婚宴

女儿最近的短篇获奖小说“婚宴”是去年在她一个台湾同学家里看完电影“You are the apple of my eye"之后创造的，仔细看完之后，让我想起似乎自己还有每个身边的朋友或多或少也都可能有人生中类似的经历。那就是曾经年少轻狂时的同学朋友经历时光的流逝岁月的蹉跎都有了很大的变化，无论是容颜气质身材长相还是家庭事业生活环境，每个人多年以后都有非常不一样的人生轨迹。那年曾经意气飞扬壮志凌云的后来却默默无闻一事无成，那曾经羞涩怯懦弱不禁风的后来却威风凛凛八面玲珑，那曾经贫寒冷落刻苦努力的后来却事业丰收意气风发，那曾经彼此冷落互不来往的后来却为真正朋友侠肝义胆，那曾经形影不离亲密无间的后来却互为仇敌冷眼相对，那曾经暗送秋波苦心暗恋的后来却为人妻作嫁衣裳......。“婚宴”大概所想表达的是为那些你曾经嘲笑的曾经敬佩过曾经帮助过的曾经爱慕过的曾经被欺负过的..., 无论他们现在境况如何，都让我们敞开胸怀放宽心态，为他们祝福，祝福他们一切顺利，幸福美满！
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婚宴

 

这是一个下午，我一身正式端庄的西服坐在一个华丽的餐桌旁，浑身又热又痒，很不自在。我不耐烦的用手指轻敲着桌子，一边在等待着。温暖的晚风吹来外面的烧烤味，其间夹杂着古龙水与香水的强力混合，以及喷泉里的潺潺水声和周围轻轻的谈话声和笑声。我们客人们都坐在婚宴招待的地方，我四下环顾，意识到周围的装饰打扮很对你的品位。穿过天花板闪闪发光的黄色灯光的拉弦使我想起假日季节里你的房子的装饰，那真人大小一飞冲天的雪橇和八个驯鹿，以及从隐蔽音箱传出的“冬季仙境”的圣诞小曲。每个桌子上的软粉色玫瑰花束使我想起你性格里的胆小慎微以及秋季里你那粉色的脸颊。

 

尽管你还没有出现，但你已经充满了这个房间，从后台背景音乐大提琴里发出的柔和平静的“卡农D大调“到每个酒杯的碰杯声和庆祝声。

 

身边朋友轻松地闲聊着，时不时相互冲对方的胳膊击打一下，我一边听着，一边追忆起过去我们上学时的日子。身边的朋友，每个人的脸已经远离了原来童年的样子，那是时光已经过去的提醒。   

 

斯蒂芬，那个我们常来用来嘲笑比别人成熟的人，现在看起来的确最显得老，他讲起话时声音嗡嗡作响，深色头发过早的在两侧已经花白，嘴边也布满线纹。他身着灰色斜纹软呢西装并配戴领带，显得正式但却僵硬，这和他以前高中时一身皮夹克捣蛋淘气的样子完全不同。但是，当我微微闭上眼睛，我依然可以看到他以前长发少年的模样，看见他上课迟到二十分钟走进教室时松松垮垮眉头紧锁的神态。年轻时他不时地从离异父母的一个家搬到另一个家，他从未有过像我们圈子中其他人这样安逸舒适的生活。我听说他最近正经历一个特别困难的时期，他的母亲去世后他失去了工作，但我还没有时间来得及问。然而眼下，他拿着一瓶卡本内红酒仰头说笑着， 脸上没有丝毫的烦恼。

 

