Chapter Two
I’m not sure quite how long I spend sitting cross-legged with my head in my hands, but it’s a while; by the time I’m done, the wine bottle is half-empty and the pasta is long cold.
I hate that he hung up on me, but perhaps it’s for the best. At least that way, he missed all of the tears. He missed the hateful hacking sobs that I tried and failed to smother. He missed the sound of the ring pinging off the wood floor when I threw it off my hand, suddenly desperate to get all of his false promises as far away from me as possible.
It’s not, I think, a particularly flattering look. I wouldn’t want him to see me like this. Or maybe I would, who knows? Maybe I’d love him to see how much he hurt me, to make him reconsider the stupid things he said. Then again, if he was here with me right now I wouldn’t have been crying at all – not like this, anyway. If he was here, I would have been fighting for him, for us. Arguing my case. Making a stand. It’s only now, here on my own, that I seem to have lost all my fight. Not since law school have I felt so completely incapable of forming an argument.
Carter knew that, of course. It had been so long since he’d picked any sort of a fight with me. I thought it was because he thought I was right, but now… well, now I’m starting to think it was really just him picking his battles, choosing the path of least resistance.
And I hadn’t seen it coming. Not even for a moment.
My phone buzzes, and as soon as I see that it’s from Carter I feel my heart leap into my throat. If he’s expecting me to forgive him, he’s going to have a lot of work to do. That’s what I want to tell him, but…
But it’s not true. But I’d do anything to take a mulligan on this last hour, to pretend it never happened.
Don’t call, the text reads. I need space from you right now. Have fun in New Orleans.
Like that’s on the cards right now, I think. The idea that I might be able to enjoy myself this week is suddenly ridiculous. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to hold myself together for long enough to slap on a happy face for the wedding photos, let alone have fun. Fun feels like just about the furthest idea from my mind right now.
Maybe I can keep it hidden from people. Maybe he’ll change his mind while I’m away, and I won’t have to make a big deal out of it by telling everything. I can’t make a big deal out of it, not at a wedding; that’s the worst possible time, especially when I’m supposed to be a bridesmaid. I don’t want to do anything to spoil Lauren’s big day. The only problem is, she’s just about the only person I want to talk to about this.
I can’t bring her down before her big day.
Then again, if she finds out later that I didn’t tell her, she’ll pitch a fit.
Tell her, or don’t?
I have to. It’s as simple as that. Just play it cool, I think to myself. Light and breezy. No big thing. No big deal.
The phone is still in my hand, but somehow calling her doesn’t feel like a particularly fun conversation to have right now. I’m not sure I could keep the tears back for long enough to talk about it. Perhaps something short and sweet is better.
Carter called off the engagement, I tap out onto the screen. Seeing the words in dark black type suddenly makes it seem that much more real, and I hate the fact. He won’t be coming to the wedding. I’m sorry. X
By the time I’ve called a cab company to arrange a new ride to the airport in the morning, I have a string of concerned texts and two missed calls from Lauren waiting for me; a third comes through just as soon as I hang up.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ I start.
‘Oh my God, El! Are you OK?’ She’s yelling – no easy hello for Lauren, not in a situation like this. I was always the calm one. She was always the one given over to histrionics. Then again, can it really be considered an overreaction if it’s how I feel on the inside too?
‘I’m fine,’ I lie, finally pulling myself off the floor. The two plates of pasta are still waiting on the countertop, long cold by now. I pick disinterestedly at a noodle, but somehow my appetite seems to have completely run away from me.
‘Hush, you,’ she says. ‘Your fiancé just broke up with you. You’re not allowed to lie to the bride on the week of her wedding.’ Lauren’s accent flares up whenever she’s back south of the Mississippi, and right now she sounds like someone has replaced her vocal chords with banjo strings.
‘That’s not a real rule,’ I say. ‘It’s not even practical.’
‘I don’t care! I know you, El. You’re not fine, and don’t you dare tell me you are, you hear?’
‘Seriously, I’m…’
I swear the noise that comes down the phone is a straight-up growl, more like something from a wildcat than a bride to be; either way, I don’t push it.
‘What do you need me to do?’ she asks. ‘Should I fly back to Chicago? Are you going to defend me in court when I kill him?’
I know she’s just trying to make me feel better, to remind me that – just like always – she has my back no matter what, but the wound is still a little too fresh for jokes. ‘It only just happened,’ I say.
‘Oh, honey.’ Her voice has softened to a sympathetic drawl. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. Did he just leave?’
‘No. He never showed up. He just called and said he wasn’t coming, and that he didn’t want to get married to me anymore.’ When I put it like that, it sounds so simple. Ending a five-year relationship feels like it should take more effort than that, somehow.
There’s a long pause on the end of the phone, like she’s trying to digest what she just heard. ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Wait. Are you telling me he broke off your engagement over the phone?’
‘Yeah.’
I hear her take in a deep breath, preparing herself for another burst of yelling, but instead she lets it out as a long, slowed, forced-patient exhalation. ‘Well, you know what?’ she says at last. ‘Fuck him. Fuck him, El. You’re better off without him.’
‘Lauren…’
‘I mean it. Fuck. Him. The last thing you need is for him to change his dumbass mind five years from now, once you’re all settled down into some shitty marriage where you’re not happy. Or in twenty years with a sports car and a co-ed.’
‘Lauren…’
‘What? I’m in full support mode now. I’m riding front and centre on the El Train. Toot-toot, bitches.’
I laugh, despite myself. Somehow, being able to picture her wild grin gives me comfort, just like it always does. She’s always had a gift for making the world seem a little bit brighter, and I love her for it.
‘It’s a good thing, El,’ she says. ‘It might not seem like it right now, but trust me: you’ll see it soon enough. And besides, now you’re coming stag to my wedding. You can get as drunk as you like and dance with as many of Drew’s hot single friends as you want, and hook up with any of them that catch your eye, and you don’t need to feel even a moment of guilt. Just like old times, right?’
My forehead furrows in disapproval at the thought. ‘Since when have I been the drunken hook up type?’
‘Since never. But perhaps this is the time for a change, you know? Let out your wild side. Find the new, post-Carter Ella.’
I can almost feel myself deflate. ‘Post-Carter Ella,’ I repeat, testing out the words and finding them rancid on my tongue.
‘Yes!’ And the post-Carter Ella is going to get drunk, and dance at jazz clubs, and kiss strangers, and live her best damn life. You hear me?’
If I’m being honest, the idea sounds like my idea of hell; there was even a brief, terrible moment when I first heard Lauren’s voice on the line where I considered telling her that I couldn’t make it, that someone else would have to fill my slot in the bridesmaid rotation – and what kind of a shitty friend would do something like that?
‘I don’t know about kissing strangers and getting too drunk,’ I say with a small sigh, ‘but I guess the rest of it doesn’t sound too terrible.’
‘You’re damn right it doesn’t sound terrible. When have I ever had a bad idea?’
Drew? I want to say, but that wouldn’t be right – not now, with less than a week to go until she walks down the aisle. As far as she’s concerned, everything is going just as she planned. The dress is paid for, the flowers are booked, and there’s no way in hell they’re getting the deposit back on the house in the French Quarter they’ve hired for the reception. Short of finding out that Drew’s a serial killer in the next four days, the wedding is a go.
‘Never,’ I say.
‘Good girl,’ she says. ‘Momma Lauren knows best. Now you get your ass down here in the morning, OK? It’s about time for us to make you some memories you’re going to claim to forget.’