Ditched_A Left at the Altar Romance

by Holly Hart

“Yeah. Just, apart from the four of us left standing...I can’t think of anyone who knows me well enough to rip me to shreds like that. Can you?”

  Carson thumps the arm of his chair. My chair. “This again? Fine. It was me. I confess. I wrote all those notes, humiliated myself in front of—”

  “Maybe we’ve been barking up the wrong tree.” An idea’s been needling at me since this morning—a half-baked one, but if it’ll head off a shouting match.... “What if it’s not someone we know? What if it’s, like...someone one of us confided in? A friend, a lover—a shrink?”

  “We’ve been through all that, too. None of us could’ve known all those secrets.”

  “Unless we could.” I plow on, before he can get a head of steam going. “Hear me out: apart from Kate, everyone kept in touch. Dev and Wes were tight with everyone. Carson, you and Kyle stayed close till recently. And I’d see most of you around. If each of us knew a few items from everyone’s list, and maybe we weren’t as tight-lipped as we should’ve been, somebody could’ve had them all.”

  A thoughtful look crosses Kate’s face. “I don’t know. There’s at least one of mine no one could’ve known.”

  “Someone obviously did.”

  “Yeah—and I’m still trying to figure out how.” She presses her lips together. “Fine. Either of you hear about my necklace?”

  Carson smirks. “What, the one you’re wearing? Or the one you ganked from People’s?”

  She turns red. “Boodles, but yeah. Who told you that?”

  “Wes saw you. He was meeting some client around there. Said you dropped it right down your tits.”

  “Damn it!”

  I sit forward, excited. “That’s what I’m talking about, though. If we hadn’t been too embarrassed to compare lists, we’d have seen this before.”

  “But—”

  “Think about it. Dev had to be talking to someone to get those pills. If it was guilt that had him on the edge...we’d all have been part of that conversation. Us, Matt Danbury, and who knows what else? He could’ve spilled our secrets, and then—”

  “And then, what? Some crazy shrink starts picking us off one by one?” Carson guffaws. “Who was he seeing, Hannibal Lecter?”

  “What’s your theory then?” Screw him: I’m on a roll. “Come on. I’m dying to hear it.”

  “My theory? You’re unbelievable. Both of you.” He picks up my Knicks shirt, discarded on the table. “Isn’t this Dev’s? What’d you do, pick through his shit, like some...post-mortem garage sale?”

  I bridle at that. Where does he get off? “We both had one. Calm down.”

  He rounds on me. “Calm down? Christ—are you even hearing yourselves, right now? Are you hearing me? I’m saying Dev’s dead. Kyle too. And Rachel, hell, her life’s over. And some blackmailing shitstain saw them coming apart, and we didn’t.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but he’s right. Shame heats my face. Just days ago, I was pissed at Carson for not taking Kate’s situation seriously enough. And now I’ve failed Rachel—we’ve all failed her—in exactly the same way.

  Carson sinks back into his chair. “I can’t sleep. I just stare at the ceiling, thinking about Dev. I rode out my whole separation on his couch, and I never once....” He covers his face with one huge hand. “There were nights he’d go to bed early, stay there till noon, but I thought he was just... I don’t know. I didn’t think. He always seemed fine by lunch.”

  I’ve been spending my nights the same way. Even in hindsight, there’s not much to see. He canceled dinner a couple of times—said he was tired—but that wasn’t new. Used to chide him about it when we were roommates, that lazy, flaky streak.

  “Wes said something once.” Kate’s fidgeting with her sleeve. “About Dev. He dropped in on him once, kind of an out of the blue thing, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week.” She catches my eye and looks away quickly. “But when we heard he died, we were—we were trying to remember when we talked to him last.” A thread comes loose on her cuff. She pulls it free with a snap. “Neither of us could. It was... It’d been a while.”

  I want to reach for her, reassure her, but the distance is too great.

  Carson grabs my laptop. I watch his lips move as he reads from Rachel’s file. “Her secrets aren’t boring. They’re sad. If you read between the lines—I mean, purposely served foie gras to vegan lobbyists; threw purse at a Neiman Marcus employee for failing to accept a return—talk about quiet desperation.”

