The Wedding Pact

Table Twelve

Mallory Crane knew Caroline had not created a divorced-people table on purpose. At least, she wanted to believe that. She stood just inside the ballroom entrance with a glass of champagne she had accepted from a passing server and examined the seating chart for the third time as if the names might reorganize themselves if she looked long enough.

Table Twelve. Mallory Crane. Simon Keane. Jennifer Kline. Amy Wu. David Rosen. Natalie Feldman. Patrick O’Donnell. One widower would have made it plausible. One happily single person who had been too busy starting a company to marry would have helped. Instead, Mallory knew Jennifer had broken off an engagement the previous spring, Amy had been divorced for two years, and David had spent cocktail hour explaining to anyone who would listen that his ex-wife had gotten the dog. Caroline had created a table for people whose relationships had failed. Possibly accidentally. Mallory took a long drink of champagne. Beside her, someone said, “You saw it too.”

Mallory turned. The man standing two feet away was looking at the seating chart rather than at her. Dark hair, charcoal suit, no tie clip, no visible wedding ring. He was tall without seeming to have arranged his body around being tall, which was an odd thing to notice and immediately annoyed her. She glanced at him again.

“Table Twelve?” He nodded.

“Could still be random.”

“Absolutely.” Neither moved.

Mallory said, “Although David lost the dog in his divorce.” The stranger finally looked at her.

“You know David?”

“No. He told me in the bar.”

“Ah.”

“He also lost the espresso machine.”

“That feels more personal.” Mallory laughed before she meant to. The stranger looked back at the chart.

“I know Patrick,” he said. “Divorced.”

“How long?”

“Eighteen months.”

“You know that?”

“He was my roommate in grad school.”

“Then you have stronger data than I do.”

“I also know Natalie.” Mallory raised an eyebrow.

“Divorced last year.” She looked at the list again.

“Caroline would never.”

“Who’s Caroline?”

“The bride.”

“That’s reassuring. I know Mark.”

“Groom?”

“Unless this is the wrong wedding.”

Mallory smiled. He had a dry delivery that made each joke sound faintly accidental. A woman trying to reach the seating chart stepped between them, and both moved aside. The ballroom beyond them was filling quickly. Round tables covered in cream linens spread beneath high ceilings and chandeliers, each one arranged with the determined elegance of a wedding venue that wanted guests to understand exactly how much floral centerpieces cost.

Mallory had spent most of cocktail hour with people she had known since college and had still somehow been asked four times whether she was dating anyone. She had been divorced eleven months. Apparently that was the point when concern became recruitment. The man beside her glanced toward the room.

“We should probably accept our fate.”

Mallory nodded toward Table Twelve. “After you.”

“I’m Simon.”

“Mallory.”

They shook hands because neither could think of what else people did after formally introducing themselves beside evidence of a possible social experiment. Table Twelve was near the dance floor but far enough from the band to allow conversation. Mallory took the chair with her back partly toward the room. Simon sat two seats away. That lasted less than a minute. Jennifer appeared, kissed Mallory’s cheek, complained about her shoes, and took the chair between them.

“So,” Jennifer said immediately, “how do you know the groom?” Simon answered.

“Grad school.”

“At GW?” He nodded.

Jennifer turned to Mallory. “And obviously you know Caroline.”

“College.” Jennifer looked delighted by the existence of a bridge between two unrelated social worlds.

“Perfect. Now we’re all friends.”

Mallory knew Jennifer well enough not to challenge this. The other guests arrived gradually. Introductions confirmed the theory without anyone naming it. Amy was recently divorced. Patrick was divorced. Natalie was divorced. David had lost both the dog and the espresso machine. Mallory watched Simon become aware of each new data point. When Patrick finally sat down, Simon leaned toward Mallory behind Jennifer’s back.

“I withdraw random.”

Mallory covered a laugh with her napkin. Dinner began. At first, conversation followed the standard wedding pattern: how everyone knew the couple, where everyone lived, who had traveled, who had children, whether anyone had seen the bride’s father cry during the ceremony. Simon lived in Arlington. Mallory lived in Logan Circle. He was a physical therapist. She worked in publishing.

