22. Derek

It's one of those days that I thought would drag. I thought there'd be a lot of waiting around and trying to pass the time, but, in fact, it's flown by. I've hardly caught sight of Wyn all day, and when I have, he's been moving at such speed that the sound barrier looked under serious threat. I've checked on him a couple of times, took him a green juice the first time and a sandwich the next. He took the sandwich but said he didn't have time for the green juice. From the way he manhandled me out of the venue, he clearly didn't want me to see the place until the reception this evening.

Everything is going smoothly, except for the fact the resort appears to have rebooked the room Wyn originally booked for himself. It's a bit cheeky of them since we paid for the entire place, but I don't mind very much as most of us are leaving tomorrow. Wyn, on the other hand, is not happy. The second he hears about it, he stalks to reception, arms stick straight at his sides, nose pointed high in the air.

I follow him because I have a strong suspicion I'll need to be on hand to smooth things over in the next minute or two.

Miller is in reception, chatting animatedly to the couple who's just arrived. Far from minding that they're essentially crashing his wedding, he seems only too happy to be meeting new people. The woman has dark hair and a rapturous smile, and while the man has a handsome face, he has a slightly dazed look about him, eyes watery and wide, almost as if he's not entirely sure how he ended up here. He seems to be drifting in and out of the conversation. Daydreaming, and from where I'm standing, it looks like his daydreams are competing with reality and winning.

"We couldn't believe it when we saw the last-minute deal," says his wife. "We jumped right on it. Didn't even hesitate. Packed last night and hopped on the plane today. We honeymooned here five years ago, so when I saw the email, I took it as a sign."

"Awesome," says Miller. "You must have had a great time to want to come back."

"Well," says the woman, scrunching her nose, "yes and no. Truthfully, this is more like a honeymoon redo because the first one was a dog show. Seriously, our honeymoon was not good. This one"—she motions to her husband with a slight tilt of her head—"was so sick he could barely lift his head off the pillow. I've never seen him like that. I don't even think it was man flu. He really was very unwell. Between you and me, I think it was something he ate at the wedding. Oh, the venue denied it for all they were worth. You know what places like that are like." Miller nods sagely as if he does indeed know what places like that are like. "But I think it was a bad shrimp. A really bad shrimp. It shouldn't be allowed. There should be some sort of fine or compensation due if you make someone sick. It's not right. It hit him so hard we didn't consummate our marriage until after we got home."

"Selby. Jesus," says the daydreamer, dropping back to Earth and landing with a thud. He's taken aback to find himself in a strange place with a spouse who is cheerfully disclosing intimate details about him to a group of strangers.

She tucks an arm through his and leans her head against his shoulder. "It's not your fault, sweetie," she says. "You know I don't blame you."

I can't tell if it's something in her eyes or her voice, but either way, something about the way she says it gives me a feeling she might well be harboring a modicum of resentment. The daydreamer's jaw clenches, muscle bunching and not releasing completely.

"We're not serving shrimp tonight," says Miller brightly, "so you're welcome to join us if you'd like. What time do you think dinner will start, Wyn? I'm sure we can squeeze two more in."

Wyn's face has turned bright red and his neck has gone blotchy. I happened to know he's agonized over the seating arrangements for hours. Two more people at dinner is the last thing he needs. I take his hand firmly in mine, less to hold it, more to hold him back from committing an act of violence against my son.

"Thank you, but no," says the daydreamer. "We couldn't possibly."

"No," says his wife, giggling happily, "we couldn't possibly. We have a honeymoon redo to get started on, after all."

The daydreamer's jaw clenches again, and this time, it doesn't release until after the receptionist hands over their key and gets the porter to show them to their suite.

I'm dressed and ready, the first one here. I'm sitting in the front row, trying to keep sand out of my dress shoes, watching waves break through the floral frame of a wedding bower. It's beautiful. Thick and lush and jam-packed with an array of white and pastel flowers. Roses, ranunculus, hydrangeas, and sweet peas. It's exactly as excessive and lovely as I've always hoped this day would be.

I see the lone figure of Miller approaching, and my breath hitches. His suit is dark blue. There's an orchid pinned on his lapel. He wears it well. He makes it look easy. Casual almost. As always, I see a lot of his mother in him with his coloring and bone structure, but now, all grown up, a man living his truth, I see a hint of myself too.

