I feel the burn of eyes on me, awaiting a reaction. Strangely, anticipating tonight, I forgot to worry about Talia. Scrutinizing her sexy getup makes me feel frumpy in my jeans and t-shirt, even as I know that her outfit, not mine, is the outlier. I notice she’s wearing jellies—odd, although not as odd as the fact that I remember them from the first time I met her, at that long-ago reading of Gabe’s friend. This can’t be a coincidence. Nothing has changed, her footwear seems to be implying; I’ve still got a hold on him. I swig back the rest of my wine, deposit the empty cup at my feet, and immediately trip on it, producing an awful plasticky screech; I raise an apologetic palm to the hushed room.
Once again, Talia has distracted me from Gabe—or, I’ve let her distract me from him. I’ve missed Gabe’s opening remarks. When I tune back in, he’s clearing his throat, bending back his book’s spine, and starting from the start: “It had been five weeks, six days, and nine hours since Russell had kissed a girl.”
The words are an echo of a different time. I first read them half a year ago, I realize, when I felt so proud of Gabe, when I had yet to learn the contents of his book. I can’t help it—tears start pooling in my eyes. I retreat once again to the wine station, and when I return with my full, sloshing cup, Gabe is reading about Russell’s breakup with his high school girlfriend, and his new college friends ridicule of his heartbreak: “They didn’t know what it meant to have a partner and a best friend whom you trusted and respected to the core of your being.”
I repress an eye roll. This whole “to the core of your being” business is so juvenile and idealistic, like declaring, “All you need is love.” No one should trust anyone else to the core of their being. But maybe that’s the point—it’s a description of teenage sweethearts, after all. Although maybe this really is Gabe’s idea of true love. As I’m debating the point, Gabe looks up from the podium and, for the first time—maybe coincidentally, maybe not—he catches my eye. His expression is inscrutable. I realize I have no idea the extent to which he trusts and respects me. Certainly not to the core of his being. Maybe not at all.
“When Russell first laid eyes on Dahlia,” Gabe reads on, “he didn’t feel trust or respect. He felt lust.” Talia shifts her position so aggressively that her chair squeaks, a reminder to everyone present that she is the muse for this lust-worthy creature. I watch Jonathan place a hand on her arm, and Talia shrug it off. Kirsten catches my eye, and we both giggle silently. How thankful I feel for my friend.
Gabe’s voice has gone misty, describing how Russell fell instantly for Dahlia and her charms, and then their preposterous flirtations, followed by a first kiss. “He was already a little in love, and he knew this was only the beginning.”
Look up, I silently beg Gabe, gulping down the rest of my wine. Look up now, smile or wink or acknowledge me in any way at all, and I’ll set aside my fury at this fictional bullshit, and at all the ways you’ve sold us out in favor of your ambitions. I’ll own up to my own bullshit and we’ll figure it out together. We’ll find a way to rebuild our trust and respect for each other, if not to the core of our beings then at least enough to be okay. We’ll repair our friendship, our partnership, our love.
Gabe does look up. But—and maybe this, too, is a coincidence, but I suspect not—I watch as he catches Talia’s eye. I watch her beam at him, and I watch him reflect the beam right back at her. This is their moment. I feel as though I’ve been hollowed out, my insides evaporated.
The thing about ending up empty is that there’s suddenly all this space. And trickling in to fill it is a clarity: There’s no way back for the two of us.
I don’t care if I’m making a scene. I push through the crowd, whispering “Excuse me,” and “Coming through,” stepping on people’s toes and shoving past their shoulders, all so as not to have to hear another sentence of writing by the man I was supposed to marry. The wine table has been abandoned, so I filch a half-full bottle and secret it into the single-stall restroom. I blink at myself in the mirror—hair dull brown, shoulders broad, complexion blotchy, the opposite of Dahlia in most every way. “Goodbye, Gabe,” I say. Then I clear my throat and shout, “And fuck you,” adrenaline pumping.
