Five Parties With My Worst Enemy

by Sharpe, Elle

  Finally Jen pulled herself away from her darling fiancé and made the rounds to talk to her guests. When she got to me I didn’t even need to open my mouth. Apparently my priorities were written all over my face.

  “Norah says she doesn’t want to see you yet,” Jen told me before she’d even said hello.

  I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I’d only barely considered the idea that Norah might miss her best friend’s wedding rehearsal just to avoid me. Out of all the possible explanations, I’d wanted to believe that one was the least likely.

  “She’ll be here for the wedding, though?” I asked. Trying to sound casual. Trying to sound like it didn’t much matter to me either way.

  “Oh, yeah, of course. I mean, I don’t know if she’ll want to talk to you then either, but yeah, she’ll be there.”

  And there came gut punch number two. Was Norah really that furious with me? Even after all these months?

  She couldn’t be. What right did she have? All I’d ever done was try to help her. Maybe I had approached it in slightly the wrong way. I could admit to that. But avoiding me like this was just absurd.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Jen said, with a light pat on my shoulder. I found my irritation growing. I wondered just how much Norah had told her. Did she know about my embarrassing rejection? Could she guess how much it still bothered me?

  Was it obvious that I kept right on missing Norah, even if I didn’t have any right to miss her? Even if I’d never really had her to begin with?

  As Jen continued watching me a small crease of worry appeared between her eyes.

  “You two really haven’t been talking, have you?”

  I said nothing. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth I’d end up going on a tirade about how unreasonable Norah was being.

  I forced myself to remember that Jen might not know everything. In fact she might know hardly anything. And if I got too irate and started demanding to know what she knew, I would just end up revealing the fact that there were things to know.

  I decided that I wanted her to know as little as possible. That was the best way to keep some last shreds of my dignity intact. So I wasn’t going to ask her what Norah had said, or how she was doing, or what I should expect when I finally came face-to-face with her at the wedding.

  But I didn’t need to say any of that. My face kept doing the talking for me.

  “You really don’t need to scowl like that, you know. Look, Norah asked me not to say anything, but...just wait until after the wedding, okay? Maybe then you won’t be scowling quite so hard. In the meantime though, I actually came over here to tell you something. But you have to promise not to freak out. Okay?”

  “I think that depends on what you’re about to say.”

  Jen cast a nervous glance back at Chris before going on. When she spoke again she mashed all of her words together into a barely-comprehensible blur.

  “We’replanningonhavingsomechampagneattheweddingtomorrow.”

  Despite her best efforts, I caught the word “champagne” very clearly.

  “You’re doing WHAT?” I asked, loud enough to border on shouting.

  “Keep your voice down!” Jen waved her hands frantically at me.

  I liked to think that I had pretty good control over my temper most of the time. But the idea of Chris serving alcohol—the idea of him choosing to put himself anywhere near alcohol—instantly put me on red alert.

  After the night at Norah and Jen’s apartment—when his drunkenness had inadvertently provided the opportunity for that first hookup between Norah and I—there had been one other bad night. And that night had been much, much worse. He’d been doing well for months, and so I’d let my guard down. Again. I’d even let myself have a drink of my own, figuring Jen was looking out for him.

  That night Chris had one too many, then two too many, then before either of us knew it he’d had twelve too many. He’d been rushed to the hospital with alcohol poisoning. Jen and I had paced restlessly over waiting room floors all night.

  After that Jen gave him an ultimatum—he could choose drinking, or he could choose her. He had known the right answer, of course. And he’d asked me to help him. So I looked out for him. Forbade him from attending functions with booze, until I could trust that he would keep away from it on his own. As far as I’d been aware, he hadn’t had a drop to drink since.

  But now Jen was telling me he’d had a beer two months back at a barbeque. Just one beer, she insisted, and he’d been fine. And another time recently he’d had one glass of wine with dinner, and that had also been fine. And they’d apparently done all sorts of research, and determined that he’d always been more of a “problem drinker” than a full-on alcoholic. Even his therapist seemed to agree that a few drinks every now and then would be alright, as long as he continued to exhibit good self control.

  I wasn’t having any of it.

  “Have both of you lost your minds?” I demanded, in a whispered shout. “Have you completely forgotten about the hospital? Or do you just want to pretend that it never happened?”

  “I knew you would react this way,” Jen whispered back. She motioned for me to follow her to a corner of the large dining room, to avoid causing a scene. “Look, this is Chris’s decision-”

  “Clearly he shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions, then. Not if he thinks this is an okay choice to make. Do you really think you can trust him about this?”

  “As a matter of fact I do. Chris used to be young and stupid. Now he’s not. And he wants to have a toast at his own wedding.”

  Chris had noticed the way the two of us were talking off to the side and came over to us, wearing a typical Chris smile on his face. I couldn’t stand it. I don’t think I’d ever turned my anger directly at him before, not even that horrible night when I thought he might die. But for some reason I couldn’t help myself now.

