What-The-Toast-Was-For
She was already there when he arrived, at a corner table with two coffees, because Priya had never in her life waited for anyone to order for her. She looked the same and entirely different, the way old photographs do when you finally see them as a stranger would.
"You came," she said.
"You said bring a pen."
"I wasn't sure the pen would come attached to a person." She slid the second coffee across. "Flat white. You used to drink them like a man avoiding sleep on purpose."
He sat. For a moment neither of them performed the small talk they both knew the rules of. Then Daniel said the thing he'd driven across the city to say. "Priya. I write speeches about how much the best man loves the groom. I cannot stand in a room and tell a hundred and twenty people I love *Marcus.*"
"God, no." She actually shuddered. "Nobody's asking you to. I don't love Marcus either, not the way you mean. He's — fine. He's kind, he's dull in a way that's restful after a certain age, and he genuinely doesn't remember the prom thing, which I know will infuriate you." She watched him absorb that. "I didn't hire you to praise him, Daniel. I'm not even sure I hired you for the wedding."
"Then what's the toast for?"
She turned her cup a slow quarter-turn on its saucer, the way she did when she was about to be honest, which had always cost her something. "When we ended it," she said, "you never got to