Always a Groomsman

Chapter 6: Drawn to Him

Chapter 6: Drawn to Him

I slipped his business card into one of my pockets, reached for his outstretched hand, and shook it. “Cannon Rake.”

“That’s a powerful name.”

“It’s English. I believe my relatives were from the Elizabeth I period. The Rakes were sentries.”

“I rather like my men in uniform.”

“This is my uniform here.” I held up my Nikon. “He and I pay the bills from these gigs.”

He asked about my job, and I told him.

I asked, “What exactly is Always a Groomsman?”

Long story short: one of his gay male friends asked him to fill in as a groomsman approximately five years ago when the scheduled groomsman fell off a ladder and ended up in a coma.

Patrick said, “It gave me the best business opportunity of my life. You’d be surprised how many grooms need groomsmen because of last-minute tragedies and situations. Or the grooms hire me in advance because they can’t rely on any of their friends to be a groomsman.”

“Interesting,” I said. “How many weddings do you attend in a week?”

“Sometimes three. I work on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays.”

“Do you do straight weddings?”

“I do any kind of wedding, Cannon.”

I liked him, but really didn’t know why. Yes, he was good-looking and appealed to my carnal needs. But there were other attributes about the man that I was attracted to: his soft-spoken voice, the way he looked at me when he spoke instead of drifting his glance elsewhere, and how the man could carry out a conversation, not lingering from word to word in silence. There wasn’t anything worse than a guy who couldn’t find immediate topics to discuss. Silence was brutal, in my opinion, and somewhat lethal. Those were the men I tried to avoid and stayed away from, keeping them at bay. Patrick didn’t fall in that category, though. Rather, he seemed sweet, charming, and wasn’t shy at all to ask me questions. Being introverted was certainly not in his repertoire, which was probably why I felt drawn to him, wanting to discuss more topics with the man.

Ira, one of the grooms, whisked Patrick away from me and escorted him to a table that was occupied by six smiling and beautiful male jocks. I knew four of the six soccer players who played for the Templeton Tornadoes. Two of the men were gay, and I had dated them a few years ago. I was unsure of the others, not that it mattered. One of the gays pulled out two chairs, and Patrick and Ira were told to sit down. A toast was executed with the grooms, drinks were consumed, and chatter started to erupt around the table.

To my surprise, Patrick made eye contact with me from across the room. He winked and nodded. Then he smiled, which told me that he enjoyed our short chat and maybe intended to spend more quality time with me.

Truthfully, I wanted to lock lips with the guy and become lost in his world. There was so little I knew about him, but was interested in learning everything I could. I failed to understand why I was emotionally charged by him. A sense of serendipity kicked in beneath my skin, close to my heart. Why did Patrick Brogan make me smile? And why did he cause me to feel warm near my neck, somewhat nervous? I didn’t know, but soon I would find out, of course.

Patrick did not make conversation with me during the rest of the evening because of his position as a groomsman. Instead, he fraternized with the grooms, their relatives, and the pair’s close friends. Although he was jolly, I witnessed him drinking tonic water instead of whiskey shots. He smiled when necessary to his clients, spoke whimsical conversation, and performed like a great actor of the stage, faking his enjoyment.

Before leaving for the night, hours into the reception, we made eye contact for a final time. He winked again and nodded. A grin covered his face that told me of his interest and that he had hoped to see me again, perhaps at our next wedding venue.

* * * *

Another bizarre dream took over my sleep that night. The nameless boy was present again, leaving me feel somewhat unsettled. We were sitting along the Niagara River, watching the swirling and rapid water churn by. There was a picnic basket filled with bags of candy: Snickers, Twix, Sour Patch Kids, sugar straws, gummy bears, and waxed bottles filled with sweet syrup.

“You know I have a disorder, right?” he asked, opening a Snickers and concentrating more on the candy bar than me.

I nodded. “What kind, though? I’m not sure.”

“Autism. It’s hereditary. My senses are wacked.”

“Wacked?” Confused, I scratched my temple.

“I’m special. Everyone knows it. I’m sure you know it, too.”

“Who’s everyone?” I asked. He had yet to tell me his name, anything at all, about his family.

“You don’t know?”

I shook my head this time. “Of course, I don’t know. How could I know?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Really, you will. I can feel it. Yes, I can. Honestly.”

I woke in a state of confusion, spiraling out of the dream of the young and autistic boy. I tasted sugar, caramel, peanuts, and chocolate in my mouth. The thick sweetness lulled in the back of my throat and made me want to brush my teeth. I craved a cup of coffee and a shower, physical actions of reality. I climbed out of bed, headed for the bathroom, and started my day, putting the dream aside, sealing it away within the dark compartments of my mind that I rarely, if ever, used.