by Marian Vere
“I don’t know what it is that bothers you, but we all have…you know…stuff…and I just want you to know that whatever it is, it’s all right,” he says, gently squeezing my hand. “I understand.”
Tears are in my eyes before I can blink them away, and I press my lips together to keep them from trembling. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him. How can he be so wonderful after the way I have treated him? He is looking at me with so much warmth and sympathy, which are two things that, as far as my treatment of him is concerned, I’m not worthy of.
Suddenly, before I even realize what I’m doing, I lean over…
…and kiss him.
Maybe it’s the incredible gratitude I feel for him right now, maybe it’s the tender compassion he’s just shown me, maybe it’s the horrible and somewhat selfish need I have to be wanted and loved, or maybe it’s my inner fairy godmother, who also had way too much to drink last night and probably isn’t thinking clearly. I’m not sure what it is, but in the end, it doesn’t matter.
He jumps slightly at first, but after a moment he gets over his shock and relaxes, kissing me back. We stay like that for a few moments, lips moving lazily against each other, and I have to say it’s…nice. Not earth shattering, not mind blowing, just…nice. And really, I think that’s exactly what I want it to be. Zach is the one to break the kiss and when he does he leans back and smiles at me.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Me either.”
He leans back in, but just as our lips touch again, his phone buzzes in his pocket. With a groan he pulls it out, checks the display and chuckles. “Hey, Lisa,” he answers, with a smile over at me. “No, I’m not busy.” Oh, Lis, if you only knew. “Oh, yeah sure, I’m not far. Give me ten minutes. Okay. Bye.” Lisa doesn’t usually work weekends; something must be up. Zach closes his phone, lets out a long sigh and turns to me. “Looks like we are going to have to make a stop before we eat. For some reason, the reports I sent to Lisa are coded, and she needs my ID badge. It won’t take long, sorry.”
“No problem,” I say, though actually I’m incredibly anxious. What is Lisa going to say when I show up with Zach? It’s still early. Will she guess that we spent the night together? Nothing happened, but I know that won’t make any difference at all. Trying to squash my discomfort, I add, “There are a few good restaurants over that way. Maybe we could do breakfast over there?”
“Sure,” he says, as we make our way outside. “I’m really sorry, I always leave my badge in my desk. Go figure that the one weekend I don’t…”
“That’s the way it goes,” I say as we turn onto 7TH Avenue, and I take my second huge leap of the day, sliding my hand into his. I glance up to see him smile broadly, but he doesn’t look down.
What has gotten into me?
It only takes us a few minutes to get to Lisa’s building, but all the way I’m nervous. In and out, we’ll be in and out. I won’t even give Lisa the chance to ask a pile of awkward questions, or even give her the opportunity to deduce that we spent the night together. In and out. No questions, no talking.
As we step out of the elevator onto Lisa’s floor, I see her sitting behind the receptionist’s desk waiting for us. It takes me a few minutes to see the two police officers with her.
That’s weird…
One of them approaches us. “Are you Zachary Connoray?” he asks.
“Yes,” Zach answers, the color draining from his face.
“Miss,” the officer says to me, “if you will step aside please.”
I move back a step in shock, as the officer removes a set of handcuffs from his belt.
“Zachary Connoray, you are under arrest for theft and embezzlement. You have the right to remain silent…”
16
THREE WEEKS, FIVE BOTTLES OF WINE, an entire bottle of aspirin, six boxes of cookies, two pounds, and two boxes of tissue later, I’m in hell.
Twenty days, sixteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes in hell if I’m counting, but I’m not. That would be pathetic, so three weeks it is. Three weeks since I removed my fairy wings, burned them, and lapsed into an existence seeped in depression, wallowing, remorse, bitterness, alcohol, and sugar. I have no goal or plan. I don’t want one. I want to be miserable. And from where I sit, I have every right.
