Strangers In The Night

5. 37 Hours, 39 Minutes Until It Ends

"It – it's like you're self-sabotaging intentionally."

'I am.' Yet Bo deflated, grimacing under his breath. His arms tightened over his chest. He clenched his jaw, angry puffs of air through his nose. A shiver crawled over his skin, and that familiar inky sadness washed through him, numbing his hands, inching up his arms until he felt alone, standing under a single spotlight where the rest of the world was dark. He was in everyone's way, and no one wanted him there. Bo wanted to retreat, disappear for the rest of the weekend, but no matter his decision, it would make someone disappointed in him – his sister, the other guests, his parents. There was no winning. He glanced down at the green and brown carpet underneath his worn leather shoes, swallowing back the stinging behind his eyes.

And then there was him. Him. The shorter guest from the terrace, whose stare was soft and smile easy and hands enticing. Every atom in his being hummed, electric at the mere thought of running into him again. It left Bo breathless, fidgeting, and wishing to be everywhere with him and no one else. He couldn't rationalize it. It scared him.

"You saying I don't listen? I'm listening now. Go ahead. Tell me why you don't want to be here."

"...I don't know anyone."

"You're almost 30. Try."

"I could be working right now."

"At a job you hate."

"At least I'd be getting paid for time wasted."

"We're not letting you wallow anymore."

Bo tsked her, stomach set alight in rage. "Not the right word, dear sister."

"Then what would you call your pathetic motivation?"

"Loss," he almost spat, but Bo caught himself just as he breathed. No one saw the devastation of his passion for music dying in front of him because school was more important. Because everything was more important. He stopped dancing. He stopped playing the piano and the cello in one fell swoop, the sweet joy of it turning into endless scales and monotony. What once sparkled was left behind, and Bo regretted every moment he turned his back on it. And when music started loving him again – when the world shifted away from grades, social hierarchies, and memorization – Bo considered it too late. He was tired of reaching and never being close enough, loving something that didn't love him in the same way, too rusty to approach the instruments and dances, too unqualified to fall back into his love. So he left it all, dusty and unkempt, at arm's distance.

"Resignation," he almost spat.

"Well?" Ada asked.

"It's not my fault I'm unqualified for everything I wanted to do."

"'Unqualified' implies you ever fucking tried." Before Bo could rebuff her claim, Ada continued, "Look, it's fine and dandy that you don't want to be here, but you are here."

"Because everyone said I had to, and I had no other choice."

"Not wanting to be here doesn't change that you're still here. 'But it's temporary,' I hear you say. Whine. So is your job, Bo, yet you still drudge through it like everyone else. Y –" Ada groaned, more frustrated than angry. "I should've left you at home. I should've left you at home, and never heard the end of this from Mom and Dad because I actually know people here, you dipshit, and you're fucking embarrassing me by being the worst kind of angsty 15-year-old."

Bo scoffed, snarled his teeth, yet could not bring himself to continue the charade with her. His stomach started sinking, his eyes watered, and Bach/Siloti's 'Prelude in B minor' started running through his head, spiraling down in beautiful notes. Reasonable justification fumbled and vanished from his mind to his mouth. His throat turned bone dry.

"Don't grovel at me, Bo. You know better. Just – "

"I don't want to be here, Ada."

"Well, you are."

"And you say you're listening."

"Shut up, Robert."

He flinched. Bo turned away, contemplating getting an Uber all the way home. 'That'd really piss her off,' he thought, enticed. "What do you want me to say? You brought me here. I didn't want to come, I don't know anyone here, and I'd rather – "

Ada sighed through her teeth and waved him off. "I'm warning you now, if you don't become less of an antisocial ass by the end of this goddamned dinner, I'm going to out you as the one who smashed Nana's china to Mom and Dad."

His blood ran cold. It boiled a second later. "If you do that, I'll tell them where you really went during your Junior Year spring break."

Ada fumed. "I'll tell them about that one time you slapped me in the face."

"Then I'll tell them about that time immediately after you slapped me back."

"I'll tell them about the noodle incident in fourth grade."

"You can't prove it was me."

"Try me. Fucking try me."

"You wouldn't."

She raised a finger. "One person. That's the bare minimum. One fucking person for you to talk to. That's it. It's not impossible."

"If no one wants to talk to me, then –"

"How about you network a little? Get out of that shitty job you say you hate but stay at for reasons unknown to literally every human in existence."

"I'd rather dance to 'The Ketchup Song' on the reception desk in broad daylight."

"Shut up, Bo." Ada stepped closer, a finger pointed at him. "I'm going back inside to talk to the people I know and clean up after your bad behavior. Please, for the love of all that is holy, don't come back until you're ready to talk to someone like an adult. I don't care if you have to swallow your goddamned pride or chop off your balls for this. You're not ruining this wedding for me or anyone else here. Understand?" Ada turned on her heels and strolled back inside, fanning away the heat of frustration radiating off her.

Bo's feet stayed planted. He could imagine the muffled pantomime of his sister sitting back at table 8, her face twisted in apology and embarrassment. Someone at the table waved her off, and the world moved on without him. He sat on the nearby fountain again, wiping his hands over his face. 'Be in the moment,' he told himself again, yet all he could hear was that guy from L.A. whose voice reminded him of beige paint drying. "No one would notice I'm gone," he whimpered. "Everyone would probably be better off if I left. If I got a cab home, no one here would care." It would cost a fortune, but Ada would be better if he was gone. The thought filled the base of his chest with a heavy, suffocating feeling, unrestrained in its melancholia. He sat in it, the feeling tinted pale blue and black. There was no warmth in it.

Resolve dissolved from his being, and his eyes grew heavy. He stayed on the fountain's edge for who knows how long, his gaze unfocused and fingers numbed to the scant air conditioning. People walked around him, but he didn't register them. "One person," he said, the words coming out as quietly as breaths. "One dumb, pretentious person to talk to tonight." Bo stood, legs wobbling. "Drag them down for socialization, make things right with Ada, and never speak to them again." His feet moved like they were encased in concrete, slow and heavy.

Seeing the restaurant, Bo ran a hand over his throat, staring. Indeed, everything felt the same from the plate-glass windows, the rehearsal dinner continuing without him. 'I could still go for some air,' he thought, trembling hands dropping to his sides as he beelined for the door to the terrace. He turned his eyes away from his table, hoping Ada wasn't staring at him. He'd talk to someone later.

"Oh...no. I trained as an architect," someone said peripherally. "Just because I'm not doing it right now doesn't mean I don't ever want to do it."

His hand moved on its own, whipped from his side. Bo turned without thinking.

"Jesus Christ – !" The guest from the terrace turned to him, shuddering at the sudden contact. "Oh. Hi."