“I don’t know. Feels like a bit of a letdown after you set the bar so high.”
“Not at all.” He kisses me again. “There are other options too. You could share your mother’s maiden name, or the name of the street you grew up on—”
I let out an amused huff of breath. “Oh, I see. This was just a scam all along.”
“Damn.” He clicks his teeth. “And here I was trying to be subtle.” His teasing expression melts a little, something unfiltered and kind taking its place. “You don’t have to share anything if you don’t want to.”
“I do. I just—” And then it comes to me, a confession I’ve barely allowed myself to think, let alone say out loud. “I hate weddings.”
He blinks. “You hate…”
“Weddings.” And now that I’ve said it, that I’ve admitted it to myself, the whole truth comes tumbling out. “I didn’t always,” I explain. “In my early twenties, they were exciting. The idea that I was old enough,adultenough to have friends getting married was thrilling. And every single one felt new back then. But now…I mean, I’m still happy for my friends, but these weddings are starting to feel like—like a funeral of some kind. A death of the friendship. An ending for me when it’s a beginning for them.”
The corners of my eyes start to sting, and I blink the sensation away. “I feel horrible even saying it. Like, I know I’m supposed to be ecstatic during each one, but sometimes people change after they get married. They say they won’t, but they do, and I’m tired of…ofinvestingin people who end up leaving.”
His thumb skates down the curve of my cheek. Tracing the path a tear would take, wiping it away before it’s even there. “Tell me what that means,” he says softly.
And just like that, I want to, words rising up, threatening to pour out of me again.
I don’t understand; I’m not usually like this. I’m the one who sits with others for hours, listening, holding their hand, carefully extracting their secrets. Sometimes for my friends, often for my job.
But no one’s ever flipped the script like this before. No one’s ever been able to do this tome. Maybe no one’s ever tried.
“I’m just tired,” I tell him. “I’m tired of showing up for wedding showers and baby showers and bachelorette weekends and these…these big life events for others, and not having something of my own worth celebrating. Or really, something thattheythink is worth celebrating. Because whatever it is, it’s somehow not equivalent. It’s not the same. It’s not something they think is worth showing up for.”
A muscle in my chest twists as I remember the dinner I arranged after my last promotion. One I’d made reservations for and sent outEvites for (and texts and emails to follow up when some people forgot to RSVP). I’d coordinated the hectic schedules of my four closest friends and found a date that worked for everyone, and even though they all said they’d come, once the day arrived, I started getting the texts.
Davey’s throwing up all over the place. Sorry, girl, can’t make it.
Will have to rain check! Ryan had a hard day and I think I need to spend some time here. Can I take you out next week?
Sry, gotta cancel. Chaos in this house!!!! Could use the escape, but just can’t rn!
My boss, Natalie—who’s become something more than a colleague, but less than a real friend—was the only one who made it, and I spent the night forcing a smile and drinking too many lychee martinis. I can’t taste one now without feeling miserable.
At least when I attend my father’s wedding in two days, I’ll know exactly what to expect. I won’t have this feeling of losing something, of being left behind, because I’ve already experienced that. He abandoned me years ago.
“I’ve lived in the same city for years,” I say, “just like you, but I’ve never stayed put for more than a month. I keep myself busy. I’m always going out of town, always trying something new, always doing something new, because the truth is—” A lump forms in my throat. “The truth is, if I stay still for too long, if I stop and really take things in, I’ll realize that underneath it all, I’m lonely. And I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know how to make it stop.”
He watches me for a moment, his eyes glistening, and then his arms come around me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft in my ear. And I sink into him, my head finding his chest, the thrum of his heartbeat, the comforting pattern of his breathing.
We’re silent for a bit, and I can’t remember the last time I washeld like this. I haven’t been with anyone since Bruce, my ex, and he wasn’t the type to offer comfort in this way. Bruce listened when I was going through something hard, but he wouldn’t let me stew in it. He’d offer advice, options, ways to tackle the problem. He didn’t hug for the sake of hugging.
And I never thought to ask for it.
“You don’t think I’m awful?” I say, pulling back a bit. “For feeling like…for feeling resentful—”
He shakes his head, something heavy and sad in the lines of his face. “I understand,” he says. “I’ve been left before too.” He pauses. “The anger, it’s what comes after you move past the denial. So, how you’re feeling, it’s natural. It’s a natural part of grief.”
Grief.It’s not a word I’ve thought much about, not something I ever thought I could feel, could claim, because I haven’t lost a loved one in that way. Not the way he has. But I have lostsomething,and I don’t know if I’ve ever allowed myself to really mourn it.
Neither of us says anything for a while, until the cloud that’s hanging over us turns back into mist, the heaviness fading away until all that’s left is the heady sense of relief that comes after a confession. But it’s more than just the high of confessing. It’s everything else that came after. The recognition, the sense of something shared, of being seen.
“So,” I say, “I guess I said more than one thing.”
“That’s all right,” he says with a faint smile. “I think mine was more than one thing too.”
