And I could tell that’s what Max was—the real thing. When he’d walked me to my car at the end of the night we met, I’d tripped over my four-inch heels and fallen, grabbing my fender, my legs doing near splits so I didn’t hit the asphalt, but I couldn’t stop my dress from flying up and exposing the granny panties I’d worn to the wedding because I hadn’t done laundry. I’d looked up at Max in horror and he’d started laughing, tears running down his cheeks. “I didn’t see anything. I swear,” he had declared as he held up his hands so vehemently that we both knew that he had seen everything. And suddenly it was as if I could see the movie of our lives playing out: the third date when we let our hands linger over each other’s bodies in a way that said we were ready for more, the meeting of the parents, the first time he whispered that he loved me gently in my ear. I could see a future.
When I’d finally told Courtney—making myself wait until I could tell her in person at work on Monday—her eyes had registered it before I even opened my mouth. Her face immediately softened and she’d hugged me tightly and said, “So when do I get to meet this man who has made you look like you’re glowing from the inside out?” and I’d scolded myself for doubting her, for projecting onto her the way I probably would’ve reacted had the roles been reversed.
Ironically, it had been Max I practically had to drag to meet Courtney the first time because there had been a big basketball game on he’d wanted to watch. But within the first few minutes, he and Courtney had hit it off. An innocuous comment from me about being an only child had spawned a conversation between them about their both being adopted, and I could barely get a word in for the rest of the night. I brought them together and now they’re leaving me for each other.
So this was why I hadn’t heard from her since the night of the rehearsal dinner. I had thought she was just trying to give me space, but had felt slightly hurt that she hadn’t so much as sent me a text. Even my grandmother, who had instructions taped to the back of her archaic flip phone on how to use it, had figured out how to do that.
“Yes,” Max finally answers, breaking me away from my racing thoughts, his words soft, but the tears in his throat making his voice squeak from his mouth.
Oh, I’m sorry this is so hard on you, Max.
“Fuck you,” I spit as I hang up the phone and throw myself on the army-regulation-made bed, pulling the covers apart like a child throwing a tantrum as regret, shame, and aching sadness wash over me at once.
I stare at the ceiling for several minutes before hauling myself off the bed and pulling my laptop open. With a mind of their own, my fingers seem to find their way to Facebook, where I spend the next ten minutes obsessively deleting every photo I’d posted of Max and Courtney, my heart simultaneously racing with anger and breaking in pain every time I click on another picture that reminds me of the times we all spent together. I stop short when I come across a shot of the three of us, taken last month at the happy hour at STK, Max sandwiched between Courtney and me, his lopsided smile giving nothing away as he draped an arm over each of our shoulders. I click the trash icon, wishing there was a way to delete this part of my life too. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could get rid of hurtful feelings and memories the same way we so easily send a bad picture sailing into our computer’s trash can?
I pull up my status box and type, imagining Max and Courtney’s reaction when my update appears in their feeds—hoping my strong statement will show them they can’t break me down.
Thanks for all your kind words—they have meant so much to me. But please don’t worry! I’m going to be fine!
I pause before clicking on the post button, the insincerity of my words sitting heavy in my chest. I couldn’t recall a time I’d ever written something negative on Facebook, instead focusing on the positive things I wanted people to know—a new account I’d landed at work, a fabulous restaurant where I’d scored a reservation, the roses Max had sent me on our anniversary. Even on days when I felt like absolute shit, I’d found something humorous to say or share, deciding no one would want to hear about my bad morning. Or maybe I just hadn’t wanted anyone to know I was having one? I had always thought myself above the Debbie Downers who posted about the (gasp!) problems in their lives—the ones who weren’t afraid to highlight unpopular opinions or rant about their kids, the people who didn’t fear judgment the same way I did.
But as I sit here now, staring at the candy-coated status update sitting on my computer screen, I wonder if those Debbie Downers have been onto something when they tell it like it is. (Well, except the ones who post about government conspiracy theories—those people are just cray-cray.) Obviously, always trying to make my own life look like a Norman Rockwell painting wasn’t getting me anywhere. Maybe it was time to be real.
I quickly delete the disingenuous words I’d just written and type a new status, hitting send before I can talk myself out of it.
Thank you all for thinking of me. I’m devastated that I’m not getting married. I wish I could do the past month over. Please DM me if you have access to a time machine.
CHAPTER FIVE