婚宴

女兒最近的短篇獲獎小說“婚宴”是去年在她一個台灣同學家裏看完電影“You are the apple of my eye"之後創造的，仔細看完之後，讓我想起似乎自己還有每個身邊的朋友或多或少也都可能有人生中類似的經曆。那就是曾經年少輕狂時的同學朋友經曆時光的流逝歲月的蹉跎都有了很大的變化，無論是容顏氣質身材長相還是家庭事業生活環境，每個人多年以後都有非常不一樣的人生軌跡。那年曾經意氣飛揚壯誌淩雲的後來卻默默無聞一事無成，那曾經羞澀怯懦弱不禁風的後來卻威風凜凜八麵玲瓏，那曾經貧寒冷落刻苦努力的後來卻事業豐收意氣風發，那曾經彼此冷落互不來往的後來卻為真正朋友俠肝義膽，那曾經形影不離親密無間的後來卻互為仇敵冷眼相對，那曾經暗送秋波苦心暗戀的後來卻為人妻作嫁衣裳......。“婚宴”大概所想表達的是為那些你曾經嘲笑的曾經敬佩過曾經幫助過的曾經愛慕過的曾經被欺負過的..., 無論他們現在境況如何，都讓我們敞開胸懷放寬心態，為他們祝福，祝福他們一切順利，幸福美滿！
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婚宴

 

這是一個下午，我一身正式端莊的西服坐在一個華麗的餐桌旁，渾身又熱又癢，很不自在。我不耐煩的用手指輕敲著桌子，一邊在等待著。溫暖的晚風吹來外麵的燒烤味，其間夾雜著古龍水與香水的強力混合，以及噴泉裏的潺潺水聲和周圍輕輕的談話聲和笑聲。我們客人們都坐在婚宴招待的地方，我四下環顧，意識到周圍的裝飾打扮很對你的品位。穿過天花板閃閃發光的黃色燈光的拉弦使我想起假日季節裏你的房子的裝飾，那真人大小一飛衝天的雪橇和八個馴鹿，以及從隱蔽音箱傳出的“冬季仙境”的聖誕小曲。每個桌子上的軟粉色玫瑰花束使我想起你性格裏的膽小慎微以及秋季裏你那粉色的臉頰。

 

盡管你還沒有出現，但你已經充滿了這個房間，從後台背景音樂大提琴裏發出的柔和平靜的“卡農D大調“到每個酒杯的碰杯聲和慶祝聲。

 

身邊朋友輕鬆地閑聊著，時不時相互衝對方的胳膊擊打一下，我一邊聽著，一邊追憶起過去我們上學時的日子。身邊的朋友，每個人的臉已經遠離了原來童年的樣子，那是時光已經過去的提醒。   

 

斯蒂芬，那個我們常來用來嘲笑比別人成熟的人，現在看起來的確最顯得老，他講起話時聲音嗡嗡作響，深色頭發過早的在兩側已經花白，嘴邊也布滿線紋。他身著灰色斜紋軟呢西裝並配戴領帶，顯得正式但卻僵硬，這和他以前高中時一身皮夾克搗蛋淘氣的樣子完全不同。但是，當我微微閉上眼睛，我依然可以看到他以前長發少年的模樣，看見他上課遲到二十分鍾走進教室時鬆鬆垮垮眉頭緊鎖的神態。年輕時他不時地從離異父母的一個家搬到另一個家，他從未有過像我們圈子中其他人這樣安逸舒適的生活。我聽說他最近正經曆一個特別困難的時期，他的母親去世後他失去了工作，但我還沒有時間來得及問。然而眼下，他拿著一瓶卡本內紅酒仰頭說笑著， 臉上沒有絲毫的煩惱。

 