I stand to greet him, and though there's part of me that would love to throw my arms around him and cling to him for dear life, I put out my hand to shake his. His handshake is self-assured and firm, just how I taught him.

We stand side by side, watching the string quartet set up as we wait for the rest of the wedding party to join us. Neither Ryan nor Miller wanted to walk down the aisle or be given away, so Ryan and the groomsmen, well, groomspeople, should be here soon. The mood between Miller and me is a little uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable exactly, more like formal. I feel I should say something, that the significance of the day demands it, that Miller wants it.

Wyn's words flit to mind. I was annoyed when he said them, but now, they seem appropriate. Necessary even.

"I'm proud of you," I say softly. Miller's head jerks and he turns so he's facing me. I was expecting an arrogant grin or even an eye-roll. What I get couldn't be further from that. He looks like he did when he was little. Wide-eyed and buoyant. Expectant. I keep talking, and once I start, I don't seem able to stop. "I realize I haven't said it enough, but I'm proud of you always, Mills. All the time. I respect you. Not just today and not just for the things you achieve"—I can't help a small smile—"or for your attempts to derail my company. More than anything, I'm proud of who you are. I know it wasn't always easy with the way things were between Mom and me, but I'm proud of you for telling us to quit our marriage. It was a hard thing to do, and neither of us knew how to get there on our own. We're both happier now, and that's because of you."

Gunmetal-gray eyes dampen, and he leans toward me, resting his temple against mine. I put my arms around him like I used to when he was a little boy, before he got snarly, before things went really bad between Barbara Anne and me, and before I started hiding my pain behind work. I hold him the way I used to when I could easily lift him and protect him. "I'm proud of the man you are and I'm proud of the way you love Ryan. You'll be a wonderful husband, and I'm honored to stand up here with you today."

"Jesus, Dad," he says after a long beat, "you don't say much for years, and then you say it all at once, huh?" I give that the smile and nod it deserves. Emily and Kat have joined us now, and others too. Seats around us fill up as the sun begins its final descent. Miller nudges my side. "Don't worry, okay? I'll remember you said it."

"You won't have to remember. From now on, I'll tell you so often that you won't be able to forget it."

Music starts playing. Strings and woodwinds blend together, twirling in the air around us before fading into the roar of the ocean. Miller's face softens as his gaze drifts over my shoulder. Though my back is turned, I see the exact moment he spots Ryan. It's so clear that I couldn't possibly miss it. His pupils expand, silver pools deepen, swell, and turn to complete liquid, and his smile widens to a point well beyond anything that could ever be considered cool.

The ceremony is quick and to the point, and though I'm deeply loath to say it, soulful. It's heartfelt and honest. There's barely a dry eye among us. I hold it together, but only just. My emotions are running high, teaming through me. It's a big day. It's the start of something, sure, but it's also the end. Even though he's been Ryan's since he met him, and I"ve always known that, today marks the official end of Miller belonging to Barbara Anne and me. The thought hits me so hard that I have to consciously fight to hold the tide back as I enter the venue.

The place looks unreal. I don't mean amazing. I mean, it doesn't look real. It looks like something that shouldn't exist. The wrap-around views of the ocean are expansive, and up to this point, I harbored a secret concern that it would feel cold and impersonal. It doesn't. It feels like I've stepped into a greenhouse forgotten by time. There's an orchard of lemon and lime trees dotted around the tables. The heady scent of citrus permeates the air. A little zing, a little zest that brings life to the place.

The space feels secluded, like a secret garden, with mystical glimpses of sea views rather than feeling exposed or in-your-face. The tables are laden with flowers, a repeat of the colors and blooms used for the bower. They trail en masse over the tables, spilling onto the floor. The star of the show, the main event, so to speak, is the installation overhead. It's a massive circular creation suspended from the ceiling by wires so thin, they're invisible. It's sculptural art. Floating weightlessly above us, every inch of it smothered in flowering peach blossoms.

It's magical. Enchanted. Tiny fairy lights winking as daylight fades to nothing.

It's beyond what I expected. Beyond what I dreamed for my son. Far, far more excessive and lovely than I could ever have imagined.

Wyn is in work mode, earpiece and notebook firmly in situ. He's wearing a pale sage-green shirt and a floral bow tie. Dirty pinks and old roses. His curls shine under the overhead lights. His cheeks are pink from exertion and his freckles are a little darker than when we arrived. He's deeply focused, lips pressed together in concentration as he gives orders to those around him.

