by Nyla K
Ten! Nine!
Their booming voices shout as I kick off my heels and lift the hem of my dress, crawling up the stairs to my bedroom.
Eight! Seven!
I need to be alone. I can’t do this.
Crashing into my room, I slam the door so hard the wall rattles, though it doesn’t seem to block out the sound of two-hundred people shouting, Four! Three!
Locking the door, I dash to grab my pill bottle off my nightstand.
Two… One!
They’re all screaming and cheering outside, blowing those loud horns as the band plays Auld Lang Syne, and I place one Xanax down on the flat surface of my dresser.
The melodious music stings my brain while I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook and place it over the pill. Sniffling, tears gliding down my cheeks, I remember what I saw Merci do with her Adderall once last summer.
I’m sure it works the same way. It has to.
I pick up the polished rock paperweight I made with Mom when I was eight and smash it down hard over the sheet of paper, growling and whimpering in tandem between shivering lips.
The cheering outside has died down, but I can still hear the music, and now I imagine they’re slow-dancing together, bile rising in my throat once more.
I need this feeling gone. I need all feelings gone.
I need to forget what I just saw… What I just heard.
Lazarus is… No.
When I lift the paper, I find the pill crushed mostly into powder. I roll up the piece of scrap, hold it to my nostril, and snort real hard, like they would do on Breaking Bad or something.
The sour taste burns the back of my throat, and I cough, the sting making my eyes water as I dash to my bathroom. But I don’t throw up.
I want to. I’m sick to my stomach.
I’m sick because I’m cursed. Doomed to be forever in love with someone I can’t have. Now I’ll have to watch him marry another woman, and have babies with her, and I’ll be nothing but a lonely afterthought.
An invisible ghost. A meaningless memory. Just like Mom.
I curl up on my bathroom floor, and despite the numbness of the benzo floating through my bloodstream, grasping at my nervous system, I cry.
I cry hard and harder and hardest. Because it’s all I can do.
I’m still just his best friend’s daughter. That’s all I’ll ever be.
And now he’s getting married.
And I’m forever broken.
Chapter Sixteen
Lazarus
One year later…
Pay attention.
You wanted this.
Well, I didn’t exactly want this.
No, I didn’t. This is boring and galling, and the opposite of whatever a good use of my time looks like. I’m the CFO of a billion-dollar company, for fuck’s sake. What kind of fresh hell is this??
“So! We’re in the home stretch!” Emilio claps, gleaming animatedly between Evangeline and me. “Only six weeks until the big day! Are we excited, nervous? How are we feeling? Tell me.”
I remain silent through my scowl, because there’s absolutely no way I’m answering such a stupid question. Evangeline smiles softly and places her hand on my thigh, which only serves to annoy me further.
“We’re excited,” she croons in her fake tone that I’ve grown immune to in the year and a half we’ve been together. “Although I think this one’s more excited for the bachelor party than anything.”
She’s teasing, and they both laugh, though the truth in that statement is something neither of us would ever admit.
Emilio continues blathering on about cakes and centerpieces, and I’m zoning it out once more. I’m already on edge because I told Evangeline I wanted absolutely nothing to do with the wedding plans, and yet she insists on continually dragging me to bullshit lunches with the wedding planner, as if I really give a tiny rat’s ass what people eat, or what their goddamn place-card says.
The fact that I’m getting married in a matter of weeks is enough of a mind-fuck without adding more fuel to the fire.
I’d be lying if I said I was excited about marrying Evangeline. I’ve gone back and forth a lot over the last year, since I proposed, wondering if I’m making a mistake. I know why I’m doing it, and I know I won’t find anyone better suited to play the role of my wife than Evangeline, but as our intimate three-hundred-plus guest wedding grows nearer, I can’t help feeling like I’m locking a door that isn’t even ready to be closed yet.
How do I know I won’t meet someone I actually love someday? Stranger things have happened…
What if I meet her while I’m already married to Evangeline? Then I’ll be stuck. I’ll have to get a divorce, it’ll be a whole thing.
To make matters worse, Damien’s been acting weird lately. I think he’s getting colder feet than I am, and it’s making me nervous. I need him to back this decision, otherwise there’s no way I’ll be able to go through with it.
Last year when I told him I was going to ask Evangeline to marry me, he thought I was kidding. It took me a solid twenty minutes to convince him I was serious, and even after that he was skeptical for days.
He’s the one who encouraged me to date her when Jerald first started pushing us together, but now I’m thinking he’s all talk, because the more serious it has become between Evangeline and me, the more Damien has been worrying. He’s a worrier at heart, but I hate being the one to make him that way. I usually like to keep Day calm and happy. When I can’t do it, I feel useless.
Since the engagement, I’ve been spending less time at his place and more time at mine with Evangeline, trying to prepare for us living together after the wedding. It sucks, which isn’t the best sign.
There’s only one voice that has kept me going in my journey to getting married, through all the indecision and the uncertainty…
Helena. Aka Foster Mom Three.
