Page 8 of One-Star Romance

Robert Kapinsky liked arriving early at the airport. Frantic, last-minute runs to catch a flight made his heart pound in a way he did not appreciate.

Angus told him that, for efficiency’s sake, you should always be the last person boarding the plane. His consultant friends at business school had apparently done the math. Even if you missed every fifth flight, you still saved yourself time on balance by arriving as late as possible.

Rob thought that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.

Life was already stressful enough. Why create more situations of anxiety? Instead, you could arrive early, factor in any unexpected delays in the security line, and then sit at an airport Chili’s and do work. You could also order yourself a sugary margarita that you’d otherwise never drink because you knew it was bad for you. A small indulgence. At an airport, you were allowed those.

Now, he found his gate and sat down on the ground to wait. The airport Chili’s was closed at this hour of the night, but he supposed he didn’t need a margarita anyway, not after the two drinks he’d had with Natalie. Plus, there’d been that shot of tequila with Angus when he had pulled him aside and asked Rob to be his best man with tears in his eyes. Rob understood the importance of this. Angus had—how best to put it?—a singular spirit that not everyone could appreciate. When they were younger, he had borne his fair share of teasing and rejection while remaining unfailingly kind. He deserved people who loved him for all that he was, people who were proud to stand beside him.

“I’ll…” Rob had begun in response to Angus’s question, then had to clear his throat. “It would be an honor.”

The scratchy airport carpet prickled at his legs, even through his pants. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he took it out to see a message from his newest contact.

NATALIE: Thanks for giving me your number! It’s important to keep the chain of communication open between the maid of honor and best man.

ROB: Agreed. The success of this wedding depends on us.

For a moment, he felt a strange urge to send a winky face, a heretofore unfamiliar compulsion. He did not act upon it.

NATALIE: You get to the airport okay? I hope I didn’t make you late with my incessant yammering.

ROB: I’m here in plenty of time. And not incessant. I got at least three words in.

NATALIE: Well you can’t mention Nabokov and not expect me to have opinions!! Okay, I’m going to bed, but see you at the wedding, whenever that may be!

He slipped his phone into his pocket. Then, balling up his jacket into a makeshift pillow, Rob leaned back against it and tried to get comfortable. His flight wasn’t for another four hours, the first one out in the morning.

He’d missed the one he was supposed to take. His shuttle to Newark Liberty International Airport had left Midtown while he was still back at The Pig, the Duck & the Farmer ordering one more round with Natalie. The shuttle after that had gone too. The flight attendants on his plane had been demonstrating how to put on an oxygen mask, the passenger in 34B sprawling out into the empty seat next to her, not believing her luck. Rob had checked his watch, known that he should leave. But Natalie had been saying something interesting, and he had wanted to hear it.

Part Two

MAY 2015

Two Years Later

Together with their families, Gabriella Alvarez and Angus Stoat III request the honor of your presence at their wedding, to be held at the Larchmont Inn in New Jersey, Saturday, May 23. Ceremony at 4:30 in the afternoon.

Formal attire requested.

Dinner and dancing to follow.

5

Being maid of honor required the organizational skills of a professional scheduler, the enthusiasm of a cheerleader, and the patience of a kindergarten teacher. Natalie had never been particularly into pep, patience, or spreadsheets, but when you loved someone, you did what they needed you to do. So here she was at an Italian restaurant in New Jersey, attempting to explain to the rest of Gabby’s bridesmaids that they needed to keep their rehearsal dinner toasts to under five minutes, please.

“And how much time are you giving yourself tomorrow night?” Gabby’s sister, Melinda, asked. Her glare threatened to freeze Nat’s blood in her veins. A wild child who could also hold a grudge like no one’s business, Melinda had spent the wedding planning process alternating between semi-terrifying jokes (I’m like the maid of honor understudy. In case you break your neck before the wedding.), insistences that she didn’t even want the responsibility because she was VERY busy with her latest business idea (I make jewelry into which I’ll carve the names of your lovers or enemies.), and the current moment’s flat-out hostility.

“I am also limiting myself to five minutes,” Nat said, “as Gabby and Angus requested.”

Melinda huffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Their college friend Shay jumped in. “A wedding toast from a professional writer! I can’t wait. But also…” She indicated Becks, their other friend from school. “Since there are two of us, we assumed it meant five minutes per person.”

“No, it’s a joint toast. So the joint time should be five minutes.”

“Oh no,” Becks said. “Oh, oh no. That’s going to be tough.” Becks had a tendency to catastrophize.

“I guess we could take out the story about her hooking up with that bartender in New Orleans on spring break?” Shay said.

---