I spend dinner at a round table, trapped between the two Mariani brothers. I can't imagine a more awkward place to be. I'm just glad that Nessa and Connor spend most of their time traveling from table to table, talking with their guests, and when they come back Nessa plops herself down in the chair to my right.
"This day is so exhausting!" she exclaims, staring at the untouched plate of food in front of her like it's a marathon. Or an ultra marathon. One of those big fifty-mile ones that must mess up your body.
"That's the price you pay for making it perfect, I guess," I offer. My own food vanished into thin air ages ago.
"To be honest?" she says, picking at the food even though it's her husband's. "I would've been fine with a courthouse and two witnesses. Connor's the one who wanted all this." She waves her hand at the flowers and white tablecloths and friends and family.
"You'd have been a witness, of course," she adds, misinterpreting my pinched lips.
"Oh," I manage. "Thanks."
Maybe I'll look back on this one day and laugh.
The ping of a fork against a glass reminds me that today is not that day, and I look up as Connor nods at me to stand. Right, the maid of honor makes a toast. I've known that for months, and I thought I'd used the time well enough to prepare, but my legs suddenly fail me.
Cam pushes me to my feet. What a helpful guy. I just love swaying in front of a roomful of expectant faces while my heart gallops out of control and my brain implodes.
Someone hands me a microphone, and it trembles in my hand. Or my hand trembles around it. I don't understand. I had my toast memorized and suddenly it's gone in a puff of pink, flowery-scented smoke and "Newlyweds!" banners. My dinner shifts menacingly at the bottom of my throat.
"Hello," I finally stammer, to the amusement of my table. The audience waits patiently, indulging me for the moment.
Okay. I can still save this. I glance at Connor, then Nessa. Then I look at both of them together, so perfect and meant for each other, and I definitely ate something I shouldn't have earlier because a hard lump has situated itself right in the area of my throat that I need clear to breathe.
"I've known Nessa and Connor sinceâ"
The next word is "college," and I know that, but it seems so woefully inadequate next to the truth. But what am I supposed to say at their wedding? That Connor had approached me at the bar next door, and I'd obliged? I can probably recount the whole sordid affair in detail that would haunt these people's dreams for years.
I can't do that to her.
She's my friend.
My friend!
That doesn't change the fact that my one-night stand with her husband only solidified my position as third wheel to a person I knew I could never have.
"Iâ"
I try to forge on. I really do. But the words are like quicksand in my mouth. Soupy, meaningless. A trap.
A loud thump echoes from the speakers as the microphone hits the table. "Sorry," I whisper as I pass Nessa and make a beeline for the door. I can't do it. They can have their happy ending, but I can't be part of it. I know I'm selfish. I know I'm being childish. I'm an adult, I should be above this high school-level drama. But none of those realizations change the fact that I just can't.
I wrench open a door at random, not really caring what's on the other side as long as it's not people. I just want to be alone.
I fall to my knees beside a cushy ottoman, digging my elbows into its plush depths and squeezing my temples so hard I wouldn't be surprised to find brain oozing out my ears like a zit.
Maybe that's all I really am in the endâa giant pimple. The unobtrusive kind that you randomly squeeze anyway one day and you're just floored at the amount of crap that comes out. I feel that crap coming out now in the warm tears pressing past the corners of my eyelids.
Great. This is what I get for telling myself I could do thisâa stupid decision to forgo the waterproof mascara earlier this afternoon, and now I'm about to look like a raccoon caught robbing the trash can.
I force myself to take deep breaths, counting the seconds in and forcing them back out through my nose. It's more effort than it's worth, mainly because getting any air through my snotty nostrils is a full-body workout, but I have to get myself in shape to go back out there and suck it up. It's not that hard; I've been playing the thrilled best friend for months now.
The thing is, it's a lot easier to suck it up over email than it is in person. How many times have I typed "lol" with a completely straight face? And they have no way of knowing the beating my keyboard took as I wrote "Congratulations!" with a bride emoji and five hearts on Nessa's Facebook post marking their engagement.
I never use emojis.
I let my head sink into my arms, my nose squashed completely against the fabric. My transition to mouth-breather is complete.
Those hearts were purple. It doesn't mean anything to anybody else, but it's the closest I've ever come to admitting the truth to anyone who isn't a total stranger.
I jump like a deer when the door sweeps open behind me. Crap. I've taken too long and now they've sent someone after me. Probably Cam.
Effing Cam.
"Go away." My voice comes out muffled and slurred, a bad combination. Between the snot and the echo chamber of my arms, I sound like a drunk person in a toilet.
"Lana, are you okay?"
The voice is Nessa's, and my tears want to shrivel up and hide away. When they do, I chance a glance up.