I text Sam, I know you’re mad, but please forgive me. I need you right now. Then I lose my footing, I hear a loud thud, and, next thing I know, my cheek is resting on cold porcelain. I feel like I could sleep for a week.
Chapter 28
“MOLLY, I KNOW all this book stuff has been incredibly difficult on you. For the record, I realize Russell is an asshole. He’s sort of a younger, stupider version of me, but also sort of not. I know I’ve been an asshole, too. But I swear, absolutely nothing is going on between Talia and me. A part of me will always love her, it’s true, just like I bet a part of you will always love your exes, and that’s okay, isn’t it? We’ve both made mistakes. I forgive you for everything. Can you forgive me, too? I love you and I want to marry you and spend our lives together.”
I’m drawn to Gabe’s body, his scent, his kisses so soft and delicate that I wonder if I’m imagining them. The sex is tender, almost nostalgic, like even in the moment it’s more reminiscence than reality.
• • •
I bolt upright, my underwear damp, the dream version of Gabe already fading from my consciousness. My head is sludge, my body a shivery heap. There’s a throbbing pain by my left ear. I’m disoriented, alone on a lumpy couch. Only when Sam appears in the room do I realize I’m in her living room.
“Oh good, you’re alive,” she says, forcing a mug of coffee into my hand.
“Barely.” My voice is hoarse. “What happened last night?”
“Do you really want to know?”
I shrug. “A wise friend of mine recommended that I start facing the truth.”
Sam smiles tentatively. “Well, by the time I showed up to Gabe’s after-party, you were already wasted, with a huge bump on the side of your head.” I touch the origin of the throbbing, and wince. “Right, that. Kirsten was trying to take away your drink, and when she finally succeeded, you grabbed the DJ’s mic.” I have a hazy memory of clinking a knife against a glass and demanding that everyone shut up and pay attention. “You delivered quite the speech. A kind of peace declaration to Talia.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Right, until you abruptly changed course. I believe you called Talia ‘a brazen bitch and a bully’—a nice turn of phrase considering your level of intoxication. You also blamed her for everything from your job loss to your need to get plastered to make it through Gabe’s reading.”
“Oh.” My stomach churns.
“You did eventually congratulate Gabe … before inviting him to come celebrate with you in a bathroom stall.”
“No! I said all that, in front of everyone?”
Sam nods. “Luckily, at that point, I was able to drag you away and force us into a Lyft. So, alas, we never found out whether Gabe would’ve taken you up on your little offer.”
“I am so sorry.”
Sam starts giggling. “I don’t mean to laugh at you, but the whole thing was sort of hilarious. And honestly, I prefer the hot mess version of you to the weird, secretive stoic you’ve been lately.”
“When you suggested I open up to Gabe, that speech is exactly what you had in mind, right?”
“Oh, totally.” Sam’s smile makes me smile too. It feels like a truce, and a silver lining to last night’s debacle.
Sam goes to shower, leaving me alone with a hangover that announces itself again and again in waves of nausea and shame. I have a wish to burrow under the covers and wake up as someone new, someone clear-headed and steady and good. I pull a blanket over my pounding head and slip back into sleep.
• • •
I’m awoken by an alert on my phone: JUSTICE OF THE PEACE FIANCÉ MEETING. Fiancé—the word looks fake.
Why do I decide to keep the appointment? Out of inertia, I suppose, and because I can’t find a phone number to cancel. Gabe must’ve h
ad the same thought, because when I show up to the office, he’s already seated, arms crossed, feet fidgeting. He glances at me with a mix of scorn and impatience. I feel both jittery and sluggish, like I’ve had several espresso shots on no sleep. I think about apologizing, but I can’t even begin to figure out the scope of my sorry.
The justice appears. “Welcome,” he says, taking one of each of Gabe’s and my hands into his own. His smile is kind and open. It makes my eyes well up.
The justice launches into a little lecture: “Marriage is a rite, even for the nonreligious. As the institution has changed from a social and economic necessity to an optional arrangement, I believe it’s become even more meaningful. When you have real, genuine choice, what you choose is more significant.” He takes his time looking Gabe and then me in the eye. “Why, for example, would the two of you, who already share a home and a life together, decide to marry?” Why, indeed, I think.
