This is my first post on this blog since I started it a long time ago. This is a short story that's only partially true. The true parts are in green, and the fiction is in black.

The Maid of Honor

It was hot. And, of course, they’d decided to have the wedding outside. So there we were: sitting under the Sun with no cloud cover or any hope of a breeze. Fantastic. However, the ceremony itself was blessedly short, so the mass sweat party was short lived. Afterward, the wedding party went to a shaded area outside for pictures while everyone else went inside. I knew the majority of the groomsmen and hadn’t had a decent talk with any of them in a while, so I stayed outside in the shade.

After the usual small talk and a little tomfoolery, the maid of honor joined the circle. She was pretty; the subtle kind of pretty you don’t notice at first, like that girl from The Chronicles of Riddick, which made it all the better. After a little more of just talking, still in the context of the circle, the groomsmen and others who made up the circle just started leaving; eventually, only she and I remained.

We exchanged a few comments about things around us and I managed to make her giggle; not laugh, giggle. This giggle boosted my confidence, and consequently, a line popped into my head I had always wanted to use. Every time the opportunity arose to use said line, however, I either chickened out or it didn’t apply at that time. I even saw the scene playing out in my head:

Me: I’m sorry, what’s your name?

Her: Amanda.

Me: Amanda? Hi, Amanda, I’m single—I mean I’m Elliott! My name’s Elliott. Sorry.

And she’d laugh and we’d talk the rest of the night and I’d eventually get her number and we’d maybe try a date or two. At the thought of this possibility, my heart began to pound. I looked over at her, she smiled back at me pleasantly, and I said:

Me: I’m sorry, what’s your name?

Her: I’m Amanda.

Me: Amanda? Hi, Amanda, I’m Elliott.

Now, understand, small Blog audience, I’m no Hollywood cliché of the too-cool-for-school ladies’ man who gets all the girls, but I’m also not that guy who can’t talk to anyone prettier than his mother. I have my moments on both sides of this fence, and I don’t like to brag, but that day? That day, I was feeling pret-ty  good about myself. Within seconds of our official meeting, I had established that she was a friend of the bride’s and the maid of honor (which meant she was most likely a devout Christian). On top of this information, I got her laughing. Jackpot.

Soon thereafter, it was her turn to take pictures with the newlyweds, so I stepped over to speak with two of the groomsmen again. After some poking about my subtle flirting, the three of us set about thinking of clever, cheesy ways to get her number. Both of them finally decided that the best course of action would be to convince her I was a part of some charity organization. I didn't say it out loud, but in my head I quickly resigned that idea to the "bad" section.

Pictures took some time, as they often do at weddings, so I went to settle in at the reception. After the bride had gotten all the pictures taken that she wanted, the wedding party lined up to be announced into the reception, and shortly after, the guests began to line up for food. So there I stood; in the food line that passed in front of the wedding party table, talking to some friends that had also come to the wedding, and making small talk with those behind the wedding table.

As the line progressed forward slowly, I reached the best man and the groom, followed by the bride, and then, although I knew it was coming, I still didn’t have anything clever to say to the maid of honor. She looked at me, waiting for me to talk and vice versa. Finally, after a slightly uncomfortable silence, I said the only thing I could think of. “So… You, uh, come here often?” She gave me a look like I had just said the weirdest thing in the world, and I returned with a look like I had no idea who said that or from where it came. That got a small laugh.

Nevertheless, the line pushed on, and by the time I had received my roast beef sandwich, I had convinced myself that she, like most pretty girls, was out of my league. So, I became content with talking with friends at my table.

By the time I had finished eating, the serving tables had been cleared, the DJ had started the music, and I was alone at the table. At least, I didn’t know anybody else at the table. Another thing one may or may not know about me is that I am not a dancer. I wish I was, but I’m far too self conscious to get up there and, as they say, get down.

