“Something like that,” I said.
Logan chuckled and patted my shoulder as if he had just included me in the fun instead of making me the joke. Then he drifted away to greet new arrivals, already bored with the damage he’d done.
I stood there with a wineglass someone had pressed into my hand and looked around.
My aunt Marlene asked if I was still “good with computers” and whether I could maybe help Ivy and Logan with a wedding website since “those things are probably second nature to you.”
One of Logan’s college friends asked what I did, and when I answered, “I build infrastructure,” he nodded politely and said, “That’s cool, man. Everyone starts somewhere.”
My mother corrected the caterer’s pronunciation of burrata while pretending not to notice I was seated near the far edge of the patio, nowhere close to the central family cluster gathering for photographs.
At one point I watched Ivy and Logan pose beneath a floral arch while three different people adjusted lighting for cell phone video. My mother fluttered around them as if she herself had given birth to elegance. My father laughed too loudly with Logan’s uncle, a man who had already asked me twice whether I was “between opportunities.”