坐在斯蒂芬旁邊的是托比，他正停下談話為自己倒了一杯酒。我認為大多數人的朋友圈中都有一個略顯笨拙的的朋友。比如托比，一副圓圓的臉頰，喜好佩戴波爾卡點綴的領結，就是我們圈子中這樣的人。他從來就跟不上我們，無論是體力和智力上。但我們總是讓他進入我們的圈子，因為他很有趣，或者坦率地說，我們為他感到有點難過。盡管他顯得非常浪漫，但他也非常愚拙笨噸，可能與我們圈子中所有人關係最簡單的，卻最不容易分開的人。然而，令人諷刺的是，你不是我們朋友中第一個結婚了的，因為托比去年剛剛打敗了你。他的妻子現在就坐在他旁邊，身著藍寶石禮服，漂亮而苗條。在我們當年上學的日子裏，像她這樣的女孩永遠不會瞧他兩眼的。但我看著托比的手臂懸垂著隨意地搭在她妻子的椅背上，我心想他大概是我們圈子中變化最大的人。他那成熟和自信的方式，是我們以前從來不敢想象的。眼下他已經明顯破繭而出，充滿活力而有信心，我真為他感到高興。

 

坐在我正對麵的是蘭多夫，那個曾經在我們中間成績不斷上升的運動員。我記得，在高中他總是喜歡把自己想象為我們圈子中最酷的人，即使在最炎熱的夏天也不肯脫下他的萊特曼夾克外套。但實際上，作為一個的橄欖球運動員的他成績平平，並沒有得到他幻想得到的很多女孩的青睞。回憶起他令人驚訝的鏟球和積極擲球的動作，我不由的微笑了起來。他現在稍微有些發胖，工作是個信貸員，外表給人的印象是那種喜歡坐在電視機前觀看比賽而不是真正玩球的人。不過，我看到他前額上的小疤痕，那是在對陣我們學校的對手Sharpstwon學校的那場激烈比賽時留下的，我想知道他內心某處是否還殘留當年夢想成為橄欖球明星的那種脆弱幻想。

 

然後就是艾米，我們圈子中的另外一個女孩，那個和你最好的朋友。那時候，你是我們都在暗戀的女孩，你又聰明又漂亮。我們對艾米，就像對待一個小妹妹那樣，經常作弄她，有時嘲諷她不平整的劉海，有時是她磨損的牛仔褲，取笑她癡迷一個男孩樂隊，樂隊的名字我不記得了，取笑她如何唱樂隊唱片封麵的那些爛歌，盡管，現在想起來感覺那很不好。艾米上個月剛剛發行了她的第二張專輯，作為歌星她的名氣還隻是本地的，但她的確是我們圈子裏最有名的，她有非常多的Twitter粉絲。有時候我在想，當年艾米是否曾經在你的陰影之中有過感覺不好的時候，是否在你的聚光燈下有過妒忌的感覺。但我覺得沒有，她可能永遠不會有。因為我覺得她跟我們或其他遇見過你的人一樣，以這樣或者那樣的方式，一直在愛著你。

 

我身子往後麵的椅子緊靠著，舒展一下我的雙腿。趁機抿了一口酒，說實話，因為我覺得，有誰會不喜歡你呢？你是完美的，或接近完美的，完美的讓任何人都想接近。我們都喜歡你，愛你，爭奪你，但我覺得沒有人像我那樣愛你。我情不自禁的回想我們第一次也是唯一的一次約會。

 

那是幾年前上大學期間的第一個假期，大概在感恩節的那周。我們在兩個大學中間的一個小鎮上相遇。那一天開始的時候天氣非常好。我們在鎮子上隨意的走著，相互嘲笑對方的醜陋，互相嚐試小鎮最聞名的很酸的冰棍。 “所以，這是一個約會嗎？” 在半道停下來的時候，我半開玩笑的說。你沒有回答，隻是推我，笑了起來。其實，那一刻我並不在乎，因為與你在一起我就感覺很快樂，但是當把我內心的想法突然告訴你的時候我的心整個下午都不免突突的跳。

 

我們真正的談話是那天晚一些的時候。不知怎的，我們就走到了小鎮上很荒涼的地方，在一個公司的旁邊，有一組廢棄的鐵軌，周圍環繞著一排排軟楓樹。這時天有些冷了，我們倆感覺渾身發抖。我搓了搓雙手，對著它們哈氣，試圖溫暖一下。你微笑，無言遞過你的手套，我很感激地接受了一隻。它是粉紅色，對我來說太小了，我還是戴上了它。

 

你走上鐵軌邊緣，一步一步，伸開雙臂保持平衡。我學著走在另一邊，在你身後幾步。幾個月前的長時間電話中被點燃起來信心，很快就被蒸發了。我們保持距離，默默無言，我覺得非常尷尬，有點不舒服。冥思苦想要說什麽但說不出來，我呆呆的看著你的長發被風吹起，掃落在你的背上，我凝視著周圍路燈燈柱光照之下你的側影。

