Her fingers trail against the sparkly, sequin-covered strap secured over my left shoulder, and she offers an approving smile as she studies Tripp’s sleek black suit and matching tie.
“Dapper,” she nods.
He does look dapper.
The suit he’s wearing tonight is almost identical to the one that he wore on our wedding day, but this one fits him a little better than the other did. I would be lying if I said that seeing him in a suit again didn’t set butterflies loose in my stomach.
We walk hand in hand through the party, all of which is decorated with black accents and headstones that read ‘here lies Aislin’s youth.’
It’s no more than five minutes after we arrive that Tripp excuses himself to talk to Aislin’s husband and a few of their mutual friends, leaving me alone near the champagne table. I pour myself a tall glass with a sigh and pull it to my lips as one of the girls from the salon approaches me.
“Not good, huh?” She asks with a gesture of her head in my husband’s direction.
“We’ve been fighting all day,” I tell her with a shake of my head. “I picked a fight at breakfast, he picked a fight on the way here. We hadsucha good night last night, but…”
“You think it’s over,” she says as I heave a defeated sigh.
“It sure feels over.”
My eyes move to my husband, twisting the cap off of a bottle of beer while he laughs with his friends. About what, I can only imagine.
He laughed like that for me last night, while we made a mess of our kitchen together in a pathetic attempt to put together a simple tray of lasagna, which I seemed almost determined to ruin in one way or another.
Today…
I don’t know what happened to us. We’ve been through the deepest trenches of the Hell that we were promised, alone and together, and I thought that we’d managed to come back from it unscathed, but maybe I’ve gotten it wrong. Maybe the scars we bear are just too much, and we’ve gotten so used to carrying them that we can’t see the damage anymore.
Maybe we’ve fallen out of love with each other and are just clinging on to the one constant that we’ve known to keep us from going into free fall.
Maybe it’s just me.
Throwing what’s left in my glass down my throat, I refill it just as generously, taking a sip before I reach for a headstone-shaped cookie.
Tonight isn’t about me or about my crumbling marriage; it’s about Aislin. You only turn thirty once, and she’s been dreading this day since she turned twenty-five, so I can set aside the weight on my chest for tonight and do my best to celebrate her.
As I meander through the house, sipping on my champagne, I find myself chuckling at the obvious discrepancies in the décor. The black and grey balloons withRIPprinted on them and tied neatly together with a thick, black ribbon? Aislin’s work. The bright blue cooler, filled with ice and beer and adorned with a Sharpied-on frowny face? Her husband’s.
Nearly everyone is immersed in one of several drinking games that remind me of the college parties I’ve seen in movies, but never got to experience for myself: flip cup, shot roulette, and I even find myself participating in a couple of games of quarters.
Aside from a few momentary check ins, Tripp and I avoid each other. I’d love to be able to say that, if we were at home, we would sit down and talk through it; but that would be a lie. We would be doing the same thing that we’re doing here: staying on opposite sides of the room from each other, exchanging the occasional awkward glance and a quick‘all good?’
I’m pulled from my thought spiral as Aislin’s arms wrap around my waist and her head drops onto my shoulder.
“Hi, pretty,” I coo to her, wrapping my arms around her body in return.
“Come with me,” she tells me with a hum.
Locked in each other’s arms, we clumsily maneuver our way to and up their staircase and into the bathroom, where Aislin drops to her knees in front of the toilet to vomit up what must be her last five drinks.
Reaching for her hair, I pull it away from her face and hold it securely while I rub a palm against her back with my free hand.
Now, it’sreallya college party.
“Oh god, I’m too old for this,” she groans into the porcelain bowl. “I’mthirty!”
“Thirty’s not so bad,” I say, gently stroking her back. “I think fifty is where we’ll really feel the pain.”
Truthfully, thirty was one of the hardest years of my life. I’d forget that year entirely and never look back at it again, if I had any choice in the matter, but I won’t tell her that. Her thirty won’t look the same way that mine did, and I’m thankful for that.