  “What is wrong with you?’ I asked, barely able to keep my voice down. “You’re going to throw away years of sobriety? For what? So you can have a little more fun at a party? This is unacceptable, Chris. I’m not going to allow it. Let me talk to your caterer, where is she?”

  Jen gave a weary sigh.

  “Ronan, please don’t be like this. Not right before the wedding. Come on.”

  Chris turned to her, unfazed by my anger.

  “It’s alright,” he told her. He was still smiling, and completely calm.

  Then he turned to me, and put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Ro,” he said. His voice was even and warm, “I know you’re worried about me. I appreciate it, man, I really do.”

  His blue eyes looked into mine.

  “You don’t need to worry, though. I’ve got this. I know what I’m doing. Can you trust me on that?”

  I really wasn’t sure that I could. I was so used to protecting Chris. Watching his back. Saving him from himself.

  Some of Norah’s words came back to me. Something about not thinking about what it was like to be the person being rescued. Maybe I didn’t think enough about that. But maybe I had a good reason. Maybe I felt like someone needed to be focused on what was best for the rescue-ee, if they weren’t going to think about it themselves.

  Sure, Chris sounded very sure of himself. And Jen had given all of her rationales. But could I really trust him to take care of himself?

  I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he would do what he wanted regardless of what I said. There was a firmness in his expression that I wasn’t used to seeing. Honestly, it was hard to think of it as a bad thing. He looked like a grown up. He at least seemed quite certain that he could be in charge of his own life.

  He also looked like he was really hoping I would trust him.

  “Fine,” I said, biting out the word. “Just...be careful.”

  Chris beamed. He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s going to be okay, buddy,” he told me. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

  The wedding venue, the Baylor
Clarion, was one of the largest and prettiest of the Baylor Hotels. Styled something like a sprawling Swiss chateau, it was nestled into the lush green hills, with a gorgeous lakeside view.

  From my room at the top of a turret I could look down at the wedding guests as they gradually arrived in their taxis. I was able to spot Norah as she slammed her taxi door closed, with her wavy copper hair flying out behind her back.

  I went to join Chris and the other groomsmen to help him get ready. Or, more accurately, to pose for the wedding videographer in staged, “We’re helping the groom get ready!” shots. In keeping with wedding video conventions, we were supposed to be jockishly smiling and joking with Chris as we helped him put on his suit jacket and cufflinks, something he would have been perfectly capable of doing himself.

  The videographer kept reminding me to smile, but each time I tried it turned into a grimace.

  Somewhere else, in another hotel room, Norah was being filmed while she helped Jen with her make-up and shimmied her into her dress. Was she smiling, completely carefree? Or was she thinking about what she’d do when we saw each other again?

  I kept rehearsing the possible things I would say to her, then changing my mind and rehearsing different words instead. I should have been rehearsing my best man speech, but somehow that seemed easy by comparison.

  Finally all the activity died down. We had about an hour before we needed to start getting into position for the ceremony. I went back to my room to rest and be alone, thinking this would be the best way to mentally prepare myself.

  When I got back to my room there was an envelope sitting on my newly-made bed. The hotel’s logo was stamped on the upper right corner, and on the back, in scrolling cursive, were the words:

  To: Ronan Baylor

  From: Norah Green

  A lump settled in my throat as I picked up the envelope and slid a note out from inside of it.

  The note said:

  Dear Ronan,

  I have a favor to ask you. Please don’t speak to me directly until after the ceremony. Sorry. I hope you understand.

  Norah

  Well, I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but definitely not that.

  Was that really it? This was the first time we’d communicated in months, and, “Don’t speak to me” was all she had to say?

  I crunched the piece of paper up in my hands. Then I took some deep breaths and composed myself.

  Fine. If that was how she felt, there was no point in dwelling on it. If she didn’t want to speak to me, I could ignore her. That was fine with me. Just fine.

  I didn’t see Norah until moments before the ceremony began. Outside the door of the hotel ballroom the bridal party lined up in the order we had practiced, ready to walk down the aisle. As the best man I was second to last, just before the bride. But the bride had not arrived quite yet, and there was still no maid of honor on my arm.

  Norah finally arrived at the same time that Jen did. She held Jen’s onto Jen’s right arm, while Jen’s father held onto her left arm.

  Norah was so absorbed with Jen—smoothing the skirt of her gown, helping her adjust her veil— that she didn’t even seem to register my presence. For a crazy moment I wondered if she was planning to break with tradition and walk down the aisle with Jen instead of me, like another parent.

  But finally, when the music struck up inside, Norah detached herself from her friend and came to stand beside me. She kept her eyes fixed on the small bouquet of flowers in her hand, and didn’t even glance up at me.

  I looked at her, though. I couldn’t help it. She looked lovely in rose pink, a color that brought out the red tones in her hair. Her hair, which was loose and wavy over the soft skin of her shoulders. I wanted to run my fingers through it, and felt furious that I wasn’t allowed. I turned away, and focused all my attention on the back of the head of the groomsman in front of me.

