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“Isn’t that the goal?”
“Yes, but why does this have to happen right now?” My pace quickened. “Why can’t we stick to our original plan? What if we’re making a mistake? What if I’m making a mistake? I won’t be able to take it back and—”
“Alicia Jones, stop.” I stopped immediately, my eyes drawn to his. Somewhere between his arrival and now, he had sat down on the bench.
He looked at me steadily. “Do you love him?”
What a loaded question, I thought. It was also one I didn’t know how to answer. I didn’t know if I loved him. I thought I did, but could I really call it love if the thought of being with him forever made me have a panic attack? Was it love if I looked at Michael and could only think about what this marriage would do for his career and my relationship with my parents?
Could I call it love if Holy Matrimony seemed more like The Road to Hell Paved with Good Intentions?
I sighed. “I don’t know. Yes?”
“Yes with a question mark?” Andrew said sharply. Something about the tone of his voice and look in his eye told me that this was the wrong answer.
“Yes,” I said finally. “Yes, I think so. I think I’m just freaking out a little bit.” Or, I hope that’s what it is, I added silently.
“Does he love you?”
“Yes—”
“And was this part of the plan all along? To get the marriage license?”
“Yes, but the timing—”
“Then nothing has changed.” When I opened my mouth to protest, he repeated, louder, “Nothing has changed, Ace. You’re just scared.”
As my pacing continued, but at a slower speed, I noticed a change in Andrew. He watched me, same as before, but there was something darker behind the gaze. He hunched over, his back rounded, his mouth resting on his intertwined fingers. It was almost as if he was folding in on himself. I stopped pacing altogether.
“Ace.” He got up from the bench and stepped toward me. My breath caught in my throat at the underlying pain in his voice. He lifted his hand as if about to stroke my arm, but then dropped it quickly. In the past, Andrew never hesitated to reach out and touch my arm, tickle my armpits, give me a hug. But now, with thoughts and talk of Michael swirling in the air, it was as if a barrier had been erected between us. I felt the loss of connection as tangibly as if I had hit the barrier physically.
“What?” I said finally.
“You’re gonna be fine, you know that right?”
My breathing slowed, and I felt my heart follow. “Yes.” But will you? I wanted to ask. Instead, I said, “But how do I know if I’m making the right choice?”
He smiled, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes. “What other choice is there?”
I met Michael at a time where I was the lowest I’d ever been. After Andrew and I stopped being friends, I would spend whole days wandering the city. I would look into store windows of places where we had been together, but I wouldn’t go in. I would travel on the train or bus to places that we said we’d visit together but hadn’t gotten around to seeing. And I was always, always crying or angry. I vacillated between the two with dizzying speed. It got to the point where the owners of my favorite Thai restaurant knew me as “the crying-angry girl.”
I was sitting in that very restaurant when Michael saw me through the window. I was crying that time, and I was a god-awful mess. I heard the soft wind chimes at the door but paid them no mind. Even as I looked to the tablecloth, though, I could sense someone sitting beside me, watching me.
“Hey,” the voice said. “Are you okay?”
When I turned my burning, painfully red eyes toward the voice, a pair of hazel eyes met mine. Blond, seemingly baby-soft hairs thickened the line of his jaw, feeding into his sideburns in one smooth slope. His hair, loosely pulled up into a bun, reflected the golden light of the afternoon as if shining a halo over his head. His eyes blinked behind a pair of black, square-shaped glasses. Full, pink lips expressed concern as two identical dimples near his mouth winked in and out.
Even in my despair, I sensed the momentous nature of sitting here with him. A man this glorious was sitting beside this sad, pathetic wisp of a person. The thought of my sadness—and everything that caused it—made the tears fall once again.
“Hey, you know that whatever it is…you’re gonna get through it. You know that, right?” His golden brows came together as he tried to convince me.
“It’s just…you’re just…so beautiful,” I sobbed. He and I both laughed—him, joyfully, me, tearfully—at how absurd this whole thing was. Or maybe he didn’t, but I did. Here I was, crying over one guy and laughing with another.
“I’m Michael,” he said, sticking out his hand. “And you are?”
“Other than a mess? Alicia.” I shook his hand firmly.
“Do you go by Alicia, or by a nickname?”
