The Real(77)

Was Bree, right? Was our love made in the gray area? And did we have enough of it left to see it for what it truly was when it came into the light?

In the grand scheme of us, his baggage didn’t fit in. He’d checked it at the door and tried to keep it there as I had mine.

Maybe it wasn’t real, or I wanted it so much I turned a blind eye to everything else, every clue he gave me that he wasn’t a surreal creature in some mystical fairy tale where nothing bad happened. But whatever we created turned into something that became the truth of who we were together.

We never denied who we were in the moment as we vowed. We didn’t change ourselves to suit our relationship. Our relationship evolved out of the truest version of us. We created our own little universe where we could be exactly who we wanted with each other.

We had it. And we lost it.

To dull the bitter taste of defeat I tossed back more vodka and champagne and stuffed a puff pastry in my mouth.

“Oh, baby. You’re going to puke,” my mother whispered as she took a seat next to me. “Have you called him yet?”

“No,” I said, chewing on the sweet steak and onion gravy. She was right. At some point, I was going to puke. I shoved another pastry in.

“It’s time to talk to him. It’s past time.”

“I’m just delaying it. Okay. Delay of game. Timeout. I’m still so screwed up and pissed off I don’t know what to say.”

“Say what you feel,” she said, grabbing the champagne out of my hand before I could take another drink. I had my mother’s eyes and mouth and my father’s red hair and temper. My mother was always reasonable, a trait I really wished I’d genetically inherited, especially at times like these.

I shoved another beef-filled pastry in my mouth. “Atta girl,” my mom said as we leaned in together and I smiled for the camera with a mouthful of meat.

“You are being a horrible shit. And you’re too old to throw these tantrums.”

“I know, Mom. I should be more refined at weddings when I have a pony barrette in my hair,” I sassed.

Clean up on aisle five, bitter old maid in a bridesmaid dress.

“Hey,” Anthony said, insulted about the barrette comment as he pulled his wife to his side, who thumped me on the head.

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly in an attempt to save face. “I was being a shit to my mom. Not knocking the barrette. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Anthony said, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “I mean it, thank you for today.”

“My pleasure. I love you both so much,” I said in an attempt to sway my mood in a better direction.

Bree gripped my mother’s hand. “Nancy, dance with me?”

“I’d be honored,” she said, taking leave of her chair as Anthony sat next to me. “Where’s your brother?”

I rolled my eyes. “I think I saw him tackle a bridesmaid with a favor kit.”

He chuckled. “What’s a wedding without a little love tackle kit.”

“I can’t believe you let her get away with mini bottles of lube and condoms as wedding favors.”

Anthony was handsome in his tux—dark olive skin, kind brown eyes, and a perfect match for Bree. “I would let her get away with a whole lot worse, but don’t tell her I said so.”

“I’ll keep it under wraps.” I tapped my temple.

His eyes focused on me as I fiddled with one of the starched napkins. “Are you okay?”

“Nope, not at all, not even a little bit. I’m not even going to say with time or tomorrow after a good night’s sleep. You get no timeline. I may be that sloppy drunk a year from now who tells too many ‘you remember when’ stories like my prime has already passed, cries to her cats, and makes love to couch cushions.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Anthony said with a frown.

“Those poor cushions,” I said, catching a tear of both irony and sadness. I’d come full circle and I was officially drunk.

“You are sleeping here tonight,” he said firmly.

“My mom has me. HA! That’s even sadder!” I proclaimed as a few heads turned in our direction.

“Sadder,” Anthony agreed with an amused grin.

“The saddest.”

Anthony winced.

“Okay, I can see the groom light dying in your eyes. Let’s cheer you up.”

“I’m sorry, Abbie,” he said sincerely. “I really liked him.”

I paused my snarky reply. “Don’t do that. Don’t be sincere and all adorable about my broken heart. I’ll be okay.”

“Really?”

“No, I’m devastated beyond repair,” I said dryly.

We stared at each other for a full ten seconds with straight faces before we burst into laughter.

“I thought you were serious.”

“I am, come dance with me.”

Anthony looked at me cautiously. “You’re nuts.”

“I was born in a sanitarium,” I pointed out without hesitation.

Oh, Cameron, how you freed me.

“Explains a lot,” he said. “The prettiest women are often the craziest.”

I pushed another stray tear from my eye. “That explains why your wife is a nut job.”