The Wedding Guest
Claire watched the ice swirl in her glass, the amber liquid catching the dim bar light. Across from her, John was leaning on the table, his voice slurred with the weight of too many drinks and too much regret.
"I just--God, I don't know. I don't want to be that guy. You know, the sad divorcé at the wedding, everyone whispering about me. 'Poor John. Look at him. Still hasn't bounced back.'"
Mark took a slow sip of his beer. He didn't say much. He never did when John was around. Claire could feel it--the tension humming beneath the surface. She had seen that look before in her husband, that flicker of something dark whenever John cracked a joke she laughed too hard at.
"C'mon, John," Claire said, nudging his arm. "You should go. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking you're too broken to show up."
John scoffed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Yeah, because there's nothing sadder than a guy going solo to a wedding."
"Then take a date," she said. "You're a catch. You could find someone."
John shook his head. "Not in a week. What kind of lunatic takes a first date to a wedding?"
Later that night, back home, Claire lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while Mark read beside her. She couldn't shake John's face from her mind--how lost he had looked.
"It's awful," she said, turning toward Mark. "What happened to him. I mean, Sarah just left him out of nowhere."
Mark grunted, flipping a page.
"And now this wedding--God, it's going to be so hard for him. Can you imagine going alone, knowing everyone is judging you?"
Mark exhaled slowly.
"Yeah," he said. "That sucks."
She turned onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. "I just--I don't know. I feel bad for him."
Mark smiled to himself a bit at her remark. Yes, Claire felt bad for John. Every woman in town felt bad for John. And they all probably spent way too much time thinking about how he was doing.
Mark didn't dislike John. To the contrary, Mark and John had known each other for years--not just in the casual way that people who live in the same town do, but in the way that men who have spent hours together on the sidelines of kids' soccer games, nursing beers at dads' nights out, and sharing rounds at the local pub do. They weren't best friends, but they were solid--part of the same circle, woven together by proximity, routine, and the unspoken camaraderie of fatherhood.
When John's marriage collapsed six months ago, Mark had been there. They all had--Mark, Claire, and their group of friends. They listened, they bought him drinks, they let him vent. And when John moved into an apartment just around the corner from their house, their lives naturally began to intersect even more. Mark ran into him at the store, at the coffee shop, jogging past their house. Claire, too.
And that part, if Mark was being honest, was the part that nagged at him.
He told himself it wasn't a big deal. John was a good-looking guy--it was just a fact. He had an incredible build, the kind of physique that made people assume he lived at the gym, when really, it was just decades of playing and coaching baseball. And then there was the job--high school teacher, baseball coach. The guy was practically engineered to be swooned over. Every mom in town had, at one point or another, giggled a little too much around him. Why should Claire be any different?
But still, it bothered him.
Mark had never voiced it--never would--but every time he and Claire ran into John, he felt that same, familiar irritation crawl under his skin. Claire was so obviously attracted to him, and either didn't realize how obvious she was being or didn't care.
So when she lay in bed that night, after they'd seen John at the bar, going on about how much she felt for him, it registered a bit different for Mark. He felt bad for John too, but he wasn't about to fall asleep dreaming about the guy.
--
A couple of days later, Mark was halfway through his afternoon when his phone buzzed. A text from John.
Hey man, you around for a beer tonight?
Mark didn't think twice before responding.
Yeah, sure.
That evening, they met at a pub just outside town, one of their usual spots. John had already grabbed a booth, and as soon as Mark sat down, a beer slid across the table toward him.
"Thanks," Mark said, taking a sip.
John leaned back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Listen, man, I just wanted to say thanks--to you and Claire. You guys have been really good to me."
Mark waved him off. "Come on. You don't have to say that."
"No, I do." John exhaled. "The other night... I was kind of a mess. I was drunk, and I probably said some dumb shit. I just appreciate you guys listening."
Mark shrugged. "Don't be crazy. You're going through it. I get it. Anything I can do to help, just let me know."
John looked at him. Hesitated.
"Well, now that you mention it..."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Oh boy."
John laughed, but there was a thread of nervousness in it. "So, I've been thinking about this. You and Claire were so good about this the other night. And you're the only people I've told about this, so I figured I'd ask."
"Ask what?"
John took a breath. "Could Claire come to the wedding with me?"
Mark blinked.
John held up his hands immediately. "Dude, do
not
get the wrong idea. I'm not trying anything out of bounds here. It would be
strictly
as friends. I swear. Scouts honor."
Mark stared at him, his mind tripping over itself. "What?"
John leaned forward. "It would just totally change the entire day for me, man. Like--imagine going alone versus walking in with Claire. Come on, you
know
your wife is hot. If she came, it would be the difference between me being the sad, lonely divorced guy, or the guy who's already dating beautiful women. The whole vibe changes."