“What kind?” he asked.

“Book publicity.”

Simon nodded slowly. “So you convince people to care about books.”

“No. I convince media outlets to care about books. Readers are harder.”

“What happens when the book is bad?” Mallory looked at him.

“That is a trade secret.”

“So often.”

“Next question.” He smiled and took a drink of wine. Mallory asked what kind of physical therapy he did.

“Orthopedics mostly. Recreational athletes. Post-surgical rehab.”

“So knees.”

“A lot of knees.”

“Shoulders?”

“Too many shoulders.”

“Backs?”

Simon looked pained. “Everyone has a back.”

Mallory laughed. She liked him. The realization arrived without ceremony and therefore seemed more trustworthy than attraction usually did. She liked the way he listened without preparing to speak over someone. She liked that his humor did not demand an audience. She liked that when Jennifer interrupted him twice during one story, he did not attempt to reclaim the room.

That did not mean she wanted anything. Mallory had become suspicious of the cultural assumption that liking an unmarried man automatically created a project. She could simply enjoy the person sitting near her. That was legal. When dinner plates disappeared, conversation at the table shifted toward the couple’s courtship. David asked Simon whether he was married. The question was not unusual. Mallory still saw the tiny delay before Simon answered.

“Divorced.” David nodded with the immediate solidarity of a man who had lost both a dog and an espresso machine.

“How long?”

“A little over a year.” Mallory looked at Simon. He had already known what Table Twelve was because he belonged there too. Jennifer turned to Mallory.

“You two have that in common.” Mallory closed her eyes briefly. There it was. Simon saved her.

“We also both have jobs.” Jennifer stared at him for half a second, then laughed. Mallory did too.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“I panicked.”

“You panicked well.”

Dessert arrived. They talked around the subject for another half hour. Mallory learned that Simon had been married four years. He learned that she had married at twenty-three.

“Twenty-three,” he repeated.

“I know.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought something.”

“I was trying not to.” Mallory took a bite of cake.

“It seemed reasonable at the time.”

Simon nodded rather than asking the obvious question. Mallory appreciated him for it. Most people wanted divorce explained like a crime. Who did what. Who left. Whether there had been cheating. Whether they were still friends. Whether she regretted marrying young.

The truthful answer was more irritating. She did and she did not. At twenty-three, marrying Andrew had felt like the most natural thing in the world. At twenty-seven, leaving had too. The band started. Jennifer disappeared toward the dance floor with Amy. Simon watched them go.

“You dance?” Mallory asked.

“Under duress.”

“That sounds promising.”

“I can move in time.”

“Strong endorsement.”

“I’m underselling.”

Mallory smiled. She had not expected to enjoy the evening this much. Then Caroline appeared. The bride was flushed, radiant, and moving with the slightly manic energy of a woman who had spent eleven months planning a five-hour event and was now trying to speak personally to one hundred and eighty people. She hugged Mallory.

“You came.”

“I RSVP’d.”

“I know. I’m still grateful.” Caroline pulled back, then noticed Simon beside her. Mark appeared seconds later and solved the connection.

“Keane!”

Simon stood. Mark hugged him hard. Mallory watched Simon change. Only slightly. But enough. He laughed more openly with Mark. His shoulders relaxed. He stopped measuring his responses before giving them. Mark introduced Simon as one of the only people who had tolerated him through graduate school.

“That feels defamatory,” Simon said.

“It’s documented.” Caroline looked from Simon to Mallory. Something bright appeared in her expression. Mallory saw it happen.

“No,” she said. Caroline widened her eyes innocently.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You developed a thought.”

Simon looked between them. Mark understood first and began laughing. Caroline kissed Mallory’s cheek and let herself be dragged away by her husband. Simon sat again.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not nothing.”

“The bride briefly forgot herself.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“No.” Mallory took another sip of champagne.

“Probably.” Simon laughed. Later, Jennifer returned with the urgency of a woman carrying social information.

“Mallory.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I absolutely know what you’re going to say.” Jennifer pointed at Simon.

“Is he your date?”

“No,” Mallory said.

