She was just picking up the pieces.
In the end, he gaveherthe carnations. They became friends, and then more than friends, and now, after dating pleasantly for almost ten years, they were getting married. And it was great.
He was a perfectly nice guy.
Not tome, exactly—but in general.
He was good for Ashley. I was happy they were happy.
But was old Brody still a smidge bitter about me dumping him a decade ago?
Weirdly, yes.
I wasn’t going to be his favorite new in-law, that was for sure.
So addthatto the list I wasn’t making of things to dread on the cruise.
How many was that now?
Trapped on a ship for eight solid days as a self-inflicted spinster while celebrating my sister’s marriage to a groom who didn’t like me?
Not good.
Not to mention, I had promised Ashley when we were children that I would serenade her at her wedding. Apparently she was going to hold me to that.
But that’s a whole digression.
The point is: It was a lot.
I wish I could tell you that something wonderful happened in the six weeks between my aborted wedding and the start of Ashley’s cruise. I wish one of the jobs I’d applied to had panned out, or I’d had a romantic dalliance, or I’d even just found a fantastic new pair of shoes. Anything, right?
Good things happen all the time.
People make new friends, and discover great little Italian restaurants, and buy fuzzy socks they wish they could never take off.
It was just, in those six weeks… none of those good things happened to happen to me.
Kind of the opposite, in fact—even though I was trying so hard to manifest the positive. I lost my favorite necklace. The coolest coffee shop in town closed down. My best grad school friend called to say she had to take next semester off.
Maybe I should have worked harder to find a good thing or two. I’m sure there was a sunny day in there somewhere.
But I just… couldn’t.
Did I use those weeks to, say, come up with some insights about myself and take some wise lessons from the Pearce debacle so I could move forward with grace?
I did not.
I wallowed.
Specifically, I beat myself up with the echoing question:What—seriously,what—is wrong with me?
But it wasn’t a real question. It was rhetorical.
I formatted a mental spreadsheet of all my flaws—A record of failed relationships! A compulsive need to be the dumper! Leaving an A-list groom at the actual altar! WTF!—like I was collecting proof that I was hopeless.
Not a growth mindset, to say the least.
Plus, I’d be paying my parents back for that margarita drink wallforever.