He's so beautiful my heart stops beating until my chest caves and then takes off at speed.

"You look very dapper," I say, taking his face in my hands and kissing him lightly on the nose. The urge to kiss him so strong, I clean forget to check whether anyone is looking or not.

He makes a futile attempt to smooth his hair down. "You look…nice too." His hands are on my chest, a light touch, but more than enough to rouse me.

"Oh my actual God," screeches Emily. "How good is this?"

"You've outdone yourself, Wyn," I agree softly. I can't be sure because of the low, incandescent light, but I think he might color from my praise.

The evening takes on a dreamlike quality from there. A shimmer of sequins and satin women's dresses. Black ties and white shirts. A banquet of food. A feast like no other. All accompanied by a folksy live band that can usually be found performing on the beach, under the stars, and laughter bursting from the people my son loves the most.

My speech goes off without a hitch. I get just the right amount of laughs, and Ryan's mother wells up when I say how happy I am to be gaining a son like him. Wyn squirms and waves me off when I thank him profusely for his efforts in planning the day and remind everyone that if not for him, we'd all be in Vegas right now.

"You spoke well," says Barbara Anne when I take my seat. Wyn gets up to direct the next course of the meal, and Sage heads to the restroom, leaving the two of us alone on this side of the table.

"Thank you." It's been tense between us many times, fraught more times than I can count, but it's never been like this. Strange and distant. I don't like it. In fact, I might like it less than I liked tense and fraught. What I like least about it is that I know I deserve it. Yes, Barbara Anne is a hellion who gave as good as she got during our marriage, but she didn't know what she was getting into when she said, "I do." That's on me, and the guilt is heavy enough to make my knees buckle. Guilt is different from gravity. It has a different kind of mass, but it can drag you down all the same.

If anything, it might be harder to live with. It doesn't just weigh you down. It gnaws at you too. I'm so tired of fighting to remain upright under the weight of it.

"I'm sorry." I mean to say it loudly, but it comes out so quietly that I'm not sure she can hear me.

She turns her head, eyes searching mine accusingly and then softening when she sees the depth of the meaning behind it. She's quiet for so long that I think she's choosing not to respond, but then she says, "I was your friend, Derek. First, before anything else, I was your friend."

My jaw clicks as I swallow and nod to acknowledge what she's saying. She's right. We were friends long before we were lovers. Good friends. Best friends. I thought that would be enough. I thought we'd be a power couple. A formidable team. I was right, and I was wrong.

"I wanted to tell you many times," I say. It's true. There were many, many nights she was crying and raging and begging me to tell her what was wrong between us. On nights like that, I could almost taste the words on my tongue. "I just…I couldn't…I just couldn't find a way to say it." Her eyes are still on me, impassive, watching and waiting, so I continue, "You weren't crazy to feel that something was missing. You weren't imagining it. It was selfish of me to think the way it was between us would be enough for you. You weren't wrong to be angry. You still aren't wrong to be angry with me."

She's quiet again, mulling over what I've said, letting it sink in. When it does, there's a gentle tug at the corners of her mouth. It's a tiny, vulnerable smile she doesn't show often. It's quick. There for a flash and then gone.

"Do you know Sage says anger is awful for you? He says it affects the heart's ability to pump blood. He says it can lead to high blood pressure and heart disease." The next smile is Barbara Anne back at her best. Fighting fit and mischievous, eyes stretched in aversion. "He says it can cause premature aging."

Her shoulders shudder noticeably at the thought. I bite back a laugh and start feeling lighter.

Wyn and Sage make their way back to the table, weaving through throngs of people to get to us. Barbara Anne cocks her head toward them, mischief giving way to something I haven't seen before. She holds a perfectly manicured hand out to me, eyes sparking with life, and endings, and new beginnings. "What do you say, MacAvoy? Shall we call it a draw?"

I put my hand in hers, bobbing my head astutely as if giving the matter serious thought. Like always, her handshake is a little too firm, crushing my knuckles together just enough to make me wince, causing her to cackle like a fairytale villain.

"A draw," I say, and start laughing for real. We both do, finding humor in our shared idiocy the way we used to a long time ago. Years ago. Before we had Miller. Before we were married.

Wyn sits to my left. Barbara Anne is on my right with Sage taking his place beside her.

"The fish is excellent," she says to Wyn. A white flag. A peace offering.

