My chest fluttered with giddy nerves. It was a stupid prank to pull on my sister’s wedding day. But I didn’t care.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Marie asked as I slid into the backseat and booped eleven-year-old Serene on the nose.
“I’m just excited for tomorrow.”
five
NOW
“YOU LOOK NICE,” JOHNsays, adjusting his tie. I glance at him in the mirror.
“Thank you. You do, too.” I don’t say more, and I’m not sure I should. He looks more than nice. He always does. He aged unimaginably well. All hints of his boyish charm evaporated when he hit thirty-two. All the soft lines of his face sharpened, and his facial hair is peppered with gray. The broadness of his shoulder is more rugged. His entire presence is all around more pronounced, as if his energy has no problem taking up space. I don’t find myself angry when I look at him. Not even sad. I am simply curious. I don’t know him anymore. And he doesn’t know me.
We forgot years ago after we stopped asking. We stopped caring.
I fasten the back of my second earring, smooth out the maroon silk of my dress, and admire my figure. My hips are curvier than they used to be, and the smile lines around my mouth are also more pronounced. But at forty, I am more confident than I’ve ever been.
“The kids are in the car,” he comments, adjusting his cufflink.
I glance at the clock—we’re barely on time.
I finish putting on my lipstick and nod. As we exit the bedroom, he rests a hand on my lower back, guiding me throughthe house.Ourhouse, though it doesn’t feel like either of us has ownership in it anymore.
The once-bright walls seem cold and unapologetic. The smiling faces in the picture frames hanging on the wall seem inauthentic and staged. I’ve been walking around this house with this man for ten years, and I still feel like a stranger in my own life.
“Buckle up, sweeties,” I say to our kids in the back seat.
John clears his throat as we pull out of the driveway, and my eyes stay glued on the house’s exterior, wondering who will live in it next. I wonder if they’ll find the happy ending I thought I would have. Or I wonder if they’ll lose each other inside the walls just like we did.
We drive in silence while the kids sing along to the latest Kidz Bop until we reach the old church downtown. It’s white with a bright red door. It always struck me as a church from a horror film, where they must have conjured demons from the leader of the Bible study after she confessed to cheating on her husband. It spooked me in a way that drew me to it. Maybe I should’ve taken that as a sign not to get married there. Perhaps if I had listened to my gut on my wedding day when I chose to marry the stable man next to me, we wouldn’t be arriving at this same church, the front concrete steps still wet with February’s morning dew, putting on fake smiles and wishing my sweet niece congratulations for her happy marriage when our own is crumbling to pieces.
“Have you talked to Serene?” John asks as we sit in a pew on the bride’s side.
I smile. “Not today, but she seemed so excited yesterday at the rehearsal.”
He nods, then says in a low voice, “I’m sorry I missed it.”
I nod, but I know he’s not sorry. Missing things has become his entire existence. Graduations. Birthdays. Promotions.Dinner reservations. Each RSVP he regretfully declined was always met with a solid excuse that left me lonely and hopeless.
I’ve purchased many beautiful dresses to wear to date nights I never attended. Many still hang, sad and dusty, with the tags on in my closet.
Once upon a time, he loved a celebration. But that was then, back when he loved me.
six
THEN
I STARED AT THE LEAFdesign in the form of my latte, tapping the glass of the coffee cup with itching fingers as I stared at the black mirror of my phone. I wound up regretfully drinking two more glasses of wine at the rehearsal dinner and drunk-texted “Isaac Morrison” a mirror selfie in the bathroom.
This is all yours tomorrow!I had texted with a popped hip, kissy face, and peace sign against the burgundy floral wallpaper.
Gag.
That fourth glass of wine and the memory of him whispering in my ear had me feeling Sexy with a capital S. By the following day, loaded with 400 milligrams of ibuprofen, twenty ounces of water, and three shots of espresso, I was quite embarrassed and confident he regretted agreeing with the drunk bimbo in the hotel bar that still throws up peace signs in pictures.
Reluctantly, I swiped the phone off the table to text him and tell him to forget about what we agreed to, only to find a reply from him.
I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, steeling myself for some well-deserved rejection.