 

“你知道，” 你突然說話了，讓我驚跳了一下，差點失去了平衡。 “我不是那種你所想象的人。”

 

我猶豫了一下，不知道談話結果會怎麽樣。 “你什麽意思？”

 

“我隻是，”你暫停了一下。 “我隻是沒有......你說的那麽好。我在大學裏的成績不都是很好。有時候，我會一直睡到下午一點或兩點，我會經常為小事兒生氣“。

 

我笨拙地套緊了一下正在滑落的你的手套。 “你為什麽要告訴我這些？”

 

你不舒服聳聳肩。 “我隻是想讓你知道，也許你真的不了解。也許你甚至不喜歡我那麽多。也許......你隻是喜歡想象中的那種女孩。“

 

我繼續往前走著，盯著腳下搖搖欲墜鏽跡斑斑的鐵軌邊緣。那一刻間我們之間空氣似乎靜止了，氣氛非常尷尬。我能聽到你喉間發出的呼吸聲。

 

“我不是那麽想像的，你知道的，”我低下頭，終於表白出來。 “我喜歡你。”
 

“你個傻冒。你甚至沒有去想它，“你說，雖然你已經轉過身，但我能聽到你聲音裏喜悅。

 

我不記得了約會之後發生了什麽。就是那一天，也就是那一次，我有機會，但我錯過了。不知怎麽的，盡管後來我們之間有一起彼此分享的不少時刻，但我們的談話越來越少，直到完全停止。

 

幾年過去了，我們都已經大學畢業，你去了波士頓攻讀您的博士學位。我們就慢慢疏遠了，雖然我一直記得你的生日，你也記得我的。幾周前突然意外接到你打來的電話，邀請我去你參加的婚禮，是以老朋友的名義。電話裏你並沒有提及你婚戀和訂婚故事經曆。事實上，我們並沒有過多談論我們現在如何如何，而是談了以前我們怎樣怎樣，回憶我們以前的老教師，我們在高中時喜歡的人，以及現在他們在幹什麽。

 

最後，我們開始談論我們之間的事，談論我們唯一的那次約會，以及當時相互之間是如何真正感受的。我們愉快地交談著，回憶我們逝去的青春萌動的少年時期。但當我聽到電話那邊傳來的你的笑聲的時候，我眼前出現一幅畫麵，看見你雙腳撐起了桌子上，撚轉著指間的一縷長發，我懷疑，我對你的那些很久以前的感情，我早就忘記的那些，是否真正消失了。電話的時間超過我的預期，是當我上班晚到會議四十分鍾時我才意識到的，然而我感覺隻像過了短短的幾秒鍾，隻是簡短旅行回到我們的過去。你先掛的電話，有些不情願地，說你有幾件差事要辦。然後，過了兩個星期，你的婚禮邀請就來了。

   

鼓掌聲突然打斷了我的回憶。我轉過身，看見你容光煥發，一身美麗的婚禮禮服，而你的樣子，似乎和上次小鎮遇見你時一模一樣。

 

你的頭發往上挽成一個複雜的結，露出你修長的脖子和肩膀，著裝的細節和花邊在你周圍創造出一圈明亮的光環。朋友們的歡呼聲慢慢消退，整個房間似乎隻充滿了你。我注意到你的新郎，他清了清嗓子，等著敬酒發言。他看著有些老態，明顯比我們中其他的人都顯得年齡大。他身材高大，有明顯變老的發跡線。我斜著頭，希望能夠恨他，然而我卻不禁笑了。你沒有看我，你甚至都沒有注意到我的存在，因為你的眼睛一直專注於他身上，沒有看任何人。

    

這一刻，我想我以前是錯了。我想，當你真正愛一個人，你會真心希望她快樂和幸福，真心被人所愛，即使這個人不是你。我想你已經找到了幸福真愛。看著你站在丈夫旁邊，我再次微笑起來，想起了我的秘密日記，想起了我曾經偷偷地關注你，還有我曾經錯過的機會。我看著你閃亮的眼睛和光彩照人的樣子，我開始為你鼓掌。 