"Thank you. I gave the chef strict instructions to filet it."

"Ah yes"—she makes a face—"nothing worse than having your meal look up at you as you consume it."

Sage dissolves with laughter, seemingly unable to believe the hilarity of what she just said, though I struggle to find the excess of humor in it. He looks at Barbara Anne cross-eyed, as though she's the most wonderous creature he's ever encountered. He almost looks drunk simply from being in her presence.

I used to think that kind of display between couples was ridiculous. It didn't make sense and at least half of me thought it was an act. A pretense everyone but me was in on.

As I watch Wyn carefully select his next bite, guiding his salmon onto his fork and spearing a caper just so, I find myself thinking that I've never seen anyone with more talent for loading a fork. And as he lifts the fork, his lips gently closing around silver, I become dimly aware that in addition to everything else that's happened to me recently, I'm now a person who harbors deep-seated envy of silverware.

Our meals are cleared sometime later, and I notice Barbara Anne tittering and inspecting her fingernails when Miller gets up to make his speech. There was a time when I would have put my hand over hers to calm her when I saw her like that. That time is over. Sage puts a hand on her back, and she leans toward him. Instead of even the most fleeting barbs of annoyance, I find myself grateful to him. Truly grateful. Words from weeks ago echo in my mind.

I hope he makes you happy.

Miller's speech is short and sweet, and though I'm not sure he means for it to be, hilarious. He has everyone eating out of the palm of his hand, pausing and letting things settle when it's time for him to say a few words about Ryan.

"So," he says, checking his notes and reading from them, "I promised Ryan I wouldn't embarrass him, and I wouldn't embarrass myself, and I wouldn't be cringy, and I wouldn't be too sentimental or sappy, and…basically, he made me swear not to say anything nice about him. As we all know, I'm only happy when Ryan is happy, so I won't say much, but I will say this. Ryan"—he turns to face Ryan and raises his glass—"I regret nothing."

Ryan's head dips, and when he looks up at Miller, he's a very different version of the Ryan we all know. He's open and defenseless in a way that leaves me in no doubt whatsoever that as besotted with Ryan as Miller is, the feeling is mutual.

We raise our glasses and toast the new couple. Miller feigns taking his seat. He steps toward the main table and Ryan's shoulders relax. As soon as they do, Miller steps back, standing in front of the microphone again and slightly adjusting its height.

"It occurred to me, Ry"—his smile is broad and can only be described as mischievous as hell—"you said I couldn't say anything. You didn't say anything about singing."

Ryan groans audibly as the slow, steady notes of a cello pulse through the room, joined quickly by the piano. There's a fall, then a lift. A slow, haunting melody punctuated by a soft crash of cymbals. Miller's voice is low and smooth. A deep baritone river that flows through the room and makes me wonder why the hell we never sent him for singing lessons. Barbara Anne looks up at me in confusion, obviously wondering the same thing.

Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" pours out of Miller as if it's easy. As if it's always been there, inside him, waiting for this moment. The sound floats around the room like a silk ribbon on a sea breeze. It's not just a song. It's more. It's a poem about life and love. Kitchen chairs and cutting hair. A song of praise. Breathy hallelujahs that have their own lives. Most of all though, most of all, it's a prayer. An ode to worship. An ode to loving another so much it transcends everything else.

"Soulful…" says Sage. "Soulful voice."

To my left, Wyn murmurs, "Well, fuck me. He does have a soulful voice."

To my right, a tiny, punctured sound leaves Barbara Anne. "Oh," she gasps. Words are whispered, possibly meant only for her to hear. "Oh no. Miller grew up. He really grew up."

I feel her words in my chest. I feel the same. Today is a happy day. One of the happiest of days a parent can have, but it's bittersweet too. It's the end of an era unfolding before our eyes.

The lead singer of the band takes over from Miller, and he and Ryan make their way onto the dancefloor. Miller's arms are slung loosely around Ryan's waist, and Ryan has his wound around Miller's neck. If my lip-reading skills are accurate, he mutters, "You made me cry, you dick," into Miller's ear and then kisses him softly on his cheek.

I can tell Barbara Anne is wobbling inside and unsteady outside, so I put my hand out. Not to shake it. I offer my hand palm up. "Last dance?"

Her hand is light and bony in mine, familiar and comforting. Just not a good fit.

"Last dance," she agrees.