The One That Got Away

by G.M. Gregory

She was marrying the wrong man. It was plain to see, although he knew there probably wasn’t anyone inside the church that would dare to agree with him. There would be no call for objections today, no last minute dash to the altar to liberate her. The storybook wedding would proceed as planned, a bloated display of wealth that made him sick. The officiant droned on, speaking of commitment, trust, love. He popped a mint, sucking on it, turning it over with his tongue, busying his mouth so he wouldn’t feel tempted to speak out.

Surely she hadn’t wanted all this. He found it hard to accept that she’d even decided to get married in a church. It was old-fashioned. After all, she wasn’t religious. It must have been the groom’s parents who wanted to turn her wedding into a spectacle. He glanced at them, a stodgy older couple sitting in the first pew on the other side. No doubt they felt they were doing her a favor by letting her marry their firstborn. Their best boy, the heir apparent. Renting out her womb to produce a couple of brats who’d be born with silver spoons in their mouths, reducing her to a jeweled incubator.

She was beautiful, even though she didn’t look the way he’d always pictured she would on her wedding day. He’d envisioned her hair in waves that flowed down her back. A strapless dress, her collarbones glimmering, dusted with pearlescent powder. Timeless and elegant, a reflection of who she was inside.

Instead, she wore a traditional puffball of a gown. Her long hair was gathered up at the back of her head in a stiff, braided bun, and her face was obscured by a gauzy veil. It chafed him to know she’d had to forgo the simple wedding of her dreams to kowtow to the gauche desires of her new husband and his family—all because they held the pocketbook.

The whole affair felt tacky and overdone, even though he didn’t have much to compare it to. He’d only attended one other wedding before in his life, when his mother had remarried another asshole after the divorce. Could barely recall it. Had been rolling on a cocktail of pills that ate up his memory and his judgement, leaving him with piss-soaked pants and a black void in his brain by the end of the night. The only thing that made an impression on him was how he felt that day, burning up in a cheap tux. Teenage indignity, a vow to himself that when he married her, things would be different. They would marry for love, not convenience. They would be different. Better.

But he wasn’t marrying her, which meant he’d probably never get married at all. Would probably never even attend another wedding, would turn down invite after invite, placating friends and coworkers with excuses. It stung too much.

He averted his eyes as she kissed the groom. Cracked his molars on another mint, wishing it were a cyanide tablet, chewing on fine grit. Triumphant, happy sounds echoed in the church as everyone stood up to smile at the newlyweds as they walked back down the aisle. He almost couldn't look at her, gazing instead at the red petals strewn all over the floor until the white of her dress came into view. He pulled his head up to face her at the last second, stomach dropping. Her smile didn’t falter, but he liked to think he saw something pass over her face. Regret. Some longing of her own to mirror what was eating him up inside. Maybe, for just a second, she wished she were walking by his side instead. The way they’d planned when they were kids.

The moment was over in two steps, leaving him to stare at the veil cascading down her shoulders, the shorn hair on the back of her new husband’s head. His insides curdled, sour milk rising in his throat as he watched her walk away from him. He probably should have just stayed home, should have realized she sent the invitation out of some sense of obligation or just to be nice, maybe both. Had been incredulous when he opened the heavy envelope, reading her name over and over. Tracing his fingers over gilded, spidery print on stiff paper, creamy white, no doubt expensive. Threw it away only to dig it out of the trash in the middle of the night, slimed with old food and coffee grounds. Saved the address of the church in his phone, plotting the drive with his GPS app.

So he came to her wedding—so what? If she didn’t want to see him, she shouldn’t have invited him. It’s not like he particularly wanted to upset her, although he couldn’t deny the childish, petty thrill that raced through him at the prospect of staining her memory of the day. A black spot on a photograph of the married couple, something that couldn’t be buffed out. She’d be forced to recall his presence every time she reminisced about her wedding. It wouldn’t ever be enough to sate him, but it would be something to cling to on his loneliest nights, when his texts went unread and his brain was fuzzy.

It was time for her reception, only a short walk away. He followed the throng of guests, trodding on rose petals, listening to them chatter to each other. They paid no mind to him, a tall, shadowy stranger to most of them. The majority of the crowd belonged to the groom’s camp, although the bride’s father was there, as well as a few cousins he recognized from family gatherings years ago. Some coworkers, girlfriends and their plus-ones that he’d seen tagged in her social media photos. People she loved, people she hated, all filing into a sumptuous banquet hall, making him wonder where he stood.

An elegant seating chart relegated him to a table of no importance in the back of the room along with a few distant, older relatives. They didn’t bother speaking to him beyond perfunctory introductions, perhaps sensing something unsavory in his aura. Whatever, fine by him. He poured some liquor from a flask into his sweating glass of iced tea, not wanting to bother with the line in front of the open bar, full of people eager to get drunk on someone else’s dime. The tab at the end of the night would be staggering—not that it would matter. The groom’s parents would spare no expense. They were multi-millionaires, wealthy racehorse breeders, a fact they wouldn’t let anyone forget. Even the table’s centerpiece was adorned with an ugly golden horseshoe, a choice so tasteless, only a member of the ultra-rich could make it.

