Outside, January in Manhattan hits like a slap.
Cold. Clean. Real in a way that cuts through the artificial atmosphere of the club like a knife through silk.
I start walking without direction, just needing to move. Needing to feel my feet against pavement. Needing toremember what it's like to exist without an audience or an agenda or a role to play.
My phone buzzes against my chest. Blake, probably. Making sure I'm not having second thoughts. Making sure his groomsman is still on board.
Everyone wants something from me.
Blake sees loyalty he can purchase and complicity he can depend on.
The finance bros see celebrity and access and the ability to tell their friends they drank with a professional athlete.
Even the blonde back at the club saw opportunity wrapped in expensive clothes and the right kind of name.
None of them see me.
None of them want to.
I could walk away from all of it.
The thought comes unbidden, clear as the cold air burning in my lungs.
I could ignore the wedding invitation. Turn off my phone. Let Blake's disaster play out without my participation or protection. I could retire early. Disappear into whatever life people build when they stop caring about expectations and obligations and the careful maintenance of other people's comfortable lies.
But I won't.
Because this is what I do. This is what I've always done.
Show up. Play the part. Protect the people in my circle even when they don't deserve it, even when it makes me complicit in their failures and betrayals.
I stop on a corner, watching my breath fog in the cold air, and pull out my phone.
The wedding details are already loaded. I've looked at them a dozen times, like checking a wound to see if it still hurts.
Cap Juluca Resort, Anguilla.
Welcome events begin January 24.
Wedding ceremony January 31.
January 24. Tomorrow.
I fly out tomorrow morning.
A full week of performing the role of supportive groomsman while watching Blake destroy a woman who doesn't deserve it.
A full week of my mother and Aunt Milly parading "suitable matches" in front of me like I'm a prize stallion at auction, my value measured in bloodline and professional connections instead of anything resembling actual humanity.
A full week of pretending my career isn't ending. That my life isn't being funneled into a boardroom I never wanted. That I'm fine with all of it.
I flag down a cab and slide into the back seat, giving the driver my address in a voice that sounds normal. Steady. Like I didn't just promise to stand beside someone while they commit systematic betrayal.
As we pull away from the curb, I glance back at the club. The glowing sign. The velvet ropes. The people laughing and drinking and pretending their lives are what they want them to be.
Blake is in there somewhere, probably back with the finance bros by now. Telling stories. Making jokes. Playing the part of the excited groom while the wedding planner he just had his hand inside waits for him somewhere else in the building.
And I just promised not to stop him.
