27 · Ben
She’s right, I’m an asshole.
I walk away from her, my heart in my throat, my agate in her hand. God, she has the agate. She always has it with her.
Why do I keep finding ways to fuck this up?
As soon as I get back to the reception, I find Aaron.
“Hey,” I say, “can you vouch for me at the bar?”
My cousin grins and nods as Nate, his best man, says, “I can do ya one better, little man. Come on out to the parking lot.”
Aaron is intercepted by María on our way out, but the best man and I meet up with another groomsman who has a mini-bar set up on the tailgate of a black Silverado pickup.
“What’s your poison?” Nate asks me, and I reach for a smallish bottle of tequila. No sense in fucking around.
“You sure about that?” Nate says.
I nod.
“Take that outta here,” the other groomsman says. “And if anyone asks, you didn’t get it from us.”
I give him a salute and tuck the bottle in the inside pocket of my tux. I find a bench on the Lakewalk, close to where I’d left Lucy, but I figure she won’t still be there and I’m right.
I sit there under the dim light of the streetlamp and listen to the waves of Lake Superior crash against the shore. Over and over. I imagine that the waves wash away the guilt and stupidity and grief, especially the grief. Washing it all away, numbing me. Or maybe it’s the tequila, not the waves.
That bottle of tequila and I become good friends.
We have a really fun time together out on the Lakewalk, me and my friend tequila, and then a bridesmaid, María’s little sister, joins us.
Little Sister: Hey, you.
Me: Hey.
Little Sister: Whatcha got there?
Me (holds up the bottle): This is my good friend, tequila.
Little Sister (grabs the bottle, downs the last few swallows): Nice to meet you, tequila. I’m Alicia.
Me: Ah-lee-see-ah.
Little Sister (dabbing at the corners of her mouth): Your friend is nice, but I’d rather get to know you, Ben.
She knows my name. She has a really wide, beautiful smile. Like the moon glistening on the water. Bright. Blinding.
“I like you,” she says, and that’s enough for me. We make out on the bench for a while and smoke cigarette after cigarette, but when she says she wants to go up to my room with me, I laugh, coughing on the smoke I just inhaled.
“I’m sure my parents would love that,” I say.
“Your parents? How old are you?”
“Does it matter? How old are you?”
She scowls at me and adjusts her dress. She stands up and walks away, and I don’t stop her. She left her pack of cigarettes and that makes us square, I guess, since she drank the last of my tequila.
The rest of the night is hazy, but somehow I make it back up to the hotel suite before my new best friend revolts. I spend a couple of hours on the cool bathroom floor but wake up in the bed, still in my tux with an ashtray mouth, a pounding headache, and a pool of acid in the pit of my stomach.
I deserve it, just like I deserve every bad name Lulu calls me.
I fall asleep or pass out, whichever, with her name on my numb lips.
What seems like only minutes later, Mum pulls me out of bed and tells me I need to hustle to get ready for the gift opening.
“Why do I have to go?” I mumble.
“You’re in the wedding party, that’s why. Now get going.”
At breakfast, I can barely stomach the smell of waffles and eggs. I sit down next to Dad with a cup of coffee and a hardboiled egg. He shakes his head and opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but I cut him off.
“Save it,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of other opportunities to rag my ass this summer.”
Lucy’s here with John and Tami and Emily, but they’re at a table across the room and Lucy has her back to me. Which is good.
And the bride’s little sister, Ah-lee-see-ah, she’s here, too, shooting daggers at me. She leans close to María and whispers in her ear. María looks in my direction and laughs.
My time with the bridesmaid—and the tequila, for that matter—is even hazier this morning.
But everything leading up to that point?
Crystal fucking clear.
Like when we posed for our family picture out on the steps of the church, and I had the craziest thoughts. Like: Lucy should be in the photo. She belongs with us.
Or even worse, when I walked her down the aisle before the ceremony began and I thought, Someday we’ll do this again. Her fingers trembled against my arm, and I wanted to take her hand, hold it in between mine, and tell her that I’m sorry. I’m sorry, and I want to marry her.
Jesus.
And then, when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.
Lucy looked gorgeous and Emily wanted me to dance with her. And when could I ever say no to that girl? Either of them.
And before I knew it, I had the girl we used to call Lulu in my arms. She looked beautiful. She smelled like wildflowers. She fit into my arms like it was meant to be. I could have danced with her forever, and I hoped that the DJ would play another slow song so I could keep my girl close.
My girl. Lulu is not my girl.
I could hold her like that at a wedding, but not in our real lives. In real life, we are too damaged.
Mum is not happy with me, her mouth turned down in a constant frown. I should feel guilty—her daughter gone and her son a disappointment. I feel nothing but the lingering effects of the booze and too many cigarettes and the need to get the hell out of this place.
But why am I in such a hurry to get back home, where things are even worse?