  When the people in line ahead of us began entering the hall, Norah silently looped her arm through mine. I turned my head back in her direction, and saw that she was finally looking at me.

  The expression that I found in her eyes surprised me. I’d expected typical, sharp Norah eyes. Eyes ready to accuse me of something. Instead she looked unusually open. Sad. Almost...sorry? I found my breath getting stuck in my chest.

  Then we were walking down the aisle together, our arms lightly twined together. We kept our eyes facing forward, and didn’t steal any more glances at each other. But I was very aware of every place that our arms touched.

  When we reached the front of the room her arm slid out of mine, and we walked to opposite sides of the officiant.

  The music swelled as Jen emerged through the door. She looked radiant, happy, and glowing. I heard Chris catch his breath next to me when he saw her for the first time.

  I couldn’t help but smile. Those two kids really were crazy about each other. Though I’d spent a lot of the day worrying about Chris and his decision-making skills, at that moment I felt nothing but happiness for both of them.

  Jen reached Chris’s side, and he came forward to take both of her hands. Standing there staring into each other’s eyes, they looked like the biggest, sappiest wedding cliché you could imagine. It was very sweet.

  The officiant welcomed all the guests, and said the typical lines about how grateful Chris and Jen were to everyone for being there, how wonderful they were for each other, how very much in love they were, how this union was the most important moment of their lives, etc. It was easy to lose my focus on the words, because their expressions as they looked at each other said everything that needed to be said.

  I gave into temptation and stole a glance over at Norah. I noticed that she was looking slightly pale, and shifting subtly from foot to foot. Like she was nervous?

  “Now, before I hand it over to the happy couple to say their vows, we’re going to kick things off with a special treat,” the officiant said. “The maid of honor has a gift for Jennifer and Chris.”

  I didn’t remember this being part of the rehearsal. Across the aisle from me Norah pulled her shoulders back and gave herself a little shake. I didn’t fully register what must be happening, even as she took the microphone from the officiant’s hand. And then she opened her mouth.

  Norah

  I stood at the front of the gorgeously-appointed ballroom, positive that all of Jen and Chris’s friends and family could see me shaking like a leaf. But my voice came out of my mouth. It was clear, and strong, and it didn’t waver once.

  It looked like the last few months hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all.

  Beginning from the day after that disastrous dinner at my parents’ house, I had been putting myself through torture. All in an effort to find a “cure.” Each and every day I’d dressed up neatly, picked up a boombox and wireless mic, planted myself on a busy street corner, and attempted to sing—in front of the innocent, unsuspecting public.

  On the first day that I tried this my voice made no sound. I decided that it didn’t matter. Being out there at all was the first step, I told myself. So I stood there with the music playing and mouthed the words in silence. I knew that I looked like a crazy person, or like some kind of pretentious performance artist trying to question whether “singing” really needed to be “heard” to count as “music,” man.

  I wanted to run back home and hide under my covers. But I didn’t. I reminded myself I had made a commitment. One way or another, I was going to make this work. I forced myself to stand out there for a full hour, opening and closing my mouth without any sound coming out.

  The next day I tried speaking the words instead of singing them, turning the song into a sort of spoken-word poetry performance. I felt a little bit better about this, because I thought it looked slightly less batshit insane. But it was still pretty batshit insane.

  Also, it was cheating. After all, I’d never had any stage fright about speaking. Still, I did the speak-singing thing for a few days, because it was either that or nothing. And nothin
g was no longer an option.

  The day after that I sang exactly one line of a song. I spoke the rest of the time. The next day I did two lines.

  Slowly, over several weeks, I built up my endurance. As soon as I felt the terror grip me and my throat start to close up I immediately stopped singing and went back to talking.

  After a little while I was able to sing choruses and speak versus. I told my brain that choruses were easier, and therefore I was still cheating. Somehow the idea of cheating made me feel more relaxed.

  After a few more days I tried singing a whole song. It didn’t go well. My whole body froze up under the pressure of “really singing,” instead of “cheat singing,” and I had to stop before I’d even gotten halfway through. It was very, very stupid.

  You know how to do this, I scolded my body. When you’re alone, you’re relaxed - loose jaw, broad tongue, belly full of air. Why do you turn into a block of granite just because there are strangers around to judge you?

  I was sure it was the possibility of judgement that was causing the problem. If people heard me singing and decided I was bad, well, maybe it would prove that I was delusional. That trying to make a living with my voice was an idiotic pipe dream. I would be exposed as a fraud. And then I would be forced by the laws of practicality and realism to get a job as a secretary or something.

  Reflecting on this, I got an idea. A horrible, repulsive idea. I had heard of people who were afraid of spiders or heights getting over their fears by facing them head-on. Letting spiders crawl all over their hands, going up to the observation decks of tall buildings.

  I would have to do the same thing. I would have to go ahead and sing in front of people. Badly. On purpose. I would have to keep going, even when my voice started sounding terrible, and not stop.