My toast. Owen laughed at the right moment. Claire looked at her hands when I said the thing about precision and honesty, and then she looked up at me, and that was the moment I thought: we’re going to be okay. Not today, not instantly. But eventually.
The dancing. I danced with my mother, which we do not often do, and she held me tighter than she usually does, and neither of us said anything, which was the right choice.
Owen’s parents, who turned out to be warm and curious and not at all the audience whose impression Claire had been so worried about managing. His mother was interested in my work. His father had opinions about the Hudson Valley’s restaurant scene that I enjoyed debating. If there was any residue of whatever story Claire had told them in January, I didn’t find it.
The moment I chose to leave. Nine-thirty, with an hour of the reception still left. My friend was ready to go. I found Claire, who was dancing with Owen, and I touched her shoulder, and she turned and hugged me — a real hug, arms around my back, face in my shoulder.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
That was all that was needed.
I shook Owen’s hand. He said: “Drive safe.” I said: “Congratulations.” We looked at each other for a moment with the understanding of two people who have been through something together and are now, hopefully, on the other side of it.