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Sadie’s dress was incredible, ivory and lace that clung perfectly in all the right places, but it didn’t belong on me. The longer I stared at my reflection, trying to remember the daydreams I had about marrying Caleb, the more insulted and despondent I felt. There wasn’t a chapter about what-could-have-been and how to stop grieving a past that never happened in mom’s book. I need to write my own.
“Honey!” The employee returned, bounding toward me. I thought she was reaching out to console me, which was awkward enough, but her extended hands grasped the top of the dress and began dabbing up my tears. She looked like she wanted to kill me, and I understood why. Who was I to cry on someone else’s sample dream dress when I’d never wear my own?
“There.” She finished. “That shouldn’t stain. The groom’s mother called and would like a photograph of you in the dress.”
“Why? Don’t they have their own dress in London?” I lifted a raised hand to wipe my tears.
She shrugged, appraising me. “She wants to know more of what you look like in this style, since the fabric is the same as the bridesmaid's dress. Your phone, dear?”
Pointing to my phone, which rested on my pile of clothes after hanging up with Sadie, I agreed to let the woman take my picture. I considered flipping my middle finger, but while she struggled to get a good angle, I thought more about my purpose in that dress.
Sadie’s wedding had nothing to do with me, and her relationship with Matthew was her own thing. I’d probably never see her, let alone see the child Rhys and I were godparents to, and that felt worse than being mocked as an old maid in the beautiful wedding dress. I smiled as artificially happy as I could, knowing this picture was crossing the Atlantic and the foundation of my limited reputation with Sadie’s in-laws.
Back in my clothes and outside, I felt a little more secure. The crisp air greeted me and helped clean the fragrance of the bridal parlor out of my face and hair. A few more blocks and I’d be too numb to think of how I felt on the podium. Walking in the crisp breeze helped clear my thoughts and gave me a chance to reflect. I skipped Rhys’s neighborhood, not even inspired by the bench I sat on a few weeks ago.
It was embarrassing how I’d lost control back there, and I needed something to ground me and get back on track. It wasn’t the wedding, and it certainly wasn’t thinking about walking back a few blocks just in case my friend was in town.
Sadie told me Rhys wasn’t himself, and that Matthew mentioned something to her before Rhys left town. With the intimacy we shared, whether physical or with the depth of our late-night conversations, I felt like I knew him and now I was missing something. Missing out, missing him… So, I texted from the safety of my bed when I got home later that evening, but he didn’t reply. It was a first, and I wasn’t sure I felt okay with it after all.
Somewhere between three in the morning and a nightmare about Sadie’s wedding, I woke feeling parched. My puffy eyes made it difficult to see where I was going in the dark, let alone believe the text message on my phone screen when I clicked it for a flashlight. I’d missed it two hours ago, when I passed out beneath my covers.
Rhys: Another dress that isn’t your style. Do you want my help to take that one off, too?
Debating how to reply after not hearing from him and frustration over their mom showing him how ridiculous I looked in Sadie’s wedding dress, I opted for facts.
Me: It’s off.
I stuffed my phone in the pocket of my flannel bottoms on my way to chug a bottle of water before curling up on my couch. Knowing I wouldn't sleep after my nightmare and Rhys’s message, I stared at the dark fireplace until my phone rang. It could’ve been my mom or Benji with an emergency, but I didn’t have the emotional energy to reach for it. I know that’s pathetic, but I was feeling strangely bitter and uncomfortable, so it was best I didn’t engage with anyone.
It shouldn’t have annoyed or concerned me that I hadn’t heard from him, because we were friends and it was okay to be separate. When my phone rang for a second time, what I felt was guilt.
“Hi,” I quietly answered.
“I’m sitting alone at a café in Paris, and there’s this old man in the corner. He’s all alone, and he has been for his entire meal, but he ordered for two. I wish I could take his photograph and capture the bittersweet loneliness,” Rhys told me, his voice low and strangely distant. “You looked amazing in that dress, Mia. Your sister sent it to mum and I. Although, I’m not sure why, but I’m thankful for the consideration and opportunity to stare at that image all morning.”
Looking at his photographs, like they connected me more to Rhys, I tried not to let his words impact me. “How have you been?”
A pathetic sigh followed his deep chuckle, then silence. “I ran away this weekend and didn’t tell anyone.”
“You told your brother and my sister,” I rebuked. “What’s in Paris?” I told myself I’d be okay if he was with another woman, because we were friends and I was in control of what I wanted. But as Rhys replied, his words riddled with sadness, I realized he was in control and I was simply awful.
“My wife,” he confessed. He was with another woman, the woman. She was the one nobody could ever compete with, and I understood. “Maybe that’s why the lonely man in the corner is weighing so heavily on me.” I waited for him to continue as he ordered a drink from the server, the ease of French flowing from his lips. “It was an anniversary this weekend, and even though it’s been years now, it seemed raw this year.”
His vulnerability rippled through the phone, and all I wanted to do was console him however I could. But how did a friend losing control offer support? We were friends, and Rhys had an entire life without me, so I resented how I’d grown selfishly irritated with an absence I didn’t understand until now.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going there?”
“Would you have joined me?” He inquired, speaking again in French to someone around him. “Could we have had this conversation sober and not crossed another boundary?”
Seething at his photographs, I refused to let his words burn. “If you’re worried about boundaries, don’t ask to take off my clothes. That’s not something friends do and I will not be a punching bag or a sympathy flirt for you, Rhys.”
“A sympathy flirt or punching bag?” He repeated my words, his tone cold. “You’re neither. You’re my friend, and while neither of us planned… Forget it, Mia.” Rhys’s words dripped with exasperation and I hated how heated we became, especially when he was clearly grieving.
While he had listened to me confess my sadness over my anniversary with Caleb and everything popping into my life over the last couple of weeks, nowhere in that conversation did I stir whatever Rhys and I had into the pot of it all. I wanted to be there for him, to comfort him, but I also couldn’t stand for how inappropriate it felt.
“You’re right.” I sighed, wiping a tear from my eye. “Now isn’t a good time. Enjoy your café, your old man, and however you’re remembering your wife.”
Maybe ending our call that way was selfish. Maybe hanging up after Rhys despondently said goodbye was too quick, but I had to get off the phone. My heart was a mess, and my brain was following suit.
This wasn’t meant to be something. This part of my life was about me now, not someone else and certainly not feeling anything for someone… Someone who once told me on the phone he was waiting for me to come around to him, the same man who I slept with and dreamed about more than I should have.