  Kate’s nodding. Her eyes are glistening.

  “We’re all assholes.”

  He’ll get no argument from me.

  “I mean, Dev hid it well, but Rachel—anyone could see she was losing it. And why shouldn’t she? We all swore we’d be there for each other after Matt, but we never mentioned him again. We swallowed it down, and look at us.” He does just that, glaring at me and Kate in turn. “You shut yourself in your ivory tower. You ran off to London. And me, I’m no different. Skipped West Point; enlisted right out of high school. How’s that for cowardice?” He makes a disgusted sound. “Dev was eating himself alive, and there I was, drowning in my own shit. And I put it all on him. Never thought to ask...hey, what’s up with you?”

  “Carson....”

  Carson’s eyes lock on mine. “And, you know, neither of you asked how I got on, telling a roomful of veterans I’m a goddamn deserter.” There’s a suspicious hoarseness to his voice. I’ve never heard him talk this much, never seen him—

  “It was shit,” he continues. He’s smiling, kind of, a weird, twisted smirk. “My career, my reputation—my marriage—it’s all crumbling away.”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “That’s not the point!” My laptop slides off Carson’s knees and crashes to the floor. He’s roaring, face nearly purple. “Point is, we’re in the shit up to our necks, and none of us are there for each other. Wes is alone, you two are spinning more batshit theories, I’m mad at everyone, and, fuck—shouldn’t we be figuring out where our next weakness is? How he’s going to pick me apart, or you, or Wes? Shouldn’t we be shoring up our defenses, or at least taking care of each other?”

  “He’s right.” Kate’s twisting her hair around her finger. “Wes is falling apart, too. Like, bad.”

  Fuck. Fuck. I’m losing... I’ve lost control. If I had any, to begin with. And Carson’s right. We’re spinning our wheels, playing cops and robbers, when we ought to be looking after our own.

  “I should get back to the Plaza. Make sure he’s all right.” Kate looks up, stricken. “Or—did you guys need...should I—?”

  I shake my head. “No. Go. We’re fine.”

  My heart still sinks when she gets up and leaves. Carson—fuck. I haven’t a clue what to say to him. Can’t remember the last time we hung out one on one. We were joined at the hip in first grade, but once Kyle came to town, forget it. Then it was him and Wes, and Dev after that—never him and me.

  “Where’s your booze?”

  I gesture at the liquor cabinet. Carson helps himself to my bourbon.

  “I don’t feel like talking.” He sits down, twisting the bottle open. “I’m holding it together pretty good.”

  “Still. I should’ve asked.”

  “Whatever. Let’s drink.” He takes a long swig and passes me the bottle. “Unless you got something to say?”

  Hell, no. Crawling into a bottle sounds much easier. Less helpful, but I wouldn’t know where to start. I take a generous gulp, enjoying the burn.

  Carson plucks the bottle back. He’s right: whoever’s behind this, he’s working us like marionettes—first Dev, then Rachel. What’ll he do when it’s my turn? What string could he pull to send me to my knees? My guilt over Dev? My feelings for Kate? I can’t think of much else: I was doing all right till that flash drive showed up. Compared to everyone else, I still am.

  “So, you and Kate, huh?”

  “What?”

  Carson’s really pounding that bourbon. “Come on. One of you’d have been enough f
or that trip to DC.”

  I reach for the liquor, suddenly parched. “We had a lot to talk about.”

  “Talk. That what you did?”

  “Fuck off.” I lean back, lightheaded. “Besides, I needed Kate there. Rachel was... I wouldn’t have known what to say.”

  “Seems to be a lot of that going around.”

  “Yup.”

  We stare at each other for a moment. Carson’s the first to look away. The silence is comfortable enough, especially with the alcohol kicking in. A warm haze settles over me, and I start to drift. We did hang out once, Carson and me. After high school; before I made it big. He dropped by on leave, and we went to some dive bar. Didn’t say much then, either.

  “I’m sorry it came to this.”

  Carson looks up. “Yeah. Me too.”

  I swallow. “Another bottle?”

  “Yeah.”

  I get us a couple of glasses this time, but they end up ignored on the mantel. Carson loosens up eventually—enough to confess he’s out on his ass again. His wife’s left him, maybe for good this time, and none of us knew.