And immediately regret it. Connor hovers a few inches behind her. I shoot him a glare that he meets with a sigh.
"I think she's fine," he notes, fingers already wrapping around Nessa's arms to steer her back the way they came. For once I want him to take her. I'm tired of third-wheeling everywhere.
"You don't look fine," Nessa comments as if I'm the one who said it. She crouches down beside me, white dress rustling and planting its wide folds between us until she finally gives up closing the distance.
"No, really, I'm fine," I humor Connor's assumption. "Just ate something, orâyou know what, I think it was the champagne?"
"The champagne?" she repeats skeptically.
I nod. "Mhm. You know I'm a lightweight."
She laughs a little, and I close my eyes at the sound. "We never got to the toast."
"I know. I'm sorry. You should go back and enjoy your party."
"Not until we know you're okay," she says firmly. Connor looks like he wants to protest, but keeps his mouth shut.
He does really love her.
I die a little inside when her hand lands on my bare shoulder. Goosebumps raise themselves in her wake. If she knew how many times I'd wished ruin upon her relationship, she'd never even look at me again.
I push her hand away.
"Talk to me, Lana."
The lump of whatever-I-ate is back, pressing painfully into my chest with sadistic pleasure. I want to obey her. I want to tell her everything. I've known her for six years, that has to be worth something, right? The truth is a rising tide on my tongue, but I fight to hold it back. I'm afraid she'll run if she hears it.
Connor sighs. "Look, I'm sure if Alana wants to say something, she'll say it," he says simply. "At the reception."
Yes, Connor. It's really something I should say in front of all your guests. You really want that, trust me.
Nessa gives me one last chance, imploring me with those earnest green eyes. I open my mouth and choke on the words.
She stands up reluctantly. I watch the way she sinks into Connor, and the way his body so readily folds around hers like one of those ridiculous blanket-capes that somehow make everything better.
It just doesn't seem right.
"I'm in love with you," I blurt to the room in general.
Complete. Silence. It rings in my ears, louder than the afternoon's church bells, and I know I should have kept it to myself.
"What?!"Â Nessa exclaims, her voice echoing off the high walls, taking its time reaching the ceiling before coming back down. I wince at the reverberations of her sudden outrage. Where is my friend?
"I'm so sorry." I'm babbling now, running my mouth as fast as it will go because I know when it stops they'll both kick me out. "I should have said something a long time ago, but I justâ"
"Why would you say anything?"
Nessa's hiss is like a slap in the face. What else am I supposed to have done? Kept it bottled up inside until it was too late?
Then I finally take a good look at them, holding onto each other like lifelines. Or rather, like he is her lifeline.
It already is too late.
Because she's clutching him for support, and he's trying to hold her up but she's collapsing under the weight of my confession.
I just ruined the best day of her life, how is she supposed to feel?
"I'm sorry," I whisper, "but IâIâ"
"Alana." I feel hands take a stranglehold on my wrists, large enough that they have to be Connor's. "It was one night. In college. Five years ago."
I stare up at him in confusion. "No."
He nods, eyebrows rising into a peak. "Yes."
"No!" I repeat, my eyes clouding over as a painful clump of frustration lodges itself in my throat. "You don't understandâ"
The click of heels across the wooden floor cuts me off, followed by the slam of a door. My vision is blurry, but when I finally blink quickly enough to clear it, Nessa is gone. I'm alone with him.
He lets me go abruptly, as if burnt. As if I'm a huge, stinking garbage fire. I sink back, my hands trembling without his fingers clutching them like a vice.
"I should have known," he whispers, turning away. "All these years, I thought you hated me, and I couldn't understand why. But it was the opposite."
Wow. The ego on this guy. What does Nessa even see in him?
"That's it." He turns back to me now, a disbelieving, almost mocking smile distorting his lips. "All that...overdone venom, it was just overcompensation to cover what you really felt."
He doesn't even ask. He just assumes. They all just assume.
"Get out."
Even though I know it's coming, it still steals my breath. My heart stops beating for half a second, then resumes, slower than before. Almost melancholy.
"Get! Out!" he repeats, more forcefully this time. I don't want to say he's yelling, because Connor never yells. But if he's ever going to break that record, it will be today if I don't leave.
So I stand. My legs are wobbly, but I force them to hold me up. I square my shoulders and straighten my back. Take one step at a time, and the walk to the door takes a lifetime. But once I'm there, I face him with a steady glare. I know my eyes are red, their corners are shiny with moisture, and I'm cursing my own stupidity for giving in to the wedding culture and wearing mascara this morning. But I make sure my voice doesn't waver as I address him.
"For the record," I spit as I twist the knob, "it was never you."
I've never been a door-slamming kind of person, but I'm pretty sure the whole venue hears this one shut behind me.