While I watched my friends make fools of themselves and wished I had the courage to do so, Amanda came over and sat down just out of my peripheral vision at the adjacent table. “Are those your friends?” She didn’t shout it, but she didn’t exactly whisper it either. So yes, you guessed it. It scared me. Well, actually, scared is a strong word; closer along the lines of startled. It was enough of a start to make me drop my phone which I had in my hand, but not enough to make me wet my pants.

Not only the fact that her comment made me drop my phone in heart-attack-style panic, but also the fact that I tried to play it cool as though nothing had happened gained me another laugh. I was getting to the point to where I understood consciously what made her laugh and could do so with relative ease now, and as I have learned these past few years in life, the more you can make someone laugh, the more they will want to be around you (depending on the person of course).

We went back and forth from there. I learned that she wants to be a nurse, but doesn’t want to get caught up in student loans, so she plans on staying where she is at Macy’s and eventually work her way through med school. I shared with her that it’s always been my dream to act, but the success to fail ratio was way too high and I wasn’t good enough to meet that standard, so I turned to teaching. Little, but important things like this filled the next two hours.

At one point, my father called my name, and when I looked over, he gave me the USAF sign for, “We’re leaving.” I couldn’t leave just yet, the night was going so well. So, after some discussing with said father, I arranged a ride home with the friends that had come. Perfect. This meant more time.

The night went on with more laughs and smiles than before, and that feeling that’s cheesy to talk about anywhere outside of your own head began to brew up inside of me. Then, like a Hollywood moment, a slow song came over the speakers.

We laughed about the cheesy idea surrounding the thought of a dance floor and a slow song for a moment. Nevertheless, when she looked, I followed her glance over my shoulder to the dance floor. I swallow, turn around to ask her to dance, and she’s gone. I only had half of a second before I realized what had happened, but in that time, I was surprised, confused, and defeated.

Before I completely resigned my state of mind to one of depression, however, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, and there she stood. “Dance with me?”

Of course, I couldn’t say yes right away; I wouldn’t want her to like me TOO much. So I gave a sarcastic, “Weeeeeell I suppose…” As we walked to the front, the back of my mind mentioned the fact that the song was already more than half over, and I wept. On the inside of course. So we danced. Barely.  The song was over before we had really started.

Now, I’m no DJ expert, but I do know that at every high school dance, never once did the DJ play two slow songs back to back. Today was not the case. “Alright, everybody, y’all seem to be enjoying yourselves, so how about one more slow one? Then we’ll speed things up again.” We both smiled at each other and gave the questioning look that wondered whether or not the other one wanted to stay for the second song.

I pulled her a little closer, and she didn’t refuse the offer. The thought crossed my mind several times that she was that perfect height that allowed her to perfectly rest her head on my shoulder, but I didn’t want to act on it. I barely knew her. We didn’t say much, really. It took me a while to collect a thought that didn’t have to do with whether or not I thought she liked me.

This time, before the song even ended, my friend with whom I was getting a ride tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, man, we’re leaving.” The song then ended like the night: too soon.

We looked at each other and I pretty unsuccessfully swallowed back the tremble in my voice,” So listen, um, I’m not sure where this is going, but, um, how about we start with a number?” She took my phone, put her number in, and gave it back to me. “Oh, and do you text?” I asked.

“Yep. Unlimited mobile to mobile!” she confirmed.

“You sound like a commercial,” I laughed while I took my phone back and texted her the message, “Dinner tomorrow night?”

“I can’t,” she said. And after a pause that led me to believe that this was the end of the road, she added, “But I’m free the next night?”

We made our dinner plans at a restaurant on Mass Street in Lawrence, and agreed on the details, and before we left, Amanda helped us find the bride and groom for a final congratulations. A little small talk about the exciting details surrounding the wedding and the honeymoon and some reassuring remarks about the married life from my friend, and we left.

Behind us, Amanda let the bride and groom ahead of her into the reception building. As she followed, she turned and looked over her shoulder at me. As my ride and I were strolling to the far end of the gravel parking lot, I slowed down and looked over my shoulder at her. And our eyes met one last time.