坐在斯蒂芬旁边的是托比，他正停下谈话为自己倒了一杯酒。我认为大多数人的朋友圈中都有一个略显笨拙的的朋友。比如托比，一副圆圆的脸颊，喜好佩戴波尔卡点缀的领结，就是我们圈子中这样的人。他从来就跟不上我们，无论是体力和智力上。但我们总是让他进入我们的圈子，因为他很有趣，或者坦率地说，我们为他感到有点难过。尽管他显得非常浪漫，但他也非常愚拙笨吨，可能与我们圈子中所有人关系最简单的，却最不容易分开的人。然而，令人讽刺的是，你不是我们朋友中第一个结婚了的，因为托比去年刚刚打败了你。他的妻子现在就坐在他旁边，身着蓝宝石礼服，漂亮而苗条。在我们当年上学的日子里，像她这样的女孩永远不会瞧他两眼的。但我看着托比的手臂悬垂着随意地搭在她妻子的椅背上，我心想他大概是我们圈子中变化最大的人。他那成熟和自信的方式，是我们以前从来不敢想象的。眼下他已经明显破茧而出，充满活力而有信心，我真为他感到高兴。

 

坐在我正对面的是兰多夫，那个曾经在我们中间成绩不断上升的运动员。我记得，在高中他总是喜欢把自己想象为我们圈子中最酷的人，即使在最炎热的夏天也不肯脱下他的莱特曼夹克外套。但实际上，作为一个的橄榄球运动员的他成绩平平，并没有得到他幻想得到的很多女孩的青睐。回忆起他令人惊讶的铲球和积极掷球的动作，我不由的微笑了起来。他现在稍微有些发胖，工作是个信贷员，外表给人的印象是那种喜欢坐在电视机前观看比赛而不是真正玩球的人。不过，我看到他前额上的小疤痕，那是在对阵我们学校的对手Sharpstwon学校的那场激烈比赛时留下的，我想知道他内心某处是否还残留当年梦想成为橄榄球明星的那种脆弱幻想。

 

然后就是艾米，我们圈子中的另外一个女孩，那个和你最好的朋友。那时候，你是我们都在暗恋的女孩，你又聪明又漂亮。我们对艾米，就像对待一个小妹妹那样，经常作弄她，有时嘲讽她不平整的刘海，有时是她磨损的牛仔裤，取笑她痴迷一个男孩乐队，乐队的名字我不记得了，取笑她如何唱乐队唱片封面的那些烂歌，尽管，现在想起来感觉那很不好。艾米上个月刚刚发行了她的第二张专辑，作为歌星她的名气还只是本地的，但她的确是我们圈子里最有名的，她有非常多的Twitter粉丝。有时候我在想，当年艾米是否曾经在你的阴影之中有过感觉不好的时候，是否在你的聚光灯下有过妒忌的感觉。但我觉得没有，她可能永远不会有。因为我觉得她跟我们或其他遇见过你的人一样，以这样或者那样的方式，一直在爱着你。

 

我身子往后面的椅子紧靠着，舒展一下我的双腿。趁机抿了一口酒，说实话，因为我觉得，有谁会不喜欢你呢？你是完美的，或接近完美的，完美的让任何人都想接近。我们都喜欢你，爱你，争夺你，但我觉得没有人像我那样爱你。我情不自禁的回想我们第一次也是唯一的一次约会。

 

那是几年前上大学期间的第一个假期，大概在感恩节的那周。我们在两个大学中间的一个小镇上相遇。那一天开始的时候天气非常好。我们在镇子上随意的走着，相互嘲笑对方的丑陋，互相尝试小镇最闻名的很酸的冰棍。 “所以，这是一个约会吗？” 在半道停下来的时候，我半开玩笑的说。你没有回答，只是推我，笑了起来。其实，那一刻我并不在乎，因为与你在一起我就感觉很快乐，但是当把我内心的想法突然告诉你的时候我的心整个下午都不免突突的跳。

 

我们真正的谈话是那天晚一些的时候。不知怎的，我们就走到了小镇上很荒凉的地方，在一个公司的旁边，有一组废弃的铁轨，周围环绕着一排排软枫树。这时天有些冷了，我们俩感觉浑身发抖。我搓了搓双手，对着它们哈气，试图温暖一下。你微笑，无言递过你的手套，我很感激地接受了一只。它是粉红色，对我来说太小了，我还是戴上了它。

 

你走上铁轨边缘，一步一步，伸开双臂保持平衡。我学着走在另一边，在你身后几步。几个月前的长时间电话中被点燃起来信心，很快就被蒸发了。我们保持距离，默默无言，我觉得非常尴尬，有点不舒服。冥思苦想要说什么但说不出来，我呆呆的看着你的长发被风吹起，扫落在你的背上，我凝视着周围路灯灯柱光照之下你的侧影。

