People say rain on a wedding day is good luck. I think someone somewhere just made that up so brides wouldn’t feel so bad when they woke up to a gloomy, overcast sky the day they were getting married.
That’s what our wedding was like, Darren’s and mine. The sun was trying so hard to peek through the clouds, but it never quite made it. We got married six months after Darren proposed—Thanksgiving weekend 2006. He said he couldn’t wait a minute longer to be my husband, and I was so swept up by the romance of it all that I agreed wholeheartedly. I was twenty-six years old. Darren was thirty-one. In addition to Darren’s three sisters and my sister-in-law Vanessa, I had three more bridesmaids: Kate, Alexis, and Julia.
I had all the girls wearing yellow because it felt like a happy color, and Darren and I wanted everything to be happy at our wedding. As happy as we were. No one else made me laugh like Darren did. No one else could turn a day of storm clouds and hurricanes into sunshine and clear blue skies. So maybe it was actually fitting that our wedding day was overcast—because marrying him made it seem sunny. He made the future seem sunny.
I even carried a bouquet of sunflowers—not very subtle, I know. I posted pictures on Facebook—so many people did that I’m guessing you already knew about the sunflowers. I didn’t invite you, though. It didn’t seem right. And I hadn’t seen you at all that year. I’d e-mailed you about my engagement and you went silent, didn’t let me know when you were in town, but I saw you on Adam’s Facebook page, a picture of you, him, Justin, and Scott under a status update that said: The boys are back in town! I felt a pang when I saw that photo, but I remember thinking then that it was better we hadn’t seen each other, better we’d slipped out of each other’s lives.
Darren’s and my wedding was at the Boathouse in Central Park. Our borough, I know, yours and mine, but I wasn’t thinking about that when we booked it. My mom had been pushing for Connecticut, his parents had suggested Jersey, and Darren had thought Montauk would be nice. But I wanted New York City, and something I learned is that the bride usually gets what she wants. And once we saw the Boathouse, in the park, right near running trails, Darren was happy. He even designed our save-the-date card, a photo of both of us, from the knees down, our feet clad in running shoes with a line that said: Whether you come by plane, train, car, or your own two feet, we can’t wait to have you join us for our wedding! I know, I know, you would’ve rolled your eyes if you’d gotten that in the mail. I don’t think you and Alina got far enough along in wedding planning to have a save-the-date card. But even if you had gotten that far, I can imagine you ignoring that custom completely.
The night before the wedding, I’d slept at my parents’ house in Connecticut, and had just woken up in my childhood bed when my cell phone rang. The number calling was long and clearly from outside the country. It could have been a few different people—Kate’s sister Liz, colleagues from the U.K. or Germany, where It Takes a Galaxy was doing almost as well as it was in the U.S.—but something told me it was you. I waited another ring, and another, and then decided to pick up. I thought maybe you were going to wish me good luck or something.
But you had no idea what day it was. Or at least not consciously. I’ve always wondered if somewhere in the back of your mind you knew. Someone must’ve told you. Or you must’ve seen it somewhere on Facebook. But perhaps not. Perhaps it was a coincidence.
“Luce?” you said.
“Gabe?” I asked.
“It’s me,” you said. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something. I know we haven’t talked in a while. But I . . . I needed you.”
I sat up in my Laura Ashley bed, my body reacting to your voice the way it always does, and leaned back against the pillows. “What’s wrong?” I asked, imagining explosions and wounds and missing limbs.
“Raina’s not a Pegasus,” you said.
I let out a breath. You weren’t hurt. You weren’t in pieces. At least not physically. I hoped not emotionally either. “What happened?” I asked.
“She met an aid worker. She liked him better. Said he was more available than I was. Am I unavailable, Luce?”
At first I wasn’t sure how to answer but then figured I might as well be honest. “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s been more than a year since we talked to each other. I don’t know you anymore.”
“Yes, you do,” you told me. “I’m the same. You know me better than anyone. I just . . . I need to know: Is Raina right about me?”
I couldn’t believe that I was psychoanalyzing my ex-boyfriend the morning of my wedding. “I think,” I said, choosing my words delicately, “that making yourself available means putting the relationship you’re in first. Not necessarily always, but often. It means making the decision that’s best for the two of you, as a unit, even if it means compromising a little individually. It means sharing everything. The Gabe I knew wasn’t interested in doing that.”
There was a long pause. “I guess I wasn’t,” you said, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear the disappointment in your voice. “I was hoping you’d say something different.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I think maybe today’s not the best day for this.”
“Is everything okay?” you said. “I should’ve asked first. If you want to talk about anything—”
“It’s just . . . today’s my wedding day.” I had trouble saying the words. Had trouble saying them to you.
“Luce,” you said, sounding like I’d slapped you. “You’re getting married today?”
“I’m getting married today,” I echoed.
“Oh,” you said. “Shit.” I remember that exactly. The way you said it, your intonation. Oh. Shit. Like each word was a complete sentence all its own.
I was quiet for a moment.
There was silence on your end too. And I felt bad. “It’ll be okay,” I said. “You’ll find another Pegasus.”
“What if—” You never finished the sentence, as if you were afraid to say it, or maybe it was that you were afraid for me to hear it.
“You will,” I said. Then quieter, “I should probably go.”