Text from Mom: What color flowers do you want?
Response: Don’t care, you choose.
Text from Mom: What color do you want Maggie to wear? Are you sure you don’t want anyone else in your wedding? Chrissy?
Response: Maggie can choose the color. Or you. It doesn’t matter.
Depending on which part of the wedding planning Victoria was working on, I got between three and fifteen texts per day. She slid invitation mock-ups under the door. I slid them back without looking. She slid menus for the reception meals under the door. I slid them back without looking. Which part of ‘I don’t care, you choose’ did she not get?
But my mother is tenacious. She left trays of food at my door and would cluck if I didn’t clean my plate. She bought loads of make-up for me to try on which of course, I didn’t. To be honest, I think Victoria worried about me looking sick at the altar. After all, it’s all about the appearance of a happy family, a devoted fiancé, and a glowing bride, and thus nutrition and make-up were of paramount importance.
Meanwhile, my mood got worse with every passing moment. I’d lay in bed at night, and that was the only time I actually felt anything. I’d reminisce about my times with Barry. I’d remember every minute we spent together, from the marathon sex sessions to the way he made me laugh whenever he ate Five Guys. I miss him so much, but I never heard from him. Evidently, the billionaire really is well and done with me, and it’s time to move on.
But how? I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m literally standing outside the church in a white gown with a veil over my features now. My fingers are white-knuckling on the bouquet, but it doesn’t matter. Then, the wedding march begins to swell from inside, and my father turns to me.
“Ready, sweetie?” Malcolm asks, extending his elbow. I place my hand in the crook of his arm and then the doors sweep open as we begin walking down the aisle.
The faces of the guests are a blur. This whole event is a blur, and behind the veil, my eyes fill with tears. I see Samuel standing at the end of the aisle, tapping his foot. Of course, his parents and my mother are in the first pew, their faces lit with excitement. Only my sister shoots me a sympathetic glance, resplendent in her bridesmaid dress, and my heart drops to my feet. This can’t be happening. This is a nightmare, and yet I know it isn’t.
One thing I know for sure is that no one will ever see the video of Barry and me because it’s too intimate and personal. I stopped watching it myself because my heart aches when I remember how good we were together, but I can’t delete it either because it’s the only thing I have left of Barry. Instead, I transferred the video to my computer and encrypted the file. No one will ever know, except for me.
But now, here we are. My future is looming and I look down the aisle at Samuel. He looks handsome in a tux, but his foot taps with impatience. Not only that, but he appears a little strung out with sweat beading at his temples and a wan color to his skin. My groom is probably still using, but I don’t care because all emotion has been drained from me over the last three months and I’m nothing but a block of ice now. After all, what difference does it make if I’m living in my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house or living with Samuel? Either way, I’m not living. I’m not alive.
Once more, scenes from my time with Barry pop into my head. Eating chocolate covered strawberries in bed, moving my clothes into the penthouse after he cleared half his closet for me. Holding his hand while strolling in Central Park and sharing an intimate smile with him as the sun sets over the treetops.
I’m pathetic. I’m literally thinking about another man when I’m about to tie the knot with Samuel. What’s going to become of me?
Finally, the music ends and the guests sit. The pastor begins to drone on and on about everlasting love, I suppose, but I don’t know because I’m not listening. Instead, I’m just here. The blood in my veins is like ice and I force myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
But then, a startled murmur runs through the crowd. Someone has just entered the chapel, but I don’t turn around. It doesn’t matter because nothing matters. Without Barry, I have nothing, I am nothing, and I will be nothing.
11
Barry
An hour earlier.
I’m reading the newspaper alone, on a quiet Sunday morning, with only a cup of coffee to keep me company. I’m lonely, but I’m still not ready to call Curves and jump into the escort scene again. After all, no one can compare with Prim. She still haunts my mind and body, and I don’t know when I’ll be ready to be with a woman again.