Don’t start with the hard parts. Start with something easy—a short, simple introduction.

I’ve known Noah since he beat me in the fourth-grade spelling bee. The word was onomatopoeia. We should’ve known he’d end up marrying a linguist.

Pause for laughter. Thank the guests who traveled from afar.

Noah’s made it clear that tonight is just as much for you as it is for them. I know he hopes you have a wonderful time.

Compliment the bride. Don’t say anything negative. Don’t even imply it.

Taylor, I’ll keep it simple: my best friend is a lucky man.

Talk about the couple as a unit. Lie, if you must.

Noah, as most of you know, has always been quiet. I assumed he’d end up with someone soft-spoken. And Taylor, you are intelligent, bold, and charming, but quiet? I think fierce is the better word.

Pause for laughter.

But the more I saw you two together, the more it made sense. You are the spark to his calm, Taylor, the sunshine to his shade.

Begin light roasting. Share funny stories about childhood. Don’t say how you never see the groom anymore.

Noah was always destined for a bright future. As a kid, he was always the smartest. I’d ask if he saw Batman, and he’d tell me all about Phobos, the Greek god of fear.

Pause for laughter.

Thank his parents.

Hi, Tom. Hi, Jen. As many of you know, they’re philosophy professors. They had a unique approach to parenting. They taught Noah things the rest of us couldn’t even pronounce: Socrates, Nietzsche, Freud. Noah knew about the phallic stage while the rest of us were still in the phallic stage.

Short pause.

So, of course, he became a psychologist.

Let the laughter settle. Don’t say that he once told you that people with mental health disorders are stigmatized. That, on average, they are no more violent than anyone else. Instead, sip water. Breathe. Smile. Take the sentimental turn.

Noah was brilliant at every subject, including art. Every year, we would go to the Art Museum, which, before Noah, I knew only as the Rocky Steps. I remember my entire world shifting as we walked through the exhibit featuring Monet, Degas, and Cassatt. Noah explained how Impressionist paintings were not objective representations of the world, but subjective perceptions—how the short brush strokes captured what language can’t, how art expresses the ineffable.

Pause for dramatic effect.

The last time we went, Taylor joined us. I did my best to keep up, but this is Taylor and Noah we’re talking about, and their conversation soon hovered high above my head.

Don’t say that when he corrected her for mistaking a Gauguin for a Bernard, she called him a prick loud enough to make the gallery attendant look away. Instead, glance around the ballroom at the elaborate floral centerpieces, the tuxedos and gowns, the smiling eyes staring up at you.

Of course, I didn’t understand all their fancy terms like chiaroscuro, but I understood this: these two, when together, ascend to a higher plane, and on our walk back through Center City, I trailed behind them, watching them walk arm-in-arm down the city sidewalk into the evening’s waning light. I thought: They are a painting, these two—ineffable.

Don’t say that on the walk she grabbed his arm and pulled him down the sidewalk, then shoved him away and vanished without saying goodbye. Instead, offer a sincere wish for the couple’s future.

My best friend Noah is brilliant, so it’s no surprise he made a brilliant decision in marrying Taylor. I have no doubt that when the two of you put your blazing minds to marriage there is no obstacle you can’t overcome.

Don’t say that six months ago, he emailed you and told you that he had bruises from an incident in June. That his email was intentionally vague. That he said he had called a domestic violence hotline. That they told him he was in a state of fear. That he tried to speak to her about it, but she told him he was overreacting, just as the hotline predicted she would. That he felt bad for her. That she’d suffered abuse herself—her brother would burn her dolls. That her behavior was a defense mechanism rooted in trauma. That she loved him. That he loved her still. That he was drunk when he sent the email. That he didn’t expect a response. That you aren’t to tell anyone.

Don’t include any of that in the speech.

Instead, end with a toast. Keep it short and simple.

Here’s to Taylor and Noah. May you always inspire each other and all of us fortunate enough to be here with you on your wedding day.

Don’t say anything more.

Leave it alone.

Bury it—as he has, as the best man must.

Give the guests their joyful celebration.

Raise your flute of champagne.

Toast the couple’s bright future.

Stare past his hollow eyes, standing there beside his beautiful bride.