Phil hated to admit that the place was beautiful. If he wasn’t set on getting married in a church, he’d do it at a spot like this, he thought. The club looked like the kind of place where a nineteenth-century naval officer would get married or play golf. The lawn looked as shiny as Astroturf and was protected by a row of well-groomed shrubs. Squinting, he could make out a line of sailboats just beyond a wooden fence marking the border of the property.

A teenage boy greeted him as he made his way to the seating area. “Friend of the bride or groom?”

“Neither,” Phil replied, instantly regretting the joke. “Groom. Sorry, man. Groom. My mom’s a friend of the groom’s mom.”

“That’s my aunt, Barb.”

“Right. Barb. I haven’t seen her since I was a kid. Great lady,” Phil said awkwardly, as the young boy pointed him in the direction of one of the last empty seats on the groom’s side of the lawn.

Phil noticed that the bride’s side was at least a quarter emptier than the groom’s, which made him feel bad for her. Barb’s family, a rowdy bunch that seemed already drunk and lively as they waited for the ceremony to start, made the bride’s small clan appear uptight and depressive.

Just before taking his seat, Phil opted to change camps and walked briskly to one of the empty seats on the bride’s side, just to help even out the look of things. He chose an entirely free row, hoping he wouldn’t have to sit next to anyone, just in case he smelled.

Phil was an impeccably clean guy who showered twice a day, before and after games, but because of the hectic summer baseball schedule, he’d not been organized about maintaining his wardrobe. He was fanatical about cleaning his ballpark uniforms and his go-to khaki pants from the big-and-tall store, but he’d lost track of some his off-season attire and formal wear. When Nancy told Phil about the wedding, just two days ago, he reluctantly jotted down the details, the time and place, and hung up the phone to begin the search for his one fancy ensemble, which had been missing somewhere in his bedroom since his nephew’s christening in July.

After an hour of looking under the bed and in laundry piles, Phil had found the crumpled gray jacket and pants in a bag that he’d put together to bring to the dry cleaner, which, of course, he never did.

A few minutes in the dryer had done the trick—his suit was crease free. Unfortunately, though, Phil couldn’t get rid of the odor. Even though almost two months had gone by, the suit still smelled like the buffalo wings he’d devoured after the christening. The scent made him hungry and slightly nauseated.

Phil wondered if the couple sitting in front of him could smell him. He wanted to apologize to them and to explain why he stunk like wings, but he kept his eyes on the wedding program in his lap. He’d never attended a wedding where every name in the program was unfamiliar. Usually when he went to weddings, he was in the program. He’d been a groomsman twelve times—for most of his college ball teammates—and a best man twice.