“Yes,” Simon said at the same time. Mallory turned. Simon looked mildly alarmed by his own answer. Jennifer’s face lit up. Simon recovered.

“For dancing purposes.”

“That is not a category,” Mallory said.

“It is now.” Jennifer was already leaving. Mallory watched her disappear into the crowd.

“You made that worse.”

“I know.” Simon stood. Mallory looked up. He held out a hand.

“For evidentiary purposes.”

Mallory laughed and took it. He had not lied about dancing. He could move in time. That was almost the extent of his skill. Mallory discovered this within thirty seconds and enjoyed herself enormously. Simon caught her smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re criticizing my dancing.”

“I’m observing.”

“That sounded worse.”

He stepped slightly closer so another couple could pass. His hand settled at her waist. Mallory felt the change immediately. Not because it was sexual. Because until that moment Simon had existed mostly as a face and a voice across a table.

Now he was physically near her. Warm hand. Clean soap and something faintly citrus. The subtle pressure of his fingers through the fabric of her dress. She looked up. Simon met her eyes. Neither flirted. That made it worse. Or better.

Mallory had not decided. The song ended. They returned to the table but did not sit. The ballroom had grown louder. Someone had started passing tiny espresso martinis. Mallory accepted one. Simon did not.

“You don’t like coffee?”

“I like coffee.”

“Then?”

“I’m thirty.” Mallory stared.

“I need to sleep eventually.”

She laughed. They drifted toward the terrace doors. Outside, October air had cooled the city. Washington stretched around them in lights and glass, the familiar geometry of buildings appearing softer from above. Several other guests were outside, but the terrace was quiet compared with the ballroom.

Mallory leaned against the railing. Simon stood beside her. For a while they talked about weddings. Not marriage. Weddings. The expense. The logistics. The way everyone became temporarily insane about centerpieces. The bizarre obligation of attending ceremonies for people one had not spoken to meaningfully in two years simply because one had once been assigned a dorm room nearby. Simon had attended six weddings since his divorce. Mallory turned.

“Six?”

“Six.”

“That seems punitive.”

“I have three more in the next eight months.”

Mallory laughed. “I have four.”

Simon looked at her. The idea arrived slowly. Not fully formed. Mallory took a sip of champagne.

“You know what divorced people need?”

“Therapy?”

“Besides therapy.”

“I’m listening.”

“Union representation.” Simon looked amused.

“Go on.”

“A reliable plus-one. Someone who understands that attending alone is not emotionally devastating but does result in every married aunt trying to fix your life.”

Simon nodded thoughtfully. “There would need to be rules.” Mallory looked at him.

“You’re taking this seriously.”

“I like rules.”

“That is obvious.”

“What would they be?” Mallory considered.

“No matchmaking each other.”

“Agreed.”

“No abandoning the other person because you meet someone attractive.”

“Reasonable.”

“No pretending to be married.”

Simon frowned. “Why would we pretend to be married?”

“I don’t know. Weddings make people weird.”

“Fair.” Mallory smiled. Simon looked toward the ballroom.

“When’s your next one?”

“Three weeks.”

“Where?”

“Annapolis.”

“Family?”

“My cousin Elise.”

Simon thought for a moment. “I’m free.”

Mallory looked at him. “You’re serious.”

“You suggested a union.”

“I suggested theoretical labor protections.”

“I’m solution-oriented.”

“That sounds unbearable.”

“I’ve been told.”

Mallory laughed. The proposal should have felt ridiculous. Instead it felt strangely sensible. Maybe because the night had already been easy. Maybe because Simon did not feel like someone trying to convert the agreement into something else. Maybe because Mallory liked the idea of arriving at Elise’s wedding with a person who already understood that she did not need to be rescued from being divorced.

“Fine,” she said.

Simon extended his hand. Mallory stared at it.

“We’re shaking on it?”

“I said I like rules.”

She took his hand. “The pact starts in Annapolis.” Simon’s hand was warm around hers.

“Agreed.”

Mallory released him. From inside the ballroom, the band started another song. Neither moved immediately. Three weeks from now, Mallory would bring a man she had met at a divorced-people table to her cousin’s wedding. It was objectively a terrible idea. She was already looking forward to it.