“A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.”
-Franz Kafka
The church had an elegance to it with its marble floors and exquisite stained-glass windows. Britney Caston, soon-to-be Britney Lake, donned in her brilliantly white gown, the train draped over the steps elegantly, stared up at her husband Kyle as he spoke his vows, his voice thick with emotion.
“And I promise you, and only you, my heart forever and always.”
I closed my eyes to stop myself from rolling them.
“You are my everything,” he went on, his voice cracking.
Not moving my head, I opened my eyes and darted my gaze around noting several other guests dabbing their eyes with tissues as they quietly sniffled.
Ugh! Why did I agree to come to this? Why is everyone crying?
Sitting next to me, my best friend Courtney lifted her glasses and wiped under her eyes.
Turning my head toward her, I scowled, saying everything with my stare that I couldn’t say out loud because we were in a church at a wedding.
Are you seriously crying?
She scowled back. What? Weddings make me cry. Bite me.
I smirked, returning my focus to the couple at the altar as I let out a quiet exhale. She might’ve been getting a little teary-eyed, something I didn’t understand, but she was still my sassy asshole friend. My sasshole.
As I forced myself to watch them, my stare landed on the best man. He was definitely easy on the eyes, but that’s not why I let my stare linger on him. No, there was something else. Something about him spoke to me. Maybe because he looked as pained as I felt listening to the nuptials. His gaze flicked to mine, almost as if he had sensed someone watching him, and I jerked my eyes away. That was awkward—he’d just caught me staring at him. Looking down at my left hand, I read the reminder I’d written on my palm in small lettering—Don’t be awkward. I wrote little reminders to myself like this often. It had started years before as more of a don’t forget to buy milk or don’t forget to call your insurance company about your policy type of thing, but over time it rolled into inspirational and motivational reminders. Words were my life. How many of them had I typed and written on paper? I was a woman down on her luck and down on herself. I hated that about me. So I wrote words on my skin, words that told me to do better and try harder, absorbing them, making them part of myself. Fisting my hand closed, I shook my head. Focus on the bride and groom, Hannah. I didn’t know the betrothed. Courtney and Britney were cousins and when Court’s husband woke up with a stomach bug that morning, she begged me to go as her plus one so she wouldn’t have to go stag.
Go with me, Hannah? Please.
No.
There will probably be a few single guys there. Maybe you’ll meet someone.
Hell no.
We can dance and pretend we’re having a girl’s night out.
Courtney. The answer is NO.
There’ll be free booze.
What time are you picking me up?
By the time the ceremony ended, I felt like I would combust if I didn’t escape the mass of weepy guests. Two hours later, the reception was in full swing and I was three glasses of champagne deep, my fourth glass in hand as I watched Courtney do the Macarena with her grandmother while her mother asked me every single question I didn’t want to answer.
“Hannah, honey, are you dating anyone? A woman your age has to be aggressive. Time is running out. Don’t you want children?”
On the outside, I maintained an appearance of calm and cool, but on the inside, I was banging my head against a wall. Courtney’s mother Queenie meant well. I knew as forward as her questions were they came from genuine care and concern. Be that as it may, that didn’t stop me from wanting to strangle her. Was she trying to kill my buzz?
“I’m just taking some time,” I explained politely. “I’m not in any rush. You know, playing the field.” The last part was a lie. I wasn’t playing anything. Hell, I couldn’t even find the field. Nor did I want to.
She pursed her lips. “That Ross sure did a number on you, didn’t he?”
I gulped my drink and grabbed another flute from a tray as a waiter passed us, trading him my empty glass. Did she really have to bring up my ex-husband? Really?
“Well,” she went on, “we just had this young man move in a few doors down, and I happen to know for a fact he’s single.”
Don’t wince Hannah, I thought to myself. Focus. Control your facial features. “Really?” I chirped.
“Maybe I’ll give him your number and you two can chat.”
It took all of my strength not to let my thoughts leak out through my expression. The last thing in the entire world I wanted was for Queenie to start playing match maker for me. “Uh—”
“Queenie,” a tiny lady called from across the way. “We need you for a picture.”
Squeezing my arm, Queenie kissed my cheek. “You keep your head up, hon. Mr. Right is out there, and Mama Queenie’s gonna help you find him.”
I plastered on an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Queenie.” She scurried off, and I silently thanked the Lord for the tiny lady that called Queenie away and interrupted that conversation.
Returning my attention to the dance floor, I found Courtney and her grandmother still dancing and laughing. I had to give it to Granny Mae, her dancing skills were pretty impressive for eighty. Shifting a little, I winced. My normally flip-flop-clad feet were killing me, sore from being jammed into heels I rarely wore, but the free champagne was worth the discomfort, and watching my bestie boogie with her granny was pretty entertaining as well.
When the spunky Granny Mae wiggled her ass a little, I had just taken a sip from my glass and nearly spit it out, but managed to stop myself—mostly. A little dribbled out of my mouth and down my chin before dripping into my cleavage. Damn, I was a mess. After I swallowed, I touched at my mouth to dab away the liquid when a hand appeared in front of me with a handkerchief.
Glancing up, I realized it was the best man—the one that caught me staring at him during the ceremony. What was his name again? The D.J. had announced the names of the wedding party at the beginning of the reception. Why didn’t I pay attention?
“I’ve only blown my nose in it once,” the groomsman said with a smirk, letting me know he was kidding. The way he carried himself, shoulders back, yet somehow still relaxed, I guessed he was late thirties, maybe early forties, though his face didn’t show his age. Time had been kind to him, even with his salt-and-pepper hair. He had a stellar smile, the kind that made you struggle to tear your eyes away.