First point of misery: I wasted time, thought, and emotions on Zach, who is now in jail. Well, he was at least, but I’m sure he’s made bail by now. He was arrested that morning in Lisa’s office, and I haven’t seen him since. That’s right, I kissed a guy for the first time in almost a decade, and then he went to jail. If there were ever a list of things I never thought I’d say, that would definitely be high up on it.
It was discovered that he was the one stealing from Lisa’s company. He had been at it for almost two years and as it turns out, he’s very skilled at fraud. He made sure all his actions were traced to the accounts payable/receivable department so it would seem like one of those ladies were responsible—which was how Lisa came to suspect Linda. He even made sure to back date certain transactions, so it would appear whoever was doing this started long before he was even hired. As of the end of last month, he had embezzled over one hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars in the two short years since he began. His only mistake was making a transaction on a day when all three of the ladies in the accounting department were out. He had seen Linda there that morning, but he didn’t know she’d gone home sick.
So I’ve spent a portion of my life trying to force myself into a relationship with a con artist.
Go me.
Point number two: Bree and Chris’s happily ever after. Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t be happier for them, and I am not bitter at all. That being said, it’s extremely hard to get into the whole lovey-dovey wedding spirit when one currently hates their life, and is ready to take a hatchet to anything even remotely heart-, cupid-, or wedding ring-shaped. I want to be miserable, which is difficult at wedding functions. Over the past three weeks I’ve had two dress fittings, a bridal shower, and a cake tasting to suffer through—though there’s never much suffering when cake is involved—as well as several meals and other planning sessions. I fake it well enough; no one seems to notice that my smile is taped on. I am not about to be a downer and ruin everyone else’s good time—that’s not my style at all. My misery doesn’t need company. I do fine on my own.
My final point of misery, which has been occupying the majority of my thoughts, sober or otherwise: the parting between Nick and me the night of the SMS Gala. His words continue to buzz around in my head like an angry hornet.
“Some things belong in the past and are better left there.”
“…better left there…”
What did he mean? Okay, I know what he meant, but was he saying he had been thinking of not leaving it there in the past—our past? Is that what he wanted to talk to me about? Could that even be possible? Not that it matters. There were definitely things he didn’t have a chance to say, but what he did say was loud and clear.
It’s over.
He doesn’t want anything from me, not now, not ever. And it’s more than likely he never did. Sure, I’d like to think that he had wanted to talk to me about us, and being together, and all of that other stuff, but that was probably not it at all. Odds are he wanted to discuss something to do with the wedding, maybe a surprise for Chris and Bree that he didn’t want them overhearing.
That had to be it.
Then Zach comes in and totally interrupts him; he had to be annoyed by that. Then I turn away, and introduce Zach to the rest of the group without even a backward glance, as if Nick and I hadn’t been talking at all. I’d treated him like a nobody. Like some random client that I didn’t want to be talking to in the first place. God, I even addressed him that way! I had called him “Mr. Kerkley”! Not “Nick Kerkley,” or even “Mr. Nicholas Kerkley.”
Argh!
To make matters worse, I had not seen hide nor hair of him since that night. Every time there’
s a wedding-related function, I half hope, half fear, he’ll be there—but he never is. I guess in the long run that’s a good thing. I’m not sure how I would do faking my happiness with him in the same room. So all in all, it has been for the best.
But he will be there tonight.
Tonight he has no choice—neither of us do.
Tonight is the wedding rehearsal.
I am still in my underwear, having just finished my hair and makeup, staring unseeing into the mirror. Tonight there will be the rehearsal, dinner, and maybe even dancing. The room will be filled with love, romance, and every other feeling on my embargo list. If I were still in my delusional phase of being my own fairy godmother and turning my life around, I might look at this evening as an opportunity. I could maybe talk to Nick and clear the air, or perhaps meet someone new and have a dance. Maybe—if I were still delusional, that is.
But I’m not.