She used to tell me one day I would meet a nice girl and get married. Back then, it seemed like multiple lifetimes away. I had just started noticing girls at my school in Hempstead. Then I lost my virginity to one when I was thirteen, right before everything… went down, and I had to move again. Still, I definitely hadn’t seen that girl as a girlfriend.
I never saw anyone as a girlfriend. It just wasn’t something I focused on, and girls didn’t notice me much until I started hanging out with Damien, anyway. I was always too quiet, and weird.
Not that I blamed them. I had too much on my plate to be concerned with catering to someone else’s insecurities and underlying issues.
When my hormones started raging, I hooked up with girls casually, then played it off like I was too busy for a relationship. Sometimes they got pissed, but usually they just moved on, because it was obvious I wasn’t the lock him down type.
Damien is the only consistent relationship I’ve had. Until now.
Until Evangeline, my fiancée. The woman I’ll be betrothed to in a few short weeks…
Is it hotter than usual in Miami?? Or are the fiery depths of hell just getting closer and closer each day…?
Lunch with the wedding planner goes on far longer than I can stand, so by the time we’re in the car driving back to my place, I’m dealing with a shortened internal fuse. Which of course is the time when Evangeline chooses to start prodding me.
“Why are you so quiet?” She asks, repeatedly brushing the ends of her hair through her fingers, which I’ve come to realize is something she does when she’s being a stubborn brat. So… she does it a lot.
“Evangeline…” I warn and shake my head.
“What? I’m just asking a question,” she mutters. “You’re so moody.”
“I’m always fucking moody, and I’m always fucking quiet,” I grunt, contemplating veering off the road into a palm tree. “We’ve been together for over a year. The real question is why are you still asking me why I’m being the same way I’ve been for over a fucking year?”
“Oh my God, Lazarus, seriously?!” She shrieks at me from th
e passenger seat. My teeth are grinding into fucking dust. “You’re being so -”
“So what?” I bark, glancing her way in between watching the road.
“Rude,” she mumbles under her breath, and I roll my eyes.
“You know what I think?” I come up to a red light and turn to face her. “I think you’re picking a fight for no reason. Because you’re nervous about the wedding.”
She’s quiet for a moment, confirming my accusation. I wish it was satisfying, but it’s not at all. It’s exhausting.
She eventually murmurs, “Why would I be nervous about the wedding?”
“I don’t know, you tell me. You want it to be perfect? Even though I told you I hate big weddings, and you insisted we would keep it small and intimate. And you’re mad that I don’t seem happy when really I just want to get the day over with already.”
Focusing on the road once more, I can see her gaping at me from my right in my peripheral, but I don’t look at her. I just drive in silence until she speaks again.
“I am nervous,” she whispers. “It got out of hand, okay? I’m sorry. I wanted it to be small, and then all of a sudden my parents started inviting everyone in the goddamn world. What was I supposed to do?”
Uh, say no, Princess. Of course I don’t say that, because I don’t have the energy to fight anymore.
“It’s fine,” I sigh, turning into my gated community.
I pull into my driveway and park, but I don’t turn the engine off. Instead, I roll my head in her direction.
“I’m running over to Damien’s for a few. We have some shit to finish up that can’t wait.” She doesn’t look pleased in the slightest, but I don’t care. Still, I want to keep the peace so I reach out and tuck her silky hair behind her ear. “The bachelorette is coming up soon. I think getting away will be good. And four days in Maui sounds fun.”
She lets a small grin slip. “Do I even want to know what you guys will be doing in Vegas?”
“Probably not,” I tease, and she play-punches me in the gut.
I give her a quick kiss and she seems placated for now, hopping out of the car with a little wave and skipping inside my home to do God knows what until I get back.
I breathe out a long exhale to release the stress of my impending wedding and my spoiled fiancée’s dissatisfaction, then drive to my best friend’s house.
When I get there, Damien’s Mercedes isn’t in the driveway, but I park and head inside, anyway. He rarely stays at work this late when I’m not there, so I can’t imagine he’ll be long, though I’m prepared to wait here for hours if I have to.
I need some time with my best friend. I’m getting married so soon and with all the stress and changes happening around me, I just need the constant of Damien’s friendship right now. I know it sounds childish, but I need him to let me know it’ll be alright. He’s the only person who’s ever done that for me.
Wandering through the foyer, I listen for some sign of Traci. I haven’t spoken to her much lately either, since I haven’t been coming over as often. I feel sort of guilty, like I’ve abandoned her or something, even though my relationship with Tracien has always been spotty at best. After Lia died, I told myself I would try harder with Traci, and I really meant to. But it seems like the only time we aren’t bickering is when I’m helping her with math homework, or she’s trying to kiss me.
It’s a strained relationship. But all of that said, I don’t want her to think me getting married will override her and Damien as my family. Though now that I’m thinking about it, if Evangeline and I were to have a kid of our own, I’m sure that would take up a lot of time. I would want them to be present in our lives, but ultimately this is what drives friends apart. Marriage, babies… They’re life alterations that wedge in between even the strongest bonds.
I close my eyes for a moment and remember to breathe. The walls are closing in. I need some air.
