Strangers In The Night

8. 36 Hours, 29 Minutes Until It Ends

Ian's hands shook under the cover of the tablecloth. Maybe it was the growing heat or the physical drain of speeding through the Walmart at full sprint, the frustration that Reed was still messaging him asking for the drawings, or the fact that this woman was staring him down like she believed he would kill her.

"I can't believe my brother actually got someone to talk to him," she scoffed, leaning forward slightly, scrutinizing Ian's appearance. "What's your deal? What's wrong with you?"

The lights seemed dimmer than before. The people requesting the Tylenol, gel soles, and mints were gone, and Ian messaged asking what to do with them, waiting for a reply. "I... couldn't say," Ian said, stammering. The questions were unnerving, a test he didn't know how to solve. "I don't think anyone's really sure of everything wrong with them."

"Seems like a miracle happened here tonight. Halle-freaking-lujah."

Ian glanced at the guest, curled inward and watching. He cursed his ability to tune into people because every fiber of his being screamed to ignore the guest's sister and hold him. Pepper him with questions until the taller man felt better, until Ian knew him better than himself.

The guest looked at him. The stare begged him to stay, unspoken words of apology, to suffer with him.

So Ian chuckled, ignoring the guest's fuming and/or deeply, deeply embarrassed by his sister's comments. "I don't know if it was a miracle, per se, but he is good conversation."

She wrinkled her nose. "I'll believe it when I see it."

"Ada," the guest warned.

"I'm just saying. That's not something I normally hear, but I'm glad you're getting better at it."

"Ada, stop it," the guest whispered through his teeth. "Please. For fuck's sake."

"J-just because he wants deeper conversation doesn't mean he's bad at it," Ian pointed out, trying to ease the tension. "I appreciate that, really. Makes the conversation between us feel..." Refreshing. Interesting. Made him feel wanted. A part of something. He didn't say any of that. It felt too intrusive, too intimate to him. "...I don't know. Different."

She raised a brow. "Wow." She turned from him to her brother. "Wow. Who are you, and what have you done to my brother?"

"I'm keeping you off my back," he groaned, frowning. "Like you asked me to."

Ada scoffed. "The night is young, little man." She sat forward again, a glint in her eyes. "So, Mr...."

Ian's smile faltered for a second. "Randolph."

"Randolph?" Ada echoed. "The bride's ex?"

'For fuck's sake.' His smile stayed put. His eyes screamed.

"He's just here to support Melissa," the guest insisted. "Would someone coming to wreck the wedding offer themselves as an offering, running errands for the bridal party?" The guest eyed him momentarily, obvious disapproval written across his face.

"Maybe to fly under the radar," Ada pointed out, though it was clear to Ian she understood her brother's point.

"I can tell you now, I don't want Melissa back. We had our time, and we ended things amicably three years ago. I'm good, I swear."

Ada squinted her eyes, staring. "A likely story."

Ian scratched his face, coughing to mask his discomfort. He glanced back at table 11, wondering if he had been too shortsighted, too naive to see how this would play out. "And I'm sticking to it," he laughed, though he wasn't confident about its success.

"So your moving tables isn't because you wanted to be closer to the main table?" She pointed across the room. About ten feet away sat the bride and groom, their parents, best man, and maid of honor, trying to finish off what remained of their desserts as the hotel staff circled them to reset the restaurant for tomorrow night's regular service.

He blinked. "I genuinely didn't know they were over here. I haven't even had the chance to say 'hi' to her yet."

"Yet."

The guest threw his hands up. "Okay, well, this was fun." He turned to Ian. "So you can move back to your original table. Sorry about all this, and, uh, please avoid us for the rest of the weekend?"

"Don't be such a baby," Ada sighed.

"You're grilling the only person willing to talk to me for longer than 30 seconds," he said, indignation dancing in his voice. "You said I had to find one person. That was the bare minimum."

"The noodle incident," she whispered, eyeing Ian.

He flinched at that. "Fuck you, Ada. That was the minimum."

"The minimum has been met, but now the bar's raised." Ada watched him.

"No. No. That's not – " The guest turned to Ian, to Ada, and groaned through his teeth. "This isn't fair. I did what you wanted me to do. Why are you punishing me for it?"

Ian wasn't sure where to intervene or whether it was right to. He tucked his hands in his lap, thumbs tracing over the sides of his fingers.

"I'll tell you now, if you think you're raising it any higher, I will fucking kick it back down into the goddamned ground."

"Don't be stubborn. You've found one person you like talking to. You can find another."

"I don't – " He cut himself off, covering his face as he turned towards Ian. "I'm so sorry for wasting your time. You can go back to your table if you want."

Ian opened his mouth.