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We have to make it through this weekend. Hell, this isn’t going to be the last time we have to pretend we were never more than friends. A dozen future instances where we will have to be together without being together flash through my mind, and I watch them fade from visions of us being happily together, taking in a scene, into awkward interactions between strangers. I don’t want that for us. I want us to be okay someday even though I’m not okay today.
I squeeze her tightly and her grip around my waist tightens. A cry catches in her throat before her tears run silent as she lets us lie together one last time. When I realize it’ll never last long enough, I break the silence. “After this weekend, I can’t see you for a while.” Thinking about going another five months without her sounds terrible, but it’s the only option. It’s the only way to move past this.
“Okay,” she breathes against my chest.
I let her go, and she sits, looking down at where I remain lying on the bed.
“Whatever you need from me, just let me know.”
I nod as I sit, picking my hat up from the bed next to me and smoothing it backward over my hair in an attempt to start collecting myself. By the time I glance back up, the door on this chapter of my life closes behind her.
Managing to pull myself together quicker than I expected, I rejoin the party. I reach into the cooler for a water bottle, catching Miller’s eye across the yard as I stand. He motions for me to bring him a beer. Pulling an IPA from the ice, I take a step toward Miller and his groomsmen. Maci crosses the yard a few feet in front of me causing me to freeze. I can’t do this.
I turn on my heel, abandoning my task for the groom and walk straight through the kitchen and living room until I’m out the front door. Not wanting to actually leave or having anywhere to go, I sink to the concrete and lean against the porch wall.
The sun is setting by the time someone notices me. “Are you planning on drinking that?”
I look from the unopened beer can I’m tipping in circles in my hands to the stranger in front of me. “No, I don’t drink anymore,” I mutter.
Confusion flashes across her features as she stands there, staring down at where I’m sitting on the concrete front porch, leaning against the light blue wooden panels.
“I’ve been sober for six months. I was getting this for Miller.” I hold the beer in the air, leaving out the part about how I was too acutely aware of every move Maci made—every smile that lit her face—to be in the backyard anymore.
“Wow, good for you,” she says, and her genuine pride causes me to give her more attention than I did a moment ago. Her hair is shoulder length and light brown with faded lavender streaks running through soft curls. Her leather leggings, plain t-shirt and jean jacket tied around her waist complete her artist vibe. Somehow, I just know. The camera in her hand is a pretty big clue as well.
“Thanks,” I manage, not particularly capable of feeling good about myself.
“I just hit my year mark,” she adds, surprising me. Not a lot of people our age don’t drink.
“Congrats.” I make a conscious effort to look at her eyes so she knows I mean it.
“Are you okay? Do you need a meeting?”
I’ve been to a few NA meetings, and I’m sure they are similar to AA, but I don’t need one now. “No. I’m fine. Thanks, though.”
Compassion seems to calm the stormy gray swirling in her irises, but I look back to the beer can in my hands. “Well, you’re missing the party. Who are you to Avery anyway?” she asks, taking a seat on the ground next to me even though I turned down a meeting.
A sad chuckle escapes me. “I’m Mack. Her brother.”
“Duh. I should have guessed. You two look just alike. She’s beautiful.”
The sideways compliment vaguely registers, and I wonder if she’s flirting. I don’t have the energy to figure it out or care. “Yeah, she is. Sorry, I’m not good company right now. The girl I thought I was going to marry is here.”
“Oh.” Her understanding is evident in the way she says the word.
“Yeah. I’m just the epitome of love in this love-filled weekend,” I say, sarcasm lacing my voice.
“I can see it.” She’s not joking at all.
I glance over at her again. “Ever had your heart ripped out?”
She nods. “And stomped on. A year ago.” I assume the connection between that and her no longer drinking. “I’m Ella, by the way. Short for Stella.”
“Like McCartney?” I joke.
“Exactly.” She laughs, and I raise my eyebrow in question. “Dad loves the Beatles. Mom does too.”
“Do you?”
