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Stephanie
Idrum my fingertips on the plastic arm rest. My feet move in time with my fingers, and the unfasten seatbelt sign can’t blink off fast enough. When it does, I grab my handbag and carry-on then dart down the aisle. Sugar. I need some sugar. There has to be a Krispy Kreme or Dunkin’ Donuts somewhere in this terminal. Or knowing LA, some organic, gluten-free shit disguised as one or the other. At this point, I don’t care. I’ll take it, so long as it’s glazed.
With a throbbing eye headache from lack of sleep, I can’t imagine how I’m going to pull together the thoughts blasting from every corner of my fuzzy brain. I shouldn’t have listened to Kelly. I should have just gone to bed and come up with a game plan this morning. Instead, she dumped me off at JFK International where I was lucky enough to grab the last seat on a red eye out to Los Angeles.
Lucky.
That’s what I’d been when Bobby was in my life. Lucky to have him as a best friend, as a confidante, as the guy I measured all others against. And for as many pedigrees as the others had, they couldn’t ever hold a candle to him.
But still, I’d never made a move...until that night. And he rejected me. After everything we’d been through, he walked away, never once looking back.
My chest tightens as I order an Uber. I can still see the conflicted expression on his face, the anguish in his troubled gaze. I tried to convince him to stay. I thought he loved me.
I guess he didn’t.
Which is what makes this whole cross-country jaunt so incredibly ridiculous. I have a life! I have a fabulous career! I have my own home, a hot car, and boatloads of cash.
But I don’t have Bobby.
And without him, the superficial bullshit is just that.
I was stupid for keeping those feelings to myself. I let him believe he wasn’t good enough for me. I dated prom kings, sports stars, legacies, and even a Rhodes Scholar. They were so one dimensional. They lacked depth, passion, and appreciation for anything other than money and acclaim. They went through the motions of their plastic lives, all for the sole purpose of taking over the world.
Bobby never shared that goal. He felt lucky to wake up every morning in a bed in his own place, behind a locked door, with food in the refrigerator. He grew up with nothing…less than that, really. But it never soured him. He was always passionate about living, about making his mark on the world the best way he knew how. And it had nothing to do with money or fame. He found his true happiness in the simplest things, and when he played guitar and crooned into that microphone, everyone in the room felt his energy. It was electrifying, and a force I desperately craved in my own life…something I realized the morning of my wedding to Brendan.
I allow the memory to percolate one last time as I slide into the backseat of my Uber outside of LAX.
I grab the half-empty flute of champagne from the dressing table and toss it back, wishing it was a shot of something definitively stronger and worse-tasting…something that would numb my mind as well as my heart.
He’s not coming.
Why is this so difficult for me to swallow? Did I think he was going to jump on the first plane back to Long Island just to watch me marry some guy who would have treated him like crap because he doesn’t have the six-figure job, or the country club membership, or the titanium card?
I’d have stayed far away, too. Very freaking far.
Still...it would be nice to know we’re still friends, that he still cares even though he’s living his own dreams, that he still thinks about me…
I swallow hard and twist my head around, my eyes in search of the champagne. The thudding in my chest intensifies, and the rage that I’ve kept buried bubbles to the surface. He’s been gone for eight months, and I’ve gotten a grand total of two postcards and five emails.
I stomp over to the coffee table in the middle of the bridal suite and grab the neck of the open bottle. Another deep breath helps steady my hand long enough to pour the bubbly into my empty glass. The cool liquid slides down my throat, and again, the flute is empty.
Just like me.
But I shouldn’t feel this way. I’m marrying a wonderful guy. My family loves him. All items on the old checklist are ticked off…except one.
The big one.
He’s just like Bobby.
That one is still unchecked, and for good reason. Nobody is like Bobby. I’ve never met another guy who does to me what Bobby does, and what he’s done to me every day since we met at that dive bar on Fordham Road years ago.
Oh, Christ. Bottle’s empty.
I shake it like I expect the bottle to magically refill itself. My shoulders deflate, and I sink into a cushioned chair in the corner of the suite. Everyone is happy and excited. It’s a beautiful day, and the sun is shining. My lips refuse to curl upward, my expression matching the darkness resident in my heart. It’s eclipsed all else for the past eight months.
What the hell am I doing? Pining for some guy who doesn’t even have the decency to wish me ‘Happy Birthday’ or ‘Merry Christmas’? The supposed best friend who can’t seem to make time to have an actual conversation with me? The one who never even responded to the wedding invite? What kind of a friend is that?
I fling the flute across the room and listen to it shatter against the wall. Tiny shards of glass fly into the air and scatter on the carpet. It makes me feel a tiny bit better. I eye the empty bottle and sigh. No, better not. It might dent the wall.