The Reception

    It is one in the afternoon, and I am sitting at a fancy dining table, hot and itchy in my suit. I drum my fingers on the surface impatiently, waiting. The warm night blows the smell of barbecue from outside, mixed with the sharp tinge of cologne and perfume, and I hear water gurgling from the fountain outside, quiet conversations, and laughs. We are sitting at the reception, and as I look around, I realize that the decorations are so you. The strings of glistening yellow lights across the ceiling make me think of your house during the holiday seasons, with its life-size, blown up sleigh, all eight reindeer, and “Winter Wonderland” blasting from hidden speakers whenever someone walked by. The bouquet of soft pink roses on each white-clad table reminds me of timid choices and your cheeks in the fall. Although you are not here yet, your presence fills this room, from the quiet sound of “Canon in D” played from the cello in the background to the clink of each wine glass, sounds of celebration.

    I half-listen to the conversations of our friends around me, as they chat and punch each other on the arm and reminisce about our long-gone school days. Their faces, grown versions of their childhood selves, are of the time that has passed.

    Stephen, the one whom we used to tease for pretending to be so much more mature than the rest of us, now does look the oldest, his buzzed, dark hair prematurely graying on the sides, lines around his mouth. His suit is tweed gray with a matching tie, stiff and formal, so outlandishly different from his former leather jacket, bad-ass high school days. But if I close my eyes slightly, I can still see him as the long haired teenager, slouching into class twenty minutes late with a scowl etched on his face. Spending his youth moving from one house of his divorced parents to another, he never had the same easy, comfortable life as the rest of us. I heard that he had been going through an especially hard time lately, losing his job right after the death of his mother, but I haven’t had the time to ask yet. Right now, though, he is throwing his head back and laughing, a glass of cabernet in his hand, worries forgotten in the faces of old friends.

     Sitting beside Stephen is Toby, who pauses from his conversation to pour himself another glass of wine. I think that most friend groups have had that one awkward friend, and Toby, with his round cheeks and penchant for wearing polkadotted bow ties, was the one for us. He could never quite keep up with us, both physically and intellectually, but we always let him tag along because he was funny, and frankly, we felt a little bad for him. Although he was a complete romantic, he was also awkward and clumsy, and probably had the briefest relationships out of all of us, followed by the most uncomfortable breakups. Ironically, though, you are not the first one to get married out of us, because Toby beat you to it just last year. His wife is sitting next to him now, pretty and slender in a sapphire dress. In our teenage days, a girl like her would never have even looked twice at him, but as I watch Toby’s arm drape casually around her chair now, I think to myself that he is the one who has changed the most out of us. He is successful and confident in ways we never could have imagined, his younger self out of his cocoon, and I feel happy for him. 

    Directly across from me is Randolph, who had been the rising athlete among us. I remember that in high school he liked to think of himself as the coolest in our group, and how he had refused to take off his letterman jacket even during the hottest days of summer, though really, he was more of an average football player and didn’t get as many girls as he fantasized. I smile at the painful memories of his surprise tackles and aggressive tosses. He’s gained a little weight now and is an loan officer, an image of someone who would sit in front of the TV and watch the game rather than actually play in it. But I look at the small scar on his forehead from that intense game against our rival school, Sharpstown, and wonder if somehow, in a small part of him, he still holds his fragile fantasy.

Then there is Amy, the only other girl of our group, and your best friend. Back then, you were the one we all had a crush on, the smart one, the pretty one. We treated Amy, with her uneven bangs and fraying jeans, more like a little sister, teasing her about her obsession with a boy band whose name I can’t remember anymore, and how she used to sing crappy covers of their songs. We kind of feel bad about that now, though. She just released her second album last month, and although her celebrity is still more of a local thing, she is more famous than the rest of us will ever be, with a solid Twitter following. Sometimes I wonder if Amy has ever felt bad about being in your shadow, if she has felt jealous of your spotlight. But I feel that no, she probably never has. Because I think that she, like us and anyone who has met you, in one way or another, has been in love with you.

    I lean back in content against my chair, stretching out my legs. Because, honestly, I think, taking a sip of wine, who wouldn't be in love with you? You are perfect, or as close to perfect as anyone can get. We have all liked you, loved you, fought over you, even, but I think that no one has loved you like I have. I can’t help but reflect back to the first and only date we had. It was during the first break of college, years ago, maybe during the week of Thanksgiving. We met up at a halfway point between our schools, in a small town. The day had started out well enough. We walked around, snapped ugly candids of each other, dared each other to try the extremely sour popsicles the town was known for. “So, is this like a date?” I had asked at one point, only half joking. You didn’t answer, but merely shoved me and laughed. I didn’t really care at that point because I was just happy to be with you, but the thought of telling you about my feelings weighed against my chest the entire time. 