I don’t want dreams, and I don’t want fairy tales. They are not made for everyone, and that’s just how it is. My life was fine before I screwed it up by trying to fix what wasn’t broken. It may have been far from perfect, but that doesn’t equal bad. The only goal I have is to get through this night and tomorrow. After that, who knows.
I slip on my black Prada cocktail dress—a birthday gift from Lisa and the nicest item of clothing I own—and fill my evening bag with the essentials. The bare essentials given the size of the bag. As the weather took a cold, depressing, wintery turn about the same time my spirits did, I pull on my boots and a large wool cape-wrap, stash my dress shoes in the oversized pockets of the cape, and head out.
The rehearsal dinner is being held at a restaurant called Barbetta. Up until last week, we were all to meet at the Waldorf for the actual rehearsal first, then make our way to dinner after. However, the room at the Waldorf we were going to use for the rehearsal needs to be used for another event tonight, so the Waldorf’s wedding coordinator agreed to give us the rehearsal rundown at the restaurant instead. No skin off her back as she was coming to the dinner anyway, and none off mine, as Barbetta is in my neighborhood. I had been there for a brunch once, but that was during the summer and we were in the garden. I’ve never seen the private indoor rooms.
It takes me all of five minutes to get there, and I take a deep breath before going in. I switch my shoes, stashing my ugly boots inside the cape as soon as I am in the door. A hostess takes me up to our private room, where I find everyone mingling and drinking. This really is a nice place. Everything is classy and elegant, fitting perfectly with the overall theme of the wedding. Debbie is thrilled, I’m sure.
“Don’t you look cute!” Bree says, spotting me and coming over. “I love your dress!”
“Thanks. I’m just glad to finally have a reason to wear it.” I turn on my best-practiced smile, preparing to keep it on for the rest of the night. I quickly glance up to locate Nick. Just so I will know where he is, so I don’t have to worry about him surprising me.
Yeah, that’s it…
I find him with a group of guys near the chapel-like arrangement of chairs by the back wall, where I assume the actual rehearsal will take place. He doesn’t so much as glance my way. Good.
“Would you like a drink?” Bree asks.
“No, no, I’m fine.” I have adopted a “no alcohol in public” policy after my near disaster at the Gala.
“We were just about to start the rehearsal. We have a makeshift aisle set up over there, and we were just pairing up.”
Pairing up?
Let’s see. Jen and Brandon will be together as Maid of Honor and Best Man, so that leaves two to one odds I’ll be with Nick. Crap! How could I not have thought about this earlier?
“You will be walking with…”
Please, please, please no…
“…Derek.”
Thank God!
“Okay, I need the bridal party and parents over here, so we can begin,” the coordinator calls out. Bree hurries off, and I make my way over to the chapel area, scanning the room as I go. I have met everyone in the bridal party at one point or another, with the exception of the flower girl and ring bearer. The only other people I recognize, however, are the parents of the bride and groom, and Cathy and Rob, who I see standing over by the tables. Cathy’s eye catches mine, and she waves with a smile. I smile back while thinking it was odd to see them here. Though I guess they would be considered out-of-town guests, who are customarily invited to the rehearsal dinner. At any rate, I am glad to see her. It will give me someone to talk to, as my usual conversation keepers—Bree and/or Chris—will be busy tonight.
The rehearsal goes smoothly. There’s a little drama when the flower girl drops her basket and cries over the spilled petals, but that is quickly resolved. Throughout the entire rehearsal I try my best not to look at Nick, but fail horribly. I sneak glance after glance, hoping and dreading to just once find his eyes awaiting mine—but they never are. In fact he seems to be totally unaware that I am in the room at all. Not that he should be paying me special attention or anything, but I’m pretty sure I’ve, at the very least, made eye contact with everyone else in the wedding party at one point or another.
It’s okay. Just don’t let it get to you. It can get to you later when you’re at home, but for now, keep it together.
The evening progresses slowly, moving from the rehearsal into appetizers. I am happy to see that there are no assigned seats and make my way over to where Cathy is seated.
