I woke the morning of Amber’s graduation party with what felt like an anvil resting on my chest. It was early June, and things had continued to be good between us—we’d been texting at least a few times a week since I last saw her at Christmas, keeping each other informed of any important, or unimportant, details of our lives, talking about her school and my work and the latest idiot my mother was dating. But the text she sent me yesterday turned my skin to shrink wrap.
“Daniel asked me to marry him,” she said. “And I said yes.” She wanted me to know before I saw them today, at her parents’ house, for her celebration. “I just got off the phone with my mom and dad, and I wanted to make sure you heard it from me, first.”
“Wow. I’m happy for you guys,” I managed to respond, despite the wailing siren going off inside my head. “Congratulations.” I knew that was all I could say. That anything else would be pointless.
“Thanks,” she said, followed by a smiley face emoji.
“Can’t wait to meet him,” I said. Amber’s boyfriend—fiancé, I corrected myself—would only be visiting Bellingham for a couple of days before he started summer session at the University of Washington in Seattle. “He’s a total overachiever,” Amber had told me a few weeks ago. “He enrolled in a couple of seminars that his adviser said would help jump-start his first year in med school.” Amber planned to spend the summer at home, working to save money, and then join Daniel in the fall.
Now, almost twenty-four hours after she told me the news, I sat up and gripped the edge of my mattress. Amber is getting married. To Daniel. I took a deep breath, and the muscles in my chest pulled so tight I was afraid they might snap. I wondered if Whitney was home, and then remembered that spring quarter at WWU was over. She had already gone back to her parents’ house for the summer.
I rolled out of bed, pacing back and forth between my small bedroom and living room, trying to return my pulse to normal. “Fuck it,” I said aloud, to my empty apartment. If I couldn’t get laid, I needed another way to force my spiking adrenaline into submission. I had taken the day off for Amber’s party, which didn’t start until three, so I pulled on a pair of jogging shorts, a T-shirt, and my sneakers, then grabbed my iPhone and keys, heading out the front door.
Only ten minutes into my run, my breathing was labored and my hamstrings were screaming at me to quit. But I dug my fingernails into my palms and pushed myself to keep going. It was a slightly overcast, cool, early June day, and still, beads of sweat gathered on my forehead and rolled into my eyes, causing them to sting. I wiped at them, stopping to jog in place on a busy street corner, waiting for the walk signal. I caught an attractive blond girl staring at me, and I immediately thought about how easy it would be to ask her to go out for coffee, then invite her to come to Amber’s party. Maybe that would make meeting Daniel easier, having a date with me. A few flattering words, a few suggestive jokes—that was all it would take. As introverted as I had been as a teenager, as an adult, I never had a problem getting girls. Things changed significantly when my body filled out. And while I was still fairly quiet, most women tended to assume that my lack of wordy machismo meant I was the strong silent type, in search of a soul mate. But with how often I struggled with anxiety, I didn’t feel very strong. And the truth was I didn’t need to search—I already knew who my soul mate was.
Now, the blond girl smiled at me, and then ducked her head down. Flirting. But just as I was about to say hello, I realized how retaliatory and desperate bringing a stranger to Amber’s party would make me seem—like “oh, look, you might be engaged, but here’s a pretty girl I picked up on a street corner this morning!” I gave the girl quick, friendly nod, and then headed across the street, pumping my arms and lengthening my stride. I ran until I didn’t think I could keep going. And then I ran some more.
When I finally returned to my apartment, my head was clear and my legs were shaking and weak, but the pressure in my chest was gone. I reveled in being able to take in deep, satisfying breaths. A few hours later, after a nap and a shower, I was on my way to Amber’s house, the present I had wrapped for her resting on the passenger seat of my truck. I parked on the street, the buzz of music and conversation already overflowing from the backyard. Grabbing her gift, I slowly made my way down the driveway and opened the gate to find a small gathering of the Bryants’ friends—people Helen worked with at the elementary school, Tom’s coworkers from his office, and a few teachers from Sehome High School, none of whom seemed to notice me arrive.
My dad’s voice was the first one I heard. “Ty, my boy!” he called out. “Come meet Layla!” I glanced toward where he sat, on the patio near the bar—of course—with a dark-haired woman who looked to be in her late thirties. She wore a too-tight, low-cut black dress. She sat in a lawn chair next to my dad, who had one arm around her shoulders, his thick fingers dangling over her ample cleavage. In his other hand, he held a beer.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, holding up the gift I carried in greeting. “Let me put this inside first. Say hi to Amber and her parents.” And Daniel, I thought, grinding my molars together until they squeaked. Don’t forget about Daniel.
My dad nodded, and I walked from the gate to the French doors that led inside the kitchen, where I found my mom and Helen standing next to the counter, their backs to me.
“Can you believe he brought that woman?” my mom said. “She looks like a hooker.” My mom had had ten years to get used to the parade of women in and out of my dad’s life, so it was likely that she was angrier with herself for not bringing a date than with my dad for bringing his.
Helen shook her head. “I’m sorry. I told you Tom ran into him at the hardware store the other day, and when Jason asked when Amber would be home from school, he felt like he had to invite him. You know I’d never—”
I cleared my throat, not wanting to hear more. They both turned, and my mother came over to hug me. “Hi, honey,” she said, standing on her tiptoes in order to give me a kiss on the cheek. “How are you?”
“Good,” I said. “Where should I put this?” I held up a small box, nothing expensive or flashy, but a gift that I hoped that Amber would like. I hoped it would mean something to her.
“Oh, aren’t you sweet,” Helen said. “The dining room table would be great. And I think Amber and Daniel are with Tom out in the living room.” She paused. “Did you hear the news?”
“I did,” I said, purposely keeping my tone light. “Amber texted me yesterday.”