“I am.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I know.”

Esperanza looked into his face. “We’re still best friends,” she said. “You understand that? You, me, Win, Big Cyndi. Nothing has changed.”

“Sure it has,” Myron said. “Everything has changed.”

“I love you, you know.”

“And I love you.”

She smiled again. Esperanza was always so damned beautiful. She had that whole peasant-blouse fantasy thing going on. But today, in that dress, the word luminous was simply too weak. She had been so wild, such a free spirit, had insisted that she would never settle down with one person like this. But here she was, with a baby, getting married. Even Esperanza had grown up.

“You’re right,” she said. “But things change, Myron. And you’ve always hated change.”

“Don’t start with that.”

“Look at you. You lived with your parents into your mid-thirties. You own your childhood home. You still spend most of your time with your college roommate, who, let’s face it, can’t change.”

He put up his hand. “I get the point.”

“Funny though.”

“What?”

“I always thought you’d be the first to get married,” she said.

“Me too.”

“Win, well, like I said, let’s not even go there. But you always fell in love so easily, especially with that bitch, Jessica.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Whatever. Anyway, you were the one who bought the American dream—get married, have two-point-six kids, invites friends to barbecues in the backyard, the whole thing.”

“And you never did.”

Esperanza smiled. “Weren’t you the one who taught me, Men tracht und Gott lacht”?

“Man, I love it when you shiksas speak Yiddish.”

Esperanza put her hand through the crook of his arm. “That can be a good thing, you know.”

“I know.”

She took a deep breath. “Shall we?”

“You nervous?”

Esperanza looked at him. “Not even a little.”

“Then onward.”

Myron walked her down the aisle. He thought it would be a flattering formality, standing in for her late father, but when Myron gave Esperanza’s hand to Tom, when Tom smiled and shook his hand, Myron started to well up. He stepped back and sat down in the front row.

The wedding was not so much an eclectic mix as a wonderful collision. Win was Tom’s best man while Big Cyndi was Esperanza’s maid of honor. Big Cyndi, her former tag-team wrestling partner, was six-six and comfortably north of three hundred pounds. Her fists looked like canned hams. She had not been sure what to wear—a classic peach maid of honor dress or a black leather corset. Her compromise: peach leather with a fringed hem, sleeveless so as to display arms with the relative dimensions and consistency of marble columns on a Georgian mansion. Big Cyndi’s hair was done up in a mauve Mohawk and pinned on the top was a little bride-and-groom cake decoration.

When trying on the, uh, dress, Big Cyndi had spread her arms and twirled for Myron. Ocean tides altered course, and solar systems shifted. “What do you think?” she asked.

“Mauve with peach?”

“It’s very hip, Mr. Bolitar.”

She always called him Mister; Big Cyndi liked formality.

Tom and Esperanza exchanged vows in a quaint church. White poppies lined the pews. Tom’s side of the aisle was dressed in black and white—a sea of penguins. Esperanza’s side had so many colors, Crayola sent a scout. It looked like the Halloween parade in Greenwich Village. The organ played beautiful hymns. The choir sang like angels. The setting could not have been more serene.

For the reception, however, Esperanza and Tom wanted a change of pace. They rented out an S&M nightclub near Eleventh Avenue called Leather and Lust. Big Cyndi worked there as a bouncer and sometimes, very late at night, she took to the stage for an act that boggled the imagination.

Myron and Ali parked in a lot off the West Side Highway. They passed a twenty-four-hour porn shop called King David’s Slut Palace. The windows were soaped up. There was a big sign on the door that read now under new management.

“Whew.” Myron pointed to the sign. “It’s about time, don’t you think?”

Ali nodded. “The place had been so mismanaged before.”

When they ducked inside Leather and Lust, Ali walked around as though she were at the Louvre, squinting at the photos on the wall, checking out the devices, the costumes, the bondage material. She shook her head. “I am hopelessly naïve.”

“Not hopelessly,” Myron said.

Ali pointed at something black and long that resembled human intestines.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Dang if I know.”

“Are you, uh, into . . . ?”

“Oh no.”

“Too bad,” Ali said. Then: “Kidding. So very much kidding.”

Their romance was progressing, but the reality of dating someone with young kids had set in. They hadn’t spent another full night together since that first. Myron had only offered up brief hellos to Erin and Jack since that party. They weren’t sure how fast or slow they should go in their own relationship, but Ali was pretty adamant that they should go slow where it concerned the kids.

Ali had to leave early. Jack had a school project she’d promised to help him with. Myron walked her out, deciding to stay in the city for the night.

“How long will you be in Miami?” Ali asked.

“Just a night or two.”

“Would it make you retch violently if I say I’ll miss you?”

“Not violently, no.”

She kissed him gently. Myron watched her drive off, his heart soaring, and then he headed back to the party.

Since he planned on sleeping in anyway, Myron started drinking. He was not what one would call a great drinker—he held his liquor about as well as a fourteen-year-old girl—but tonight, at this wonderful albeit bizarre celebration, he felt in the mood to imbibe. So did Win, though it took far more to get him buzzed. Cognac was mother’s milk to Win. He rarely showed the effects, at least on the outside.

Tonight it didn’t matter. Win’s stretch limo was already waiting. It would take them back uptown.

Win’s apartment in the Dakota was worth about a billion dollars and had a décor that reminded one of Versailles. When they arrived, Win carefully poured himself an obscenely priced vintage port, Quinta do Noval Nacional 1963. The bottle had been decanted several hours ago because, as Win explained, you must give vintage port time to breathe before consumption. Myron normally drank a chocolate Yoo-hoo, but his stomach was not in the mood. Plus the chocolate wouldn’t have time to breathe.