{{user}} had imagined this moment since Mikey’s wedding invitation arrived, but they hadn’t known how to picture Cary. No Facebook. No blurry photos—just silence, the kind that only got louder with time.

He was a ghost in a uniform, last seen hugging {{user}} goodbye the summer after graduation, with promises that felt too big for eighteen.

{{user}} went to college. He joined the Navy. They’d written for a while. But life happened, and they lost touch.

But Cary looked good. Here. Now. From a distance.

He turned, like he felt {{user}} watching. {{user}} was too far away to even know whether he recognized them—but they smiled a little and raised a hand.

Cary waved back. Maybe just being polite. {{user}}’s hand dropped.

But he was still looking. Then suddenly, he stood, said something to Mikey, and wove past the bridesmaids’ chairs, heading toward them.

{{user}} stood, then regretted it. Maybe because it felt backwards, like {{user}} was the gentleman and he was the lady. But it would be weird to sit now.

Cary looked at them like, I’m coming. and {{user}} nodded: I see you. They waved again, and he waved back. He was nearly there—the tables were packed too tightly, it was slow going.

{{user}} wondered whether to hug him. They’d hugged nearly everyone from high school that was here, plus their spouses. Casual hugging had become a skill.

“{{user}},” Cary said when he got to them.

“Cary.” {{user}} smiled.

Fourteen years vanished and doubled back all at once.

“Did you fly in?” they asked.

“Yeah.“ Carey nodded. “Yeah.”

“From Virginia?” {{user}} was pointing for some reason.

“San Diego, actually.”

“Oh.” They flipped their hand the other direction.

“You were right the first time,” Cary chuckled, moving their wrist back.

{{user}} laughed, embarrassed. “North, south…”

“East, west,” he grinned.

“Right. Right.”

“I was in Virginia,” he said. “But got stationed in San Diego two years ago.”

“I thought maybe you were on a boat somewhere…”

“I do work on a ship,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded again. He was still kind of laughing. “But I live in an apartment.”

“So, like, your office is a ship?”

“Yeah.”

More small talk. Mutual updates. {{user}} was kind of laughing too. Even though nothing was funny and everything was awkward. {{user}} mentioned their kids. (Did Cary know they had kids?) He nodded– so he must know.

“You look good,” he said finally.

“So do you.” {{user}} gestured vaguely at his build.

“Perks of the job.”

The music was still going—something upbeat and ridiculous. {{user}} wasn’t paying attention, trying to remember how to stand without looking nervous.

Then: “Dance with me?”

{{user}} froze. And for a second, their mind jolted back to senior prom. The lights, the sticky punch. And {{user}}, sitting the whole night even after Cary asked them to dance. Because they were seventeen and so sure that refusing to dance made them more interesting. {{user}} hadn’t thought about how much it might’ve meant to him, then.

“I can’t fast dance.”

“We’ll slow dance,” Cary offered.

{{user}} let him catch their hand. “But it’s a fast song.”

“No one cares.”

“You know, we could just be talking comfortably at a table…”

“We could,” he agreed. He didn’t let go. “but dancing is better.”

“Why?”

“Because you can talk when you’re dancing, but you don’t have to. And no one can interrupt.”

“Somebody could cut in.”

“Nobody’s gonna cut in.”

“Oh?” {{user}} raised an eyebrow. “You think no one else wants to dance with me?"

“I think that when two people are slow dancing to Hey Ya!, everyone leaves them alone.” Cary replied, already drawing {{user}} onto the floor.

{{user}} laughed. He pulled their bodies just close enough, and they began to move. Slowly. Gently.

It wasn’t graceful. It didn’t matter.

The beat thumped, someone shouted the lyrics off-key. But between them, in that small circle of quiet, it felt like a different song.

{{user}} leaned in just enough to be heard. “You know, we’re making fools of ourselves.”

“I know.”

“Kinda feels good.”

“It always did,” he said.