It was difficult not to resent her for choosing them over him. He knew, he knew in his heart that she had turned him down because of money. Sure, he had difficulty keeping a steady job—who didn’t? But he still would have done his best to keep her comfortable. It wasn’t his fault that the economy was shit and bosses paid dirt. They’d both had the bad luck of being born poor, so of course he understood the desire for stability, the fantasy of not living paycheck-to-paycheck. Knew that a future without financial struggle would mean a lot to her.

He’d just made the mistake of assuming love—first love, true love, pure love—would mean more. It wasn't fair, but few things were.

He drank his booze and tea, watching her at the sweetheart table from across the room. Never looking at him, not even once, as if she couldn’t bear to be caught in his gaze again. She sipped champagne, brought delicate forkfuls of arugula to her mouth, ignored the steak on her plate. She'd always been a light eater, but maybe her nerves were shot, making her too anxious to eat. Or maybe she didn't want a full stomach for what she’d be expected to do later. Something dark stirred in his chest at the thought. Images of a posh honeymoon suite paraded through his brain, each more gut-wrenching than the last. Her heels kicked off by the door. His hands sliding up her thighs. Shades that remained drawn for days, or perhaps left open in exhibitionist glee.

A ringing sound cut through the din of conversation. The maid of honor stood up, best friend of the bride, a bitch who’d always had it out for him. Clinking a glass and calling the room to attention to listen to her wax poetic over a tragedy. Resentment simmered in the cauldron of his gut as she shared some insipid story about the oh-so-happy couple, recapping the moment in which she’d become certain that they were simply meant to be. Fucking whatever. As if she knew her the way he did. After all, he’d been around since they were children. She’d only come along in high school; their friendship was surface level. He’d always maintained that she was toxic, jealous, petty, while she spread lies about him to the person he loved most. A mutual, fostered hatred. All that anger came rushing back as she prattled on, spewing bullshit about forever and one-of-a-kind and soulmates.

He was done listening, and he needed to piss anyway. Against his better judgement, he’d popped a pill earlier after finishing off the rest of his mints. It made him tense, irritable. A little wobbly on his feet. Hadn’t been a good idea, especially since he was drinking, but it never was. He got up, bracing himself against the table, ignoring the stares from everyone probably wondering how he had the gall to get up during the speech.

The bathroom he stumbled into was so opulent, it was ridiculous. Gleaming counters, fancy sinks. Expensive hardware. Not the grubby shit he’d grown up with. He leaned against the wall above the urinal, relief flooding through him. Tried to aim, all dizzy. Started laughing, thinking about dribbling all over the floor, picturing all those assholes walking out of the bathroom with his piss on the soles of their expensive shoes.

Fuck, he was gone. His brain liquefied, reduced to slurry between his ears. Maybe he should just leave. Call a cab, hit the drive-thru on the way home, pass out in a pile of dollar menu trash. Clearly he didn’t belong here. He wasn’t her soulmate. Wasn’t her anything, apparently. Not anymore, not since the days when they’d only had each other.

But, again: she had invited him. His foggy mind couldn’t make sense of it. The more he puzzled over it, the madder he got. Turning it over and over in his brain, attempting to intuit the reason why he was good enough to be a guest but not the groom.

Was she rubbing his nose in it? Flaunting her final choice in his face?

Or, was there a chance that she still wanted him? Did she ache for his touch? Maybe she was haunted by the same memories that plagued him, reliving dreams of bygone days at the family lake house. Swimsuits left in the dirt, cold water and warm bodies. Whispered secrets, throaty confessions. First times, and seconds and thirds.

He had to know.

Music was drifting down the hallway as he made his way back to the reception. A sweet-sounding singer. Something soft and slow to dance to without turning the mood somber. Scanning the room for white tulle, his heart pounding. An artificial, too-fast rhythm that made his chest tight. Sweating through his suit, keyed up and jumpy, desperate for a confession or a confrontation.

He spotted her among a few members of the groom’s family and moved quickly through the crowd, feeling a jolt when their eyes met. Close. He—they—were so close. His mouth was dry, tongue heavy, but this was his chance, he was going to speak up the way he should have during the ceremony—

Her new mother-in-law was looking at him with curious eyes as he approached their group, cutting in before he could say anything.

“Why, hello. Your sister told us she didn’t think you’d be able to make it. We’re so happy you’re here—oh, this is a nice song! Why don’t you take her for a dance?” She motioned toward a photographer at the side of the room. “We’ll get some lovely photos for your mother.”

He stared at his sister as she went pale, unable to argue with her mother-in-law.

There was no reason not to dance with her brother on her wedding day.

“Um, yeah, of course,” she choked out, allowing him to guide her onto the dance-floor.

His steps were uneven, clumsy, as he attempted to lead her in some kind of passable rhythm. The beading on her dress tickled his palms, his hands resting feather-light on her waist.

“You miss me?” he slurred.

She refused to look at him. “You shouldn’t have come if you were gonna get all fucked up.”

“Love you.”

“Stop.” Her voice cracked like she was about to cry.

It was okay. He realized he didn’t need her to say it back now that they were together. It was enough to pretend that the wedding was all for them, that they were sharing a dance as husband and wife.

Just as he’d always dreamed.