  And he’s right about everything. Kate and I didn’t talk much in DC. We started to, and then she called a truce, and neither of us wanted to break it, so...hell, we’re exactly where we were before we left, only now, we’ve fucked.

  Fuck.

  I hate when Carson’s right.

  Chapter 24

  Kate

  * * *

  Time marches unsteadily, moving forward in fits and starts. I sit in the dark with Wes’s head in my lap, and morning never comes. And then it does, and the whole day slips through my fingers. A nap on the couch turns into a twenty-four hour coma, and a stiff back that persists through an uncomfortable investor meeting. Then comes the groveling press conference—I’d had a few drinks before the show. I don’t know what came over me. I’m deeply ashamed—and I am, but not for the reasons they think.

  My shame follows me back to DC, and I suppose it would’ve followed me to the funeral, as well, if I hadn’t been last-minute uninvited. But I was, and here I am, alone in my hotel room, watching the procession on TV.

  You exposed yourself to children. That’s what she said—Kyle’s mom. And there’s so much wrong with that—children? At a couture show? At night? And I didn’t expose myself: my dress was ripped off. In front of a pack of dickbags with cameras.

  But it’s her moment of grief. Her son being consigned to the earth. Who am I to contaminate the proceedings with my breasts? What did she think I’d do? Whip them out in the cathedral? Offer them to Kyle for a farewell motorboat? Fuck’s sake....

  I swallow my anger. Rachel won’t get to say goodbye, either—and she wanted to, more than anything. She called me from prison, first chance she got: she’d written him a eulogy. I took it down, every awful, miserable word. It’s still in my purse—I couldn’t have read that in front of Kyle’s family, even if I’d been allowed to attend. But throwing it away feels just as wrong.

  Max took her wedding ring—he did promise—but it looks like a closed casket. It won’t be buried with him. I find myself wondering about his glasses—is he wearing them in there? Is there enough of his face left... Did they try to fix it?

  Don’t think of him like that.

  I try to remember him as he was. It’s his teenaged self that comes to mind: his prescription swim goggles, his douchebro haircut, his easy laughter. His dad’s boat, the scene of so much summer debauchery. The time he got us all tickets to see Pink so he wouldn’t have to go alone. Generous: that was Kyle. None of the rest of us grew up rich, but he never let us feel it.

  I still can’t believe he’s gone. Apart from that one stolen night with Max, nothing’s felt real since I got the news. There’s something wrong with me: I can’t seem to stay awake, and I’m blundering through the motions of everyday life. I put coffee crystals in my tea, this morning—not salt, not pepper, not anything that comes in a neat paper sachet—coffee crystals, from the jar. And I’m still not dressed. Not that I need to be, for this.

  I stretch out on the bed, and time jumps again. It’s dark, and the funeral’s still going, marching on and on. Or, no—it’s the news. I watch the casket go by, wreathed in flowers, and the mourners behind it: Kyle’s parents, pale and drawn; some politicians I recognize from the news. No sign of Max, or any of our friends. The clip cuts out, and I bury my head under the pillow to avoid the commentary. Kyle wasn’t his career. He wasn’t some talking head. He was a father, a husband, a secret nerd, a dreamer....

  I burrow deeper into the bedclothes. I don’t want to be here. The sheets smell weird and bleachy, and there’s a humming noise coming from somewhere. I close my eyes and picture my own room, back home, with its high ceilings and airy balcony, a breeze ruffling the bed curtains—but that’s not where I want to be, either. It’s the house I grew up in that’s calling to me. I can still see it now, nestled between a high hedge and a narrow strip of beach. My window looked out on the lake: took forever to train myself to drift off without the sound of the waves.

  When I open my eyes again, Max is holding me from behind. The lake stretches out forever on all sides: I can’t see the shore. It’s there, somewhere beyond the ripples, but the summer people are gone. Those few twinkling lights might be houses or stars.

  A dream, then.

  “Look over there.” Max lifts an oar. I look past the moonlit water dripping off the blade. Nothing but fireflies. I snuggle back into his arms. It should be chilly out here, this late in the season, but I’m stifling. Still, this is a good dream. I’ll stay here a while.