Mark let out a low, disbelieving laugh. "That's... a fucked up idea."
John smirked. "I know."
They both laughed, but the air between them had shifted.
Mark took another sip of his beer. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious," John said. "I'm telling you, man. It would make all the difference. And I promise, nothing weird. Just friends at a wedding. And by the way, this wedding is gonna be insane--ceremony at Riverside Church, rooftop reception at the Peninsula. Claire would have a
blast
."
Mark ran a hand down his face. He couldn't believe he was even entertaining this.
"I don't know, man," he finally said. "Honestly. That's a big ask."
John nodded. "I get it. Just... think about it. Maybe talk to Claire."
Mark took a long sip of his beer.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I'll think about it."
--
Mark walked home slowly, the night air thick and warm, his mind buzzing louder than the crickets in the distance.
It was absurd. Completely fucking absurd.
John was his friend, and yet Mark felt that familiar gnawing unease twisting in his gut.
It wasn't just this one thing--this one request. It was the accumulation of little things over time. Claire and John had known each other for years, and every time they were together, it got under Mark's skin in a way he hated to admit. The way she laughed at John's jokes just a little too hard, the way her body language shifted around him, the way her eyes followed him when he walked away.
Mark told himself it was nothing. That she acted like that with everyone. Claire was friendly, warm, engaging. People were drawn to her, and she liked the attention. But John was different.
John was
John
.
A good-looking guy, ridiculously in shape. That kind of effortless athleticism that women instinctively responded to. On top of that, he was a high school teacher and baseball coach. The most
mom-friendly
profession in the world. Women loved him.
And Claire? She wasn't blind.
It had always annoyed Mark, but now, with this request hanging in the air, it
bothered
him.
Because, if he was honest with himself, objectively, there was a chance something could happen.
Claire was
gorgeous
. Even now, at forty-five, she was in better shape than most women in their twenties. Always had been, but lately? Jesus. She had rounded out in a way that made her body even more striking--curves in all the right places, toned legs, an ass that made guys do double-takes when she walked by. Mark wasn't stupid. He saw the way men looked at her. He
knew
they hit on her.
And in some ways, that turned him on. It always had.
It was something he had never admitted out loud, even to himself, until recently. But the truth was, he got a charge out of knowing other men wanted her--out of imagining the way they looked at her, the things they might say.
And he knew she looked at men too. In fact, over the years, he suspected she might have done more than look. She and her friends weren't angels. He knew damn well that on those girls weekends to Florida they flirted, danced, let guys buy them drinks. And, hell, maybe even more than that. He had spent more than a few sleepless nights driving himself crazy, wondering what might have happened.
And it wasn't just the girls' trips.
Years ago, at her high school reunion, Claire had reconnected with an old boyfriend. She swore nothing had happened, but Mark had
felt
something shift afterward. A distance, an energy. And even though the suspicions had made him sick at the time, now, looking back, he almost--
almost
--thought about it as a fantasy.
It was weird, how his mind worked now. As he got older, these ideas, these
images
of Claire being bad, didn't just haunt him--they
enticed
him. He thought about them when they were in bed together. Sometimes when he was alone. He even sought out stories and videos online that played into those fantasies.
But those were just thoughts. Private.
This? This was real.
This was John. Someone they
knew
. Someone who lived right around the corner. Someone he would have to see the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Someone Claire would see, and continue to have a relationship with. Nothing about this was abstract or distant.
And then there was the town.
People
would
find out. Gossip spread like wildfire here. The idea of people whispering, of the sideways glances, of anyone thinking something was going on between Claire and John--it made his stomach turn. That, he could not live with.
But maybe... maybe he was overthinking this.
Maybe Claire could just go as a friend. Maybe it was just a wedding, a favor. John wasn't an idiot. He wasn't a gossip. If they did this, no one in town could ever know. That would have to be the condition. John could keep his mouth shut.
Mark exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
Fuck it.
He would mention it to Claire.
--
Mark sat on the couch, beer in hand, watching Claire move around the kitchen. She was cutting fruit, methodically, absentmindedly humming to herself. He watched the way her body moved, the way her jeans hugged her hips.
He took a sip of his drink.
He had told himself he was going to bring it up casually. Just slide it into conversation, see how she reacted. But now, sitting here, he realized there was no
casual
way to say this.
Still, he had to do it.
"Hey," he said finally.
She glanced up. "Hey what?"
He exhaled. "I saw John tonight."
She looked at him fully now, interested. "Oh yeah? How's he doing?"
Mark smirked. "Well... that's the thing."
Claire arched an eyebrow. "What thing?"
"He, uh... he asked me something. Something kinda weird."
That got her attention. She set down the knife. "Weird how?"