Taking the folded cloth, I dabbed at my face then my chest before I handed it back to him. “Thanks,” I mumbled, a little embarrassed. There’s nothing like a good-looking man coming to your rescue because you’ve dribbled your drink on yourself like a toddler. Nice, Hannah.
“No problem.” Shoving it in his pocket, he bobbed his head once as he stared at the newlyweds on the dance floor. “You enjoy the wedding?”
“Umm…yeah,” I lied, my voice raising an octave. “It was great.” I’d never been good at deception.
His mouth turned into the kind of frown that looked more like he was trying to stop himself from laughing. “Don’t you think it’s silly to spend all this money? I mean…why? To impress your friends and family? They spent forty-large on this shin-dig for one day knowing, statistically speaking, they’re more likely to end up divorced than living happily-ever-after.”
I tilted my head side-to-side, digesting what he’d said. I couldn’t say I didn’t see his point. I, too, had spent a fortune on my wedding day, and look how that ended. I was skeptical, just like him, but I didn’t want to be. So I tried my hand at optimism. “You never know. Maybe they’ll make it.” There. Well done, Hannah. Way to be positive. “And maybe they spent a fortune, but it’s an important day. The wedding was beautiful.”
He cut his eyes to me without fully turning his head, his mouth tugged up on one side as if he didn’t believe me. Okay, so he knew I was forcing myself to see the bright side.
“It was a nice wedding,” I reiterated.
“You said that already.”
“Well, it was. Not just the décor and food. It was a very touching and heart felt ceremony.” Okay, maybe parts of it had made me want to gag, but that wasn’t the real me. That was bitter Hannah. Bitter Hannah was a crotchety old hag that moped around grimacing and mumbling bah humbug. The real Hannah was a romantic at heart. She loved love and pretty words, and wrote tales of beauty. Sadly, she had been MIA for a while and bitter Hannah had taken the lead. But the real Hannah would’ve loved it.
He kept his stare fixed on me, the same you’re-full-of-it look on his face.
“I’m just a little cynical these days.”
He didn’t look away.
“I’m recently divorced,” I explained as I pushed some hair behind my ear, unable to stop myself from filling the silence between us. “Well, not recently. It’s been a while, but…” I fumbled for what to say next. I was babbling. “Like I said…cynical,” I finished with a curt nod.
“As you should be,” he chuckled. “This,” he motioned around with his bottled beer, “is all bullshit.”
“The concept of marriage?” I queried, my buzz taking hold and letting out the sad writer in me. “Or love itself?” Were we about to have a deep conversation? My belly fluttered a little at the thought. I hated small talk. It was the worst. But a conversation with depth…I craved it.
“Both.” He sipped his beer.
Maybe it was that little part of me that hadn’t given up hope yet, or maybe it was the alcohol, but I decided, even as doubtful as I felt, to give optimism one more try. “They look happy,” I observed with a small shrug. “That’s a good sign.”
After taking a long swig of his beer, he lowered it and gazed at the bride and groom again, shaking his head as if disappointed. “Nah. I give it a year, maybe two.”
I frowned deeply as I watched Britney and her husband smile for a photo as they danced. “You really think so?”
“I know so. He was balls deep in a hooker in Vegas three months ago. And today,” he snorted. “He was weeping as he said his vowels.” Turning toward me, he fixed his piercing blue eyes on me and added, “Like I said. It’s all bullshit.”
My eyes widened slightly as he walked away. Did he really just say that to me? Wasn’t the groom his friend? How could he just tell a stranger something not only so secretive, but something that would be so devastating if discovered by the bride?
I stared after him as he disappeared into the crowd, a heavy feeling settling in my gut. I’d hoped for a meaningful conversation—something with depth. Instead I felt like hanky-guy had kicked me in the teeth. There had been a little hope…miniscule at best, but it existed. Hope that I was wrong and just feeling down about love and life; that one day it would all turn around. But here, yet again, was another example of why I wasn’t sure real love existed. I felt ill thinking about Britney marrying this man completely blind to his deceit. I hurt for her. Here she was being spun around the dance floor by the love of her life, and he’d cheated on her.
“You okay?” Courtney asked as she grabbed my arm.
I blinked a few times attempting to collect my thoughts. “Yeah.” I jabbed my thumb in the direction the groomsman went. “Just this guy—”
“The silver fox,” she interrupted. “Yeah, I saw him. I had to force myself to stop staring at him during the wedding. Please tell me he asked for your number.”
I sighed. Courtney, much like her mother, desperately wanted me to find a guy. I couldn’t tell her the only reason he started speaking with me was because he probably felt sorry for the lonely woman staring drunkenly at the dance floor while dribbling champagne down her chin.
“No,” I answered. “We only chatted for a second. Just small talk.” I couldn’t tell Courtney what he’d said. Britney was her cousin, telling her that her new cousin-in-law was an asshole wouldn’t go over well. It would only create a shit storm.
“Well what do you say to one more drink and then we head home? I’m beat.”
“Um, yeah,” I murmured, still a little thrown by the unexpected conversation I’d just had. And a little more heartbroken.
“Hannah,” Courtney nudged me. “What’s up with you? Daydreaming about a book?”
Shaking my head and forcing myself to clear my thoughts, I linked my arm with her. “Granny Mae wore you out, eh?” I laughed, attempting to change the subject as we made our way toward the bar.
“My grandma is a beast. I hope I can move like that at eighty.”
“Me too.”