“Julia!” Cathy stands to give me a hug. “It’s so good to see you! We missed you up in Maine after you left.”
“I know! It seems like I missed the best part.”
“So what’s new with you? Are you here alone? Bree tells me you have been seeing someone.”
“No, that was nothing really,” I say, hoping that by telling Cathy, the information will find its way to Nick.
“Oh, that’s too bad. She seemed so happy for you.”
“Yes, well, Bree made a lot more out of it than it really was. You know how it is when you’re in love; you want to see everyone else in love too.”
“That’s true. I should have added the proverbial grain of salt.” She laughs.
I pick up the menu card at my place at the table, and idly toy with it. “I am happy for her, though. For them both. It seems to be a match made in heaven.”
“Soul mates,” she agrees, glancing over at them, “if you believe in that sort of thing.”
“I do actually, but I think most women do. We almost have to, what with the stories we grow up with. I think it’s the men who are harder to convince.”
“You think men don’t love the same way we do?”
“No, some do, it’s by no means a rule. But I do think they can get over us much more easily than we can them. And we certainly love the longest. Even when there’s no hope left. Men don’t have the trouble we do moving on.”
“That could be true,” she allowed, “but that could have something to do with the stories they grow up with. They aren’t taught to be as sentimental as we are.”
“No. The funny thing is, they’re the same stories. Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, they each waited their whole lives for one man: Prince Charming. Are there three separate ‘Prince Charmings’ out there, I wonder, or is it the same guy, working his way around the kingdoms? You would think if it were three different guys, that they would each warrant their own name. Women are taught to believe they have to look for and find ‘the one,’ while men are taught to believe there will always be another princess.”
“I never really thought about it quite like that,” she says, clearly amused by my logic.
“I’ve put some thought into it, sure, but don’t forget that grain of salt. I am just as biased as Bree, but in another way entirely.”
She smiles but doesn’t comment, which is probably for the best. We turn our conversation to lighter subjects as others join our table.
Dinner comes and goes, and as dessert is being served I hear someone clink
a spoon against their glass, calling us all to attention. I look over and see Debbie standing by the bridal party table with a microphone, and standing next to her, holding a champagne glass, is Nick.
Great. Something else I hadn’t considered was the possibility of having to sit through Nick addressing a room full of people on the subject of love, happiness, and devotion. This night gets better and better.
“Good evening, everyone,” Debbie begins. “As the Best Man and Maid of Honor will be addressing us tomorrow, I have asked Mr. Kerkley, one of the groomsmen, to say a few words before we all enjoy our cake.”
As Nick takes the microphone, my palms begin to sweat and my pulse pounds in my throat. I sit rigidly, staring at the spot of empty air where Debbie had just been standing, which makes it appear to anyone who might look at me as though I’m watching Nick—something I absolutely refuse to do. Short of running out of the room like a two-year-old, I have no choice but listen to him give a lovey-dovey toast, but I’ll be damned if I am going to look him in the eye while he does it.
I steel my emotions, lock my position and facial expression in place, and brace for impact.
“When Debbie asked me to give a toast I was nervous, because as anyone who knows me can tell you, I am not exactly qualified to talk about marriage. The only marriage advice I could give anyone came to me first hand from my brother-in-law, who is fond of saying that marriage is very much like football. It takes practice, teamwork, and is fun for about three hours each week in the fall.”
He pauses for the laughter, and I unclench my fists just a bit. He’s joking and light-hearted—maybe this won’t be so bad.
“So,” he continues, as the chuckles of the guests die down, “as you can see, my personal knowledge of wedded bliss is somewhat lacking. However, what I can say a few words about is love. Love is a word that is overused these days, due to other lesser feelings often being mistaken for it. Infatuation, admiration, and attraction can pose as love, and can sometimes overwhelm us and fool us into thinking we have found the real thing when we haven’t. Those other feelings may be pleasant for a time, but they are not real love. Real love is rare. It’s something that, quite honestly, I believe very few people ever truly experience.