Hangover

For a guy about to get married—a guy no one expected to ever settle down—Peter was solid as a rock.

I, on the other hand, was a bit wobbly. We were in the food court in Macy's basement on Union Square, nursing our hangovers while Kim and Tina searched for something new and something blue. Seizing a table for four, we cracked open bottles of much needed water and kicked our legs up on the extra chairs.

“Gawd, my head!”

“When did you turn into such a pussy?”

“That's what happens after you get married. You'll find out soon enough.”

“Whatever. Just forever hold your peace when we get to that does-anyone-have-any-reason blah blah blah part, all right?”

“But really, all fucking around aside. Tina seems like a nice girl.” And she was, a tall brunette with big soft eyes and model beautiful like all his women. Sweet, too, showing up at the hotel that morning with coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice for two people she'd never met.

“Well, Kim seems to like her. I suppose that's a good sign.”

I couldn't tell if he meant that or not.

With his black cap and wraparound sunglasses, Peter looked like one of those stone-faced card players on the Poker Channel. We were both three years older but his face still had the lean definition of the compulsively athletic, a bony tautness earned from twenty-mile bike rides in skintight Lycra and hours of power yoga, emphasis on power.

That was Peter. Even hung over, he had bothered to shave.

As I took a big gulp from my bottle, his head jerked in reaction to something behind me.

“What is it?” I turned my head.

“No, don't look!” he hissed. “It's someone I used to work with. See that guy in the green sweater?”

I pretended to brush something from my shoulder, craning my head around to steal a peek. The only green sweater was on a father, about our age, mid-thirties. He had three kids, the oldest about eight, another about elbow height, and an infant in a stroller. The middle child was bouncing up and down like a superball. His wife was a pretty woman with long black hair and milky skin. She determinedly spooning a jar of baby food into the infant's mouth.

“You mean Mr. Family Man over in the corner?”

“Yeah, that's him. Tom Wykoff.” The muscles around Peter's jaw tensed as if he were chewing tough meat. “We were kind of friends.”

 “Do you want to say hello?”

“God, no! I hope he doesn't spot us.”

I waited, because I knew there was more to the story and keeping quiet was the best way to get Peter to talk.

“Nice little family there.” He shook his head. “Just goes to show…”

“Sorry, what's that?” I stretched, and pulled down the last of my water.

“You wouldn't believe it.” Peter leaned in to whisper. “Don't let the Kodak moment with the wife and kids fool you. That guy is totally gay.”

I took a careful second look. The Tom Wykoff guy had pulled the middle child, dark and pale like the mother, onto his lap and was simultaneously straightening the oldest boy's collar. He leaned in to give his wife a quick but clearly loving kiss. “I'm not seeing it, Peter.”

“Trust me. I know.”

I kept quiet.

“We used to hang out some. Just at work.” Peter' weaved his hands in the air, looking for a place to start. “Remember when I worked at BeckerTech in Redwood Shores? Tom and I both brought our bikes to work so we started riding together at lunch. You know, all those bike paths down along the bay and around the Oracle office complex. We used to talk, nothing real serious. Which girls were hot, who was the biggest asshole. You know, the usual office shit.”