    We only really started talking later in the day. Somehow, we ended up in a lonelier part of the city, in the company of a set of abandoned railroad tracks and surrounding soft maples. It was cold, and we were both shivering. I rubbed my hands together and held them against my mouth, trying to warm them. You smiled and wordlessly handed me one of your gloves, which I took gratefully. It was pink and too small for me, and I put it on. 

    You were walking on the edge of the track, one step in front of the other, balancing with your arms outstretched. I followed on the other side, a couple of paces behind you. My confidence, fueled from our long phone conversations from the past few months, was quickly evaporating. With nothing to fill the space and silence but us, I felt awkward, uncomfortable.   Trying to think of something to say, I looked blankly at how your windswept hair trailed down your back, stared at your silhouette, framed by the light from the surrounding lampposts.

 “You know,” you said suddenly, making me jump and almost lose my balance. “I’m not the kind of person you think I am.” 

    I hesitated, unsure where the conversation was going. “What do you mean?”

 “I just,” you paused. “I’m just not as…good as you think. My grades in college haven’t been very good. Sometimes I sleep in all the way till 1 or 2 in the afternoon. I get mad over small things.” 

    I fumbled with your glove, which was starting to slip off. “Why are you telling me this?”

   You shrugged uncomfortably. “I just wanted you to know. Maybe you don’t actually know me that well. Maybe you don’t even like me that much. Maybe... you only like the girl you imagine me to be.” 

    I kept walking, staring at the rusted edges of the crumbling railroad track beneath my feet. The still air hung between us for a long, awkward moment. I could hear your breath catch in your throat. 

 “I’m not that imaginative, you know,” I finally said, looking down. “I like you.” 

 “You idiot. You didn’t even think about it,” you said, and though you were still turned around, I could hear the smile in your voice.

    I don’t remember much of what happened after our date. Only that, even though that day I was given the opportunity, I missed my chance. Somehow, despite all of our small shared moments, we talked less and less, until we stopped altogether. 

    Years passed. We had graduated from college by then, and you were in Boston for your doctorate. We drifted apart, though I always remembered your birthday, and you mine. I remember getting a surprise phone call from you just a couple of weeks before you sent me your wedding invitation, to catch up as old friends. You hadn't mentioned anything about your engagement then. In fact, we didn't talk much about how we were now, but how we were before, reminiscing about our old teachers, people we liked in high school, and what they were doing now. Eventually, we started talking about us, about our only official date, how we really felt at the time. We talked comfortably, our awkward teenage days long behind us, but as I heard you laugh through the phone and pictured you sitting in your house, feet propped up on the table and twirling a strand of hair between your fingers, I wondered if the old feelings I had for you, the ones I had long forgotten about, were truly gone. We talked for longer than I expected, I realized later as I arrived forty minutes late to my meeting, yet it felt like just a few seconds, a brief trip back to our past. You hung up first, reluctantly, saying you had a few errands to run.  Then, two weeks later, your wedding invitation came.

    The sound of applause wrenches me from my thoughts. I turn and there you are, radiant and beautiful in your wedding dress, looking as if not a single day has passed since I’d last seen you. Your hair is up in a complex knot, revealing your slender neck and shoulders, the detailing and lace on your dress creating a halo of brightness around you. The cheers and calls of our friends fade into the background, and the entire room is filled with only you. I notice your new husband when he clears his throat, waiting to make a toast. He is old, obviously older than the rest of us, tall and with a receding hairline. I tilt my head, expecting to hate him, but instead I can’t help but smile. You are not looking at me; you have not even noticed me at all. Because your eyes are so focused on him, you see nothing and no one else. 

    I think then that I was wrong before. I think when you truly love someone, you'll want her to be happy and cherished, loved wholly by someone, even if it is not you. And I think you have found that happiness. Looking at you standing with your husband, I smile again and think of secret notes, of stolen glances and missed opportunities. And, focusing on your shining eyes and radiant beam, I begin to clap.