It was with either poor or perfect timing the cavalcade of groomsmen bowled across the patio, scattering the bridesmaids like pins. Some tame flirting ensued, all whistling and applauding when Kyle dipped Rachel into a sweeping kiss, her arms draped about his neck, Claire's face obscured by her curtain of blonde hair.

In the tumult, Shep fled upstairs to change. He stood in the middle of the sprawling, dove grey master bedroom and willed himself to fade into the floor. The ocean bore down on him from the wall of south-facing windows; it made him dizzy.

In the car, nobody spoke for several minutes. The look on Shep's face acted as a sort of fire retardant, quelling all revelry in its tracks. The party of seven—five ushers, the groom, and the minister—split into two cars, and Shep had the misfortune of sharing his with Kyle for the two hours from Newhampton to Brooklyn.

"Bro," Kyle started (Shep wondered if he meant the appellation to be colloquial or familial), "Rachel said it wouldn't be—ya know. She said you guys talked about it, and you said it was fine, like you didn't care."

"Yeah, apparently," Shep replied, deadpan, grip tight on the steering wheel.

"I mean, it's all good, right? Like, it is what it is, right?"

"Sure," Shep sighed. "Really, don't worry about it, Kyle. Let's just have a good time."

The other two groomsmen in the car relaxed, cackling in the back over some meme or Vine.

"Honestly," Kyle said with an attempt at levity, "I didn't think you really even liked girls! I thought it was probably one of those denial things, before you came out for real. I dunno man, it's kinda crazy, right, that you could be into a big dude like Robin and little Claire Sargent—"

Shep exhaled and put a hand to his forehead, elbow on the windowsill.

"No offense, Kyle, but I'm pretty done talking about it."