The universal law of weddings dictates that the probability of a guest's enjoyment is inversely proportional to how alone they feel in a crowd. I, Evan Salloway, pediatric resident and professional overthinker, was currently testing this theory to its limits.
From my strategically chosen seat at the back of the manicured garden—positioned for a clean escape—I watched the spectacle. Sequins flashed under twinkling lights, a bass-
heavy pop song I'd last heard in undergrad vibrated through the soles of my dress shoes, and the air was thick with the cloying sweetness of gardenias and forced merriment. My date, Sarah, a fellow resident with more social courage than
sense, had long since abandoned me for the conga line. "Live a little, Evan!" she'd chirped before being swallowed by the crowd.
Hospitals I understood. They had a predictable rhythm of crisis and calm, a logic to the chaos. This was pure, unscripted anarchy.
I was calculating the least humiliating path to the exit (past the dessert table: slow but rewarding) when a small, determined force collided with my knee.
I looked down. A little girl, no more than six, stood staring up at me, her face a perfect mask of solemnity. She was a vision in lavender taffeta, a flower crown perched precariously on her dark, curly hair. In one hand, she clutched a wilting basket of petals; in the other, a half-eaten chocolate cupcake.
"You're tall," she stated, her voice clear and devoid of
childish shyness.
"It's a condition I've learned to live with," I said, my pediatrician auto-pilot switching on. I crouched down to her level, the stiff fabric of my trousers pulling uncomfortably. "And you're… covered in chocolate."
She looked at her hand as if seeing the cupcake for the first time. "It's good. Do you want some?" She thrust the messy confection towards my face with alarming generosity.
"I'm good, thank you. I'm on a strict diet of… wedding air." I gestured vaguely at the reception. "I'm Evan."
"I'm Lian. I was the flower girl. I threw the petals too fast at the start and then I had none left for the middle, so Auntie Clair said I 'compromised the aesthetic.'" She delivered this verdict with a perfect, unblinking mimicry of the mysterious Auntie Clair.
I couldn't help but smile. "A grave crime. I'm sure the aesthetic will recover."
"My dad says aesthetics are overrated," she confided, leaning closer. She had a tiny smudge of frosting on her nose. "He says function over form. He fixes hearts."
"He fixes hearts?" I repeated, intrigued. "That's a pretty important job."
"Mmhmm. He's a…" She frowned, the word clearly on the tip of her tongue. "A card… card-i-ac surgeon." She sounded it out with immense pride. "He's working today. But he's coming later to get me. He promised."
There was a slight wobble on the last word, a tiny crack in her confident facade that my resident's brain immediately recognized. The underlying anxiety of a child waiting for a parent.
"I'm sure he will," I said, my voice softening. "Surgeons are very good at keeping promises. They have to be precise like that."
She studied me, her head tilted. "What do you do? Are you a doctor? You look like a doctor."
"What do doctors look like?"
"Tired," she said, without a hint of irony.
A laugh burst out of me, genuine and unexpected. "Well, you're not wrong. I am a doctor. I work with kids."
Her eyes widened. "You fix kids?" "I try to. I'm a pediatric resident."
This seemed to settle it for her. I had passed some unspoken test. She shoved the rest of the cupcake into her mouth, wiped her hand on her lavender dress (Auntie Clair would surely despair), and grabbed my hand. Her fingers were sticky and small and utterly confident in their hold.
"You have to come," she said, her words muffled by
chocolate.
"Where are we going?" I asked, allowing myself to be pulled
to my feet. My escape routes were forgotten.
"To the phone. Auntie Clair's phone. My dad is calling."
She weaved through the dancing crowd, a tiny tugboat pulling a very large, very confused barge. I offered apologetic smiles to the people we passed until we reached a small table where a harried-looking woman in her fifties—Auntie Clair, presumably—was shoving programs into a gift bag. A phone was buzzing insistently on the tablecloth.
"It's Daddy!" Lian announced, releasing my hand to grab the device. She swiped the screen with a practiced thumb and held it up like a trophy. "Daddy! I found a kid doctor! His
name is Evan and he's nice and he's tall!"
My face flushed. This was not part of the plan. I could only see the back of the phone, but I could imagine the confused, probably annoyed, expression on the face of the cardiac surgeon on the other end.
Lian listened for a second, her brow furrowed. "No, I'm not bothering him. We're friends." She thrust the phone toward me. "He wants to talk to you."
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through me. I was being put on the phone with a complete stranger, a respected surgeon no less, because I'd been befriended by his charmingly chaotic daughter at a wedding. This was a new tier of social anxiety.
Hesitantly, I took the phone. The screen showed a man in a hospital break room, still in blue scrubs, a stethoscope draped around his neck. He had sharp, handsome features—a strong jaw, dark hair that looked like it had been ruthlessly styled hours ago but was now beginning to rebel—and an expression of profound bemusement mixed with exhaustion.
"I… apologize," he said, his voice a deep, tired baritone that crackled slightly through the speaker. "Lian has a habit of collecting people."
"It's no trouble at all," I said, my voice thankfully steady. "She's a delightful conversationalist. We were discussing the relative merits of aesthetics versus function."
A flicker of something—amusement?—passed through his
hazel eyes. "Ah. She told you I fix hearts." "She did. It's impressive."
"It's a job," he said, with a slight shrug that seemed to diminish a decade of rigorous training. His gaze shifted to
something behind the camera. "Lian-bug, are you being good for Auntie Clair?"
Lian's face popped into the frame next to mine. "Yes! Can Evan have your number?"
The question was so abrupt, so utterly without guile, that both Aiden and I froze. My mouth went dry. His professional mask slipped for a second into pure, unvarnished shock.
"Lian, that's not—" he began, but she was already plowing
on.
"So you can send me pictures of hearts! And I can send him
pictures of my drawings! It's more efficient!"
Aiden ran a hand over his face, and I saw the moment he decided that capitulation was the path of least resistance. He looked exhausted. "Okay. Okay, fine. Tell Auntie Clair I'll be there in twenty minutes. Put her on, please."
Lian beamed, a victor, and snatched the phone back to hand it to her aunt. I stood there, shell-shocked, my hand still warm from the plastic case.
A few minutes later, after a hushed conversation with her aunt, Lian returned, clutching a napkin with a pen scrawl on it. She pressed it into my hand. "There. Now we can be proper pen pals. But on WhatsApp. It's better."
On the napkin was a phone number. Beneath it, Lian had written, in wobbly capitals: AIDEN & LIAN.
"Thank you," I said, the word feeling entirely inadequate for
the bizarre transaction that had just occurred.
She gave me a sudden, fierce hug around the legs. "Bye, Evan. I have to go now."
And just like that, she was gone, whisked away by Auntie Clair toward the parking lot, a lavender whirlwind leaving calm confusion in her wake.
I looked down at the napkin in my hand. The ink was already smudging from the humidity. This wasn't one of my identified escape routes. This was a completely new path, uncharted and utterly bizarre.
My phone buzzed. Sarah: Where'dyoudisappearto?Isavedyoua
piece of cake!
I looked from the text to the napkin, then out toward the now-quiet parking lot where Lian had disappeared. The thumping music and shouting laughter seemed to fade into a distant hum.
I had a phone number. For a man I'd never properly met. Given to me by his daughter so we could be "more efficient" pen pals.
I carefully folded the napkin and tucked it into my wallet. For the first time that evening, I didn't feel the urge to run away. I just felt… profoundly curious.