Seven and Autumn danced, their first dance together moments after saying “I do,” and then after they’d spun together a few minutes, they gestured to us and we all danced, as Titus’s song transitioned to a faster, happier bop, a fun little number that was, if you listened to the lyrics closely, kind of dirty.
Autumn and Seven’s backyard was large, their house sitting on a full acre with a small front yard and a lot of space between the houses on each side and a long rectangle behind leading to the ocean, and their private beach, accessible via a wooden stairway leading down from the bluff to the sand. The entire back of their house opened, accordion doors sliding apart from the middle, with wide flagstones paving a large area behind the house, featuring a built-in outdoor kitchen, a hand-built pergola, a fire pit with amphitheater-style stone bench seating, with a huge swath of silky grass leading the dune grass bluff. There was a white cloth-draped bar with a bartender and several long tables with catered food, courtesy of Fredrick Lyons, all set up on the flagstone paved areas.
We all danced barefoot in the grass—that was, as a matter of fact, part of the invitation: dancing after the ceremony, barefoot in the grass. So there was a pile of shoes in the grass, with Titus Bright off to the side with his electric now, playing it solo, no backing music, just his guitar and his rough beautiful voice singing “your eyes in the car light, your skin in the starlight, let me out of this limelight, tangle up in these sheets all night.”
Was it me or was he looking at me as I danced with Maaka, the big Maori? Was he watching me as he played? Were his pale, tan, almost yellow eyes following me, as I swayed with Maaka?
Was it jealousy in those eyes?
I’m no expert on men, but it looked like it, to me.
I danced with Lon, one of Seven’s boxer friends, next. He was a welterweight, only an inch taller than my five-seven, but densely muscled and even dancing with me he moved like a panther, his inky black skin gleaming in the light as the sun would gleam off the coat of a panther. His smile was bright white, his eyes deep brown and friendly, and his voice as he made polite conversation with me was smooth and leonine. He danced with several inches of space between us, his hand polite and proper on my waist—he had a serious girlfriend, he informed me, who couldn’t make the wedding due to a work commitment.
Maaka had been interested, I could tell. He’d danced closer, and his smile had been hopeful, his conversation leading to personal questions. But then I’d caught an exchange of looks between him and Titus, and suddenly, Maaka had vanished, and I saw him now making conversation with Seven as they stood off to one side, sipping at drinks and laughing.
The evening wore on, and Titus kept playing, and we kept dancing and drinking and eating. It was a small, intimate party, only a dozen or so people and all of them the closest friends of Autumn and Seven, and it was all the more fun and lovely for that. There were no awkward conversations, no stilted moments with strangers. Granted, most of Seven’s friends were strangers, but they were all polite, easy to talk to, handsome, funny, and interesting.
None of them openly hit on me. None of them informed me I was theirs.
Titus played for almost two hours, and even though I was wary and suspicious, I could allow myself to be amazed—he played a dizzying array of instruments—if it had strings, he could play it, and then some. He had a ukulele, a twelve-string acoustic, a big bass, a mandolin, a violin, an electric cello, and even a didgeridoo, plus the keyboard, several electric guitars, and two acoustic guitars. And he played them all beautifully, with skill and talent, using his loop pedal to layer them until it sounded like he had a full band with him.
Finally, he set all the instruments aside, and stood empty-handed in front of the mic. We all stopped, faced him.
“Seven, my man. We’ve been friends for almost twenty years. I remember the day we met like it was yesterday. It was this big tournament, you were this young guy, hungry and kinda crazy, and everyone was talking about you. You’d just KO’d Marius Milley in the second round, and you looked so amped up that you coulda fought another four rounds without breaking a sweat. I was there because they wanted Bright Bones to play between matches, right there in the ring, so we had this ghetto-ass mobile setup, a shitty amp, a shitty electronic drum kit that Tommy fuckin’ hated with a passion. It was just him and me. We played our set after you kicked Milley’s ass, and then there you were, in your boxing robe, hands taped, pacing around like a caged wolf, waiting for your next match. You were just the fuckin’ coolest, man. I knew then, the moment we talked for the first time, that I just had to be your friend. And here we are, eighteen, almost nineteen years later, and I’m playing your fuckin’ wedding, man.” He accepted a pint of beer from Maaka, and held it up. “Here’s to Seven, and to his beautiful bride Autumn, and to the start of their lives together. Congratulations, you two. I’m happy for you, more than I can say. You guys, and that little seed of a life you’ve got going, you’re gonna be so fuckin’ happy. I can tell.” He gestured at the minister, who had been invited to stay and celebrate. “Reverend LeShae, that was some beautiful shi—stuff you said. The ribbon, the handfasting? Just beautiful. And with that, folks, I’m done for the night. I’m gonna get myself a beer or ten, and some food. Seven, Autumn, congratulations. Seven, brother, I’m happy for you, I’m proud of you, and I love you, man. Peace, ya’ll.”
There was applause, whistles, and cheering and then Titus connected a cord to a laptop and turned on a playlist from his sound system, and he wandered away toward the bartender, and I lost sight of him as he was surrounded by Autumn, Seven, Frederick, and couple other friends of Seven’s.
After Titus had started his speech, I’d lost my conversation partner, Seven’s agent, Jonathon, so I went in search of my friends.
Lizzy was deep in conversation with Braun and Lon, Teddy and Kat were dancing with the other boxer friend of Seven’s, Vincent, and Zoe was standing at the bar.
She was alone.
Autumn and her husband were now swaying alone off near the arch, clutching flutes of champagne and looking more in love than ever.
I watched them, feeling a twinge of jealousy.
Or, more than a twinge. A big, fat, vicious bolt of it, lancing into my gut.
I wanted that.
Deep down, where the feeling was vague and ephemeral and slippery, under the surface of years-long suppression, I wanted it.
To dance like that with someone, to be looked at like that by a man.
“Laurel McGillis.”
I jumped a foot in the air, shrieking, spilling most of the glass of chardonnay I been sipping for the past hour. I whirled, and there was Titus, hands in his back pockets.
“Titus Bright,” I said, ignoring the thump of my heart.
He didn’t say anything else. Just looked at me, eyes searching mine. His eyes didn’t waver from mine, didn’t lazily slither down my body, didn’t fasten on my cleavage. Just seared into mine, boiling with a thousand thoughts and emotions I couldn’t decipher and which he didn’t elucidate.
I huffed. “Well, as fascinating as this conversation has been…”
His hand caught my arm, gentle but firm—his hands were gargantuan, with long fingers and a wide palm. His hand wrapped easily around my bicep, held on. “Dance with me.”