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well-wishes for the shaken man and congratulations for the medical technician. It’s Jim!
You elbow through the crowd to his side. “Didn’t know this wedding came with a floor show,” you say, gripping him by the shoulder as a proud parent might.
“First time I ever performed a Heimlich on a real patient.”
“No shit?” you say, unnerved by the quaver in his jaw.
The bridegroom shows up with an armload of Jagerbombs, and you join the half-dozen others in a rousing salute to the hero, then follow Jim to his table.
“You never told me you were a paramedic,” you say, your eyes searching the room for the blonde.
He runs his hand through his hair. “I’m not. Not yet. I failed my first EMT exam, but I can retake it next month.”
“So—that story you told me about starting your own head shop. Just date talk?”
“No, it was true. I tried, just couldn’t get the financing.”
You shove your palm against his chest. “You said you were going to hire me as your store manager. Asshole. Good thing I didn’t quit my job.”
“Good thing my sister talked me into going back to EMT school. She’d be proud of me today.” His eyes scour the room. “She left before all this happened.”
“Who? Blondie?” you say, trying to work up a scowl.
“Her sitter called. Her son has a low-grade fever. She wanted to be here for Becky. They went to high school together.”
The band launches into a Foo Fighter’s song, and Jim pulls you onto the dance floor. His hair smells like a sixties paperback—zen and the art of the banal—his waxy neck starchy, salty, reeking of anguish.
Across the room, Rollo returns to his seat, a shot of gold liquor in each fist. He lays one on the table in front of Carlos as he sits. They click their glasses together, lick salt from the side of their hands, follow it up with a lemon