  I rub my face on the pillow, scratching an itch.

  Max nudges me, demanding attention.

  “Over there—that’s where we’re going to live.”

  I look where he’s looking. A tower rises from the lake itself, thin and needle-sharp, top stories lost in the clouds. Boats come and go, sculling in and out of the lobby.

  “How high does it go?”

  His breath tickles my neck, and I shiver. “Above it all.”

  Above it all....

  “We’d be safe. Untouchable.”

  I nod. I’d like that, an eyrie so remote nothing could touch us. A sea of clouds lapping the windows. The galaxy opening overhead.

  “You should answer your phone.”

  I clutch at the sheets. My phone is vibrating, rattling against something in my purse. Fuck the fuck off. I want Max on a boat, taking me to Atlantis, not whoever’s on the phone, dragging me back to reality. My dream’s already dwindling. It was more of a fantasy, anyway—I’m not asleep, not all the way. I’m hovering on the edge somewhere, letting my longings spin themselves out.

  An Allstate commercial plays. I chase another dream, but Max isn’t in this one. It’s graduation day, but Matt Danbury’s in my place, giving my valediction. I roll over and shake my head, but I fall right back into it. Matt’s giving my speech on a loop, boring and unpleasant. I should get up.

  Matt turns to me and pulls out the front of his gown. Boobs. Right. I get it.

  Someone’s knocking. A latecomer, probably. Or—

  Someone’s actually knocking.

  “Coming!”

  I peel myself off the bed. I’m disgusting: undressed, unshowered, hair matted to my face. I lick at my teeth—I should brush them.

  The knocking comes again, more urgent this time. I pull my robe closed and shuffle for the door. Whoever it is, they’re not letting up.

  I scrape my hair back, wipe my face, and open the door.

  Chapter 25

  Max

  * * *

  “Where’ve you been? I’ve been—” Calling for hours.... The words die on my lips. Whatever I was expecting, this isn’t it. Kate looks fragile. Worn to a nub. She’s leaning in the doorframe, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “I woke you up.”

  She glances at her wrist, but she isn’t wearing a watch. “What time is it?”

  “Midnight-ish. Sorry.”

  Kate yawn
s and steps away from the door. “It’s fine. I was more clinging to sleep than actually sleeping.”

  I follow her inside. Her bed’s a mess of folded pillows and twisted sheets. Last night’s dress is crumpled on the floor, shoes kicked carelessly to one side. It doesn’t look like she’s been up at all today.

  She goes to the window and drops the blinds, shutting out the city lights. “How was the funeral?”

  “Sad.” It was better than Dev’s: the eulogy was heartfelt. The music was, well, it was Kyle. It was touching and personal, beautiful and dignified, but it ended with handfuls of dirt pattering onto a casket that held...a pile of old meat and embalming fluid. Not him. Not any more. I can’t bring myself to get into the bells and whistles.

  “Did you—”

  I know what she’s not letting herself ask. “It was a closed casket. But I threw it in at the end. With the dirt. His dad gave me this look, like...are you fucking kidding me?” I swallow a sick feeling. “I don’t think I should’ve done that.”

  Kate nods slowly. She’s staring at the coffee maker, avoiding my eye.

  “Carson and Wes went to the War Memorial,” I tell her, just to change the subject.

  A strange look passes over her face. She toys with her necklace and says nothing.

  “Are you all right?”

  She opens her mouth and closes it again. Shakes her head. “I don’t know. How long does shock last?”

  I have no idea. “A few hours? Or...do you need a doctor?”

  “No.” She pulls her robe tighter, shivering. “I need...coffee. Or fresh air. Something to cut through the... I’m so tired. Like I’m walking around underwater, and everything’s slow and heavy....”

  I realize I’m nodding. I had that, too, at the prison. But it wore off pretty quick. “You want to take a bath, or something?”

  Kate shoots me a sharp look. “You saying I stink?”

  I lean in and take an exaggerated sniff. She smells like the cab we took from the airport: fast food and cigarette smoke. “Fresh as a daisy. But it might be relaxing: a nice soak, maybe a drink....” Inspiration strikes. “I’ll brush your hair, after.”