The justice continues, his words slow and steady, without the hedging and stammering that litter most people’s speech: “Is it to make sure that your partner never again looks at another man or woman in a romantic way? Maybe, but I doubt it. Is it to lock down the versions of each other that sit beside you today? Could be, but you’d be kidding yourselves. Is it to safeguard yourselves against any future loneliness or unhappiness or suffering? Surely, you know better than that. So, what’s the point of getting married? Considering all the risk and challenges ahead and, one could argue, the sheer madness of hitching yourself to another fallible human for decades to come, not to mention the knowledge that so many good people have tried and failed at the venture before you—considering all that, why are the two of you here?”
Here, the justice stops, and my stomach starts churning again. The truth, clearly, is that we’re not supposed to be here, Gabe and I. But it makes me wonder, what was I expecting out of marrying Gabe in the first place? Didn’t a part of me hope for all of these things that the justice has just dismissed out of hand?
“For most engaged couples,” he continues, “there’s a desire for something more, for a new way of being together. There’s a powerful drive or even a calling to commit to the bond of partnership, to love and have faith in each other, despite or maybe even because of your flaws and your humanness.” Yes, I think, exactly. All of that is what I wanted and wished for with Gabe. Here, the justice’s smile grows brighter. “A wedding is a declaration of that commitment to yourselves, to each other, and to your whole community. And what a beautiful thing.”
Without warning, a powerful wave of nausea surges through me, swelling into my throat. A hand flies to my mouth, and I dart out the door.
I make it to the bathroom just in time to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet. The purging exhausts me, and I stay crouched on my knees. I run the pads of my fingers along the etchings in the stall wall: a phone number, a heart, a crude sketch of a naked woman, a tiny, solitary “FUCK” without context or punctuation.
The bathroom door swings open, and I recognize Gabe’s footsteps. “Molly? Are you okay?”
The swell rises again in my throat. After I’m done, and the toilet finishes flushing, I feel Gabe’s presence on the other side of the stall. I open the door. From the look on his face, I know I must look awful. He strokes my hair, tucking a few strands behind my ears. It’s so soothing, and already I’m mourning its loss. The tears come hot and fast down my cheeks. Gabe drops his hands to my shoulders. His touch feels like the only thing grounding me, like he’s my gravity, and without him I’ll just up and float away.
“We’re not going to go through with this, are we?” he says.
“No.” I want to add something else, knowing that this is its own kind of rite, its own meaningful choice—but my mind has gone quiet, my body numb.
Gabe nods once, efficiently. He doesn’t look angry or relieved, only drained. “I just want to say a few things. At first, I was so angry at you for your paranoia that something was going on between Talia and me, when meanwhile I’d just decided to devote the rest of my life to you. I didn’t understand why you were reading my fiction as real, and dismissing our real life—our engagement—as some kind of fiction. But the more strained things got between us, the more I started to confuse fact with fiction, too. The more you pulled away, the more appealing this pretend reunion with Talia became, especially since she was bending over backwards to show how much she wanted me. Things got … complicated. On one particular occasion, Talia and I—”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand. “Please, enough.” I appreciate Gabe’s attempt at an explanation, but it’s too much, and too late; I don’t want to hear another word.
“Okay,” Gabe says. “I’ll go thank the justice for his time.”
Walking home, Gabe and I stride side by side, both squinting in the sunlight, both stunned into silence. I’m struck by how alien our neighborhood looks, all the storefronts changed: the old boutique and bar and laundromat now a coffee shop and a bagel place and a bank. Last week’s mural ads on the sides of buildings have been plastered over with fresh ones. Even the Gowanus Canal smells different, and I find myself missing its former stink. I think of E.B. White’s notion that the city is defined by its constant churn and change. What will this all be like when … ? I wonder, not bothering to complete the thought.