 

“你知道，” 你突然说话了，让我惊跳了一下，差点失去了平衡。 “我不是那种你所想象的人。”

 

我犹豫了一下，不知道谈话结果会怎么样。 “你什么意思？”

 

“我只是，”你暂停了一下。 “我只是没有......你说的那么好。我在大学里的成绩不都是很好。有时候，我会一直睡到下午一点或两点，我会经常为小事儿生气“。

 

我笨拙地套紧了一下正在滑落的你的手套。 “你为什么要告诉我这些？”

 

你不舒服耸耸肩。 “我只是想让你知道，也许你真的不了解。也许你甚至不喜欢我那么多。也许......你只是喜欢想象中的那种女孩。“

 

我继续往前走着，盯着脚下摇摇欲坠锈迹斑斑的铁轨边缘。那一刻间我们之间空气似乎静止了，气氛非常尴尬。我能听到你喉间发出的呼吸声。

 

“我不是那么想像的，你知道的，”我低下头，终于表白出来。 “我喜欢你。”
 

“你个傻冒。你甚至没有去想它，“你说，虽然你已经转过身，但我能听到你声音里喜悦。

 

我不记得了约会之后发生了什么。就是那一天，也就是那一次，我有机会，但我错过了。不知怎么的，尽管后来我们之间有一起彼此分享的不少时刻，但我们的谈话越来越少，直到完全停止。

 

几年过去了，我们都已经大学毕业，你去了波士顿攻读您的博士学位。我们就慢慢疏远了，虽然我一直记得你的生日，你也记得我的。几周前突然意外接到你打来的电话，邀请我去你参加的婚礼，是以老朋友的名义。电话里你并没有提及你婚恋和订婚故事经历。事实上，我们并没有过多谈论我们现在如何如何，而是谈了以前我们怎样怎样，回忆我们以前的老教师，我们在高中时喜欢的人，以及现在他们在干什么。

 

最后，我们开始谈论我们之间的事，谈论我们唯一的那次约会，以及当时相互之间是如何真正感受的。我们愉快地交谈着，回忆我们逝去的青春萌动的少年时期。但当我听到电话那边传来的你的笑声的时候，我眼前出现一幅画面，看见你双脚撑起了桌子上，捻转着指间的一缕长发，我怀疑，我对你的那些很久以前的感情，我早就忘记的那些，是否真正消失了。电话的时间超过我的预期，是当我上班晚到会议四十分钟时我才意识到的，然而我感觉只像过了短短的几秒钟，只是简短旅行回到我们的过去。你先挂的电话，有些不情愿地，说你有几件差事要办。然后，过了两个星期，你的婚礼邀请就来了。

   

鼓掌声突然打断了我的回忆。我转过身，看见你容光焕发，一身美丽的婚礼礼服，而你的样子，似乎和上次小镇遇见你时一模一样。

 

你的头发往上挽成一个复杂的结，露出你修长的脖子和肩膀，着装的细节和花边在你周围创造出一圈明亮的光环。朋友们的欢呼声慢慢消退，整个房间似乎只充满了你。我注意到你的新郎，他清了清嗓子，等着敬酒发言。他看着有些老态，明显比我们中其他的人都显得年龄大。他身材高大，有明显变老的发迹线。我斜着头，希望能够恨他，然而我却不禁笑了。你没有看我，你甚至都没有注意到我的存在，因为你的眼睛一直专注于他身上，没有看任何人。

    

这一刻，我想我以前是错了。我想，当你真正爱一个人，你会真心希望她快乐和幸福，真心被人所爱，即使这个人不是你。我想你已经找到了幸福真爱。看着你站在丈夫旁边，我再次微笑起来，想起了我的秘密日记，想起了我曾经偷偷地关注你，还有我曾经错过的机会。我看着你闪亮的眼睛和光彩照人的样子，我开始为你鼓掌。 

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.