Along with my invitation to the bachelorette.
I stared at the forwarded message for a full five minutes like maybe if I glared hard enough, it would burst into flames and save me the trouble of making a decision.
I thought about not going. Desperately wanted to writefuck youon my reply.But Grayson is going to Aaron’s bachelor party for me tonight. He accepted that stupid invitation because Aaron wanted to throw down some pathetic little challenge, and Grayson took the hit without hesitation.
So I said yes, partly because I need to show up, need them all to see me and know that whatever happened with Aaron is over, dead, buried, and so far behind me that I don't care anymore. But wanting to prove I’ve moved on comes with spending an entire evening around the woman my ex cheated on me with while she throws a gaudy celebration of herself, the night before the wedding itself.
That’s the part I could have done without.
The bachelorette party starts at a wine bar downtown, with blush pink flower arrangements everywhere, a neon sign on the wall that spells outALL YOU NEED IS LOVEin cursive, and at least three women in matching satin sashes who seem to think being loud isn't obnoxious.
Sarah, of course, looks thrilled to be the center of attention.
I’m on my second glass of wine before appetizers even hit the table. I need it to get through this, though I'm trying to keep how much I'm drinking hidden as much as I can. I don’t want them tothink that I’m using it to mask some kind of hidden devastation, because I’m not— god, I’m not, and that’s so weird to me. I keep waiting for some old ache to creep up and spill out my eyes, but it doesn't. Looking at Sarah just makes me tired more than anything.
And annoyed, too, because Sarah keeps talking about fate.
“When it’s real,” she says, one manicured hand pressed to her chest, engagement ring catching the light, “you just know. True love finds a way.”
I take a long drink of wine and nearly gag on it.
One of the bridesmaids, a blonde woman in blue with kind eyes who is definitely not one of Sarah’s closest friends, glances at me with what looks suspiciously like pity.
Fantastic.
“Like,” Sarah keeps going, grinning so brightly that it sets my teeth on edge, “Aaron and I have just always had this pull, from the moment we met. Sure, it was a bit of a mess to get to this point, but you can’t really help who you’re meant to be with, you know?”
I know several things, actually.I know I should not throw my drink in her face.I know prison orange isn’t my color.And I know Gray would be very unimpressed if I got arrested at a bachelorette party when he’s braving the bachelor party for me right now.
So instead, I smile so tightly it hurts and reach for the bread basket.
Someone suggests a toast, and then another, then a round of cocktails. I knock each one back and tell myself that I'll nurse the next one, or the next one, or the next one.
But Sarah starts talking about soulmates, about how complicated love can be when people just don’t understand your connection, about how sometimes people get hurt in the process but you have to put yourself first.
“Everything worked out the way it was supposed to,” the woman in red beside her says, and all of them make these smug little noises of agreement, and I briefly consider all of the true crime documentaries I’ve watched and wonder if I’d be able to get away with murder if I tried really, really hard.
I down the cocktail instead and slip my phone out of my pocket.
Me:
Please tell me you're having as awful a time as I am.
My phone buzzes almost immediately in my palm.
Gray:
These people are the worst. Would rather be hanging with you.
Another drink appears.
By the time we relocate to some awful bar two blocks over with obnoxious red lighting and a sticky dance floor, I am drunk enough to be somewhere between pleasantly numb and dangerous.
I’m not falling over. I’m not crying. I’m not even talking too much.I’m just... blurrier around the edges than I should be.
Someone orders shots, and I know I should say no, but I don't. I just knock it back, and then another, and another.
That is how I end up in a bathroom ten minutes later, kneeling on cold, suspiciously damp tile, head bent over the toilet while my body violently rejects every bad choice I’ve made tonight.