I think of the justice’s words, his point that getting married is a crazy venture by any logic, but that people keep doing it anyway, for reasons that defy reason. I look at Gabe, and I forgive him for not being the exact person I wanted him to be. I forgive myself, too, for loving him in an imperfect way and for hoping, despite my own imperfections, to be loved back. I forgive us both for getting fact and fiction all mixed up, and for ending up at this juncture that seems to be somewhere in between real and fake—I can’t quite believe we’re breaking up. I suppress a sob, and then I keep going.
Chapter 29
IT’S NEARLY MIDNIGHT when I show up on the doorstep of my childhood home, disheveled and disgruntled after a six-hour bus ride. My mother opens the door. “Hi,” I say. “The wedding’s off.”
“Oh sweetie.” She leads me straight to the kitchen, where she fixes me peanut butter toast and warm apple cider, and then sits across from me, keeping vigil as I eat and drink, asking me no questions. Gratitude fills me, momentarily replacing my sorrow. When I finish my snack, she says, “I’ll fetch you fresh sheets and towels.”
In my childhood bed, I examine my fingers, newly unadorned. Gabe and I packed at the same time—he for his book tour, I for Maine—and on my way out it occurred to me to remove my engagement ring. I immediately felt lighter, no longer projecting my relationship status to the world, no longer pretending. I left the ring on Gabe’s dresser, though I don’t know if he saw it before leaving for D.C. I picture him there now, and I wonder if he’s thinking of me here.
Canceling a wedding turns out to be surprisingly easy. Especially when you haven’t done many of the things the wedding checklists say you should’ve done by two months out. Also, when you have the world’s most capable and organized mother. She greets me at breakfast with a game plan: “I’ll reach out to the vendors about refunds. I’ve already checked with the inn proprietor. After an intense negotiation, I convinced him to return the deposit in full. Your mom’s a tough cookie!” She winks, and I conjure up a weak smile; I’m glad things are going well between her and John. “This morning, we’ll pick out cancellation cards to send to the guests. The stationery shop in town—”
“How about Walgreens?” I say.
My mom nods. “Walgreens it is. After that’s taken care of, we’ll reward ourselves with ice cream.”
“How about wine?”
“Wine it is. Anything else?”
“Just, thank you, Mom.” She waves off this sentimentality. Today is all about practicality.
It takes me all of three minutes to pick out the font, color, and wording for the cards, and within the hour my mom and I are back home stuffing them into envelopes and stamping
and addressing them, assembly-line style. “I wish Gabe were here,” I say. “He’d enjoy this.” I actually mean it, and this makes us both laugh.
We walk the cards to the mailbox. Releasing the bundle into the void drains me. I’m overcome by loss, and shame, too. A cancelled engagement is such an embarrassment—worse than a divorce, it seems to me, since Gabe and I didn’t even have the staying power to make it to the wedding. I picture every person in our lives receiving their cancellation cards, trying to read between the lines for the real story of what went wrong, gossiping with glee or shock or disdain about our failure. Imagining this makes me dizzy; I buttress my body against the mailbox.
“It’ll be okay, Molly, I promise.” My mother’s arm against my own is a support beam. “Be kind to yourself.”
I nod. I wish I could fast-forward time, skip this whole part. “What next?”
“Wine, right?”
As if on cue, after a glass and a half, my mom starts pulling out the old photo albums. She’s intent on finding evidence of the Halloween when Leo and I dressed up as attorneys. I have no memory of what sounds like the lamest costumes in the history of the holiday; I suspect she’s invented it as an imagined tribute to my father. “Leo used to dream of working at Daddy’s firm,” she says, doggedly flipping pages.
“Come on,” I say, “Leo wanted to be a doctor since before he could speak.” Some of my earliest memories are of my brother checking the vital signs of our stuffed animals with a toy stethoscope. I’m flooded with anxiety before I can identify its source. Oh, right: the investigation into Leo and the faked prescriptions.
“I wonder how Lana’s doing,” my mom says. “I told Leo he should come spend a few nights with us, but he’s too busy. Your brother never gets a break, huh?” I don’t know how she does this—practically reading my mind. She returns to scrutinizing the album.
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