weird for some people, and I want to make sure it goes as smoothly as possible, you know?”

The guest nodded, and his gaze dropped.

The longer the silence started stretching, and panic and dread started filling Ian’s gut. He hadn’t said anything unusual, though reviewing his words still made Ian anxious. The conversation flatlining left his hands feeling clammy, shaking against his sides. Ian wanted to apologize for the awkwardness and pause in conversation, words slipping to the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t know what he had done.

“Tell me more about this dream house.” His eyes, wide and studying, lingered on Ian for a while. A smirk moved onto his lips. “I’m ready to lightly criticize you.”

Ian stared. Smiled, relieved, a shuddering breath flooding through him. Still, his head dropped, and he said, “You don’t have to ask if you don’t want to. I’m fine. Besides, most people don’t know what I’m talking about, so –”

A crescendo. Fireworks exploding over the man-made lake and fountain put the golden lights of the hotel to shame. For a moment, daylight returned, rocking through the air and the building. Trails of spider-leg smoke traveled across the sky, dissipating slowly. Some guests clapped.

“I’m not most people,” the guest pointed out. “I’m the kind of person who...sucks at conversation.”

“You’re good at it.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

“I quietly hate most people, too,” the guest sighed. “Don’t forget that.”

“You don’t hate me.” He said it without thinking. Ian flushed and clenched his jaw.

The guest stared fixed forward, his expression turning a darker shade as his eyes darted to everything but Ian. Half words tumbled from his lips before he frowned and resigned into apparent confusion. “No,” he finally whispered. “I don’t think I do.”