I stalk toward the doors to the patio, but when I get there I freeze.
Traci is outside, beneath one of the cabanas by the pool. She’s sitting on a yoga mat, doing some kind of pose where she reaches forward and presses her forehead onto the ground while seated. I watch her in silence, admiring how flexible she is as she moves seamlessly from one yoga pose to the next, twisting and folding herself into all sorts of positions.
It reminds me of when Ophelia used to make Damien and me do yoga with her. She was an instructor back in New York, and she taught a couple classes at NYU while we attended. She was damn good, too. Her classes were always booked.
Memories flood my mind of the three of us standing on yoga mats in our old apartment in the West Village while she told us how and where to bend and stretch, prompting my smile.
Then I remember how she taught Traci yoga, when she was just a small child. The two of them used to sit out there all the time, where Traci is now, and meditate. It was such a cute thing to witness, Ophelia and her tiny stunt-double, as Damien used to call her.
I can almost see Lia there, posing beside Traci. It brings some emotions bounding through my chest, twisting and aching in nostalgia and fondness.
Watching Traci out there is familiar. It feels good, as if for the first time I’m seeing how much she truly resembles her mother. How much she carries her mother with her everywhere, keeping Lia’s memory alive for the rest of us. It’s fascinating.
But the next thing I know, Traci is bent over into some new position and I’m unintentionally staring at her ass, which isn’t right. I look away and shake my head, silently scolding myself, though my eyes end up sliding right back to her against my will, like magnets.
She looks so much like her mother, though… And so much like Damien. It’s incredible to witness.
She’s a truly stunning young woman.
I’m really not trying to be a creep; some kind of peeping pervert who watches his friends’ seventeen-year-old daughter stretching and bending over. I should probably just look anywhere else, but I’m sort of hypnotized by how elegant the girl looks right now. It’s not sexual. It’s comforting.
She looks the way a breath of fresh air feels.
All my frustrations from fighting with Evangeline, the wedding, the doubts and anxiety seem to have melted away, just from watching this blonde girl do yoga.
I mean, it’s certainly not intended to be sexual, but because I’m a man, and my dick always has something to say, I can’t help but notice how smooth her skin looks, bronzed and glistening, likely from being outside in the sun. Her hair is the color of buttermilk and honey, just like Ophelia’s, tied up in a bun on top of her head with a few strands that have come loose trailing the nape of her neck.
Her stomach is flat and toned, her body curved; youthful, perky breasts pushing against the gray material of the sports bra she’s wearing. I swallow a mouthful of saliva, noticing her ass, high and full beneath black yoga pants, as tight as a second skin.
She’s grown up so much, it’s bewildering. She looks like a woman.
I’m startled out of my impure thoughts at the sound of Damien coming in the front door. A brief panic rises inside me, but I quickly shut it down because I’m not doing anything, so I have no reason to feel guilty. And if my cock would just deflate then we’d be back in business.
No reason at all…
I turn as he enters the room and I’m relieved as hell when he gives me a tired smile stepping over to join me by the doors to the back. He glances outside and sees Traci doing her yoga, which makes him smile wider, beaming like the wonderful father who’s perpetually proud of his kid that he is.
But then the smile slips away, and he lets out a rough breath. I know without even needing to ask that he’s missing his wife, just like I was missing her moments ago. We both stand, quiet, for a few moments, letting the Ophelia memories wash over us like a downpour.
“How’s the wedding stuff coming?” He speaks after a bit, turning to face me before leaning against the wall. “You bitch-smack that wedding planner yet?”
I chuckle, gaze dropping to my shoes. “I can’t believe I’m getting married in less than two months.” He’s gone quiet again, so I look up at him and we lock eyes. “Can you?”
“Not really,” he huffs out a laugh that’s not exactly humorous.
“Day, I need you to tell me if you think I’m… making a mistake,” I plead, letting out the insecurities that only he hears. “You’re my best friend on earth. Like my brother. I know it’s…” I pause and shake my head, all these jumbled thoughts confusing me. “Whatever. I just know that you’re the only person who knows me. Really knows me. Am I fucking shit up? Please, just tell me.”
Damien gapes at me for far too long, like he’s waging some kind of internal war. I wish he would just voice everything he’s thinking, because I guarantee I need to hear it all. Or at least I want to.
“You don’t love her, Lazarus,” he finally says. I nod, because he’s right. “If you’re prepared to spend your life with someone you’re not in love with, then sure. Marry the rich girl. Do what you feel like you have to do. But just…”
He stops and shakes his head, grating fingers through his hair.
Just what?
He sighs. “I understand why you’re doing it. I wish you didn’t feel like you have to, but I know nothing I say will change your mind.”
Not true.
“Just make sure you’re sure,” he urges with finality, and I know the conversation is over.
Damien’s not happy about me getting married, and to be honest, I’m not exactly thrilled about it myself. But what he doesn’t understand, what I’m not sure anyone would, is that I’m the only person who can shape my future.
Fate fucked me five times and left me for dead. Sure, the final time brought me to him, but it was me who fought my way back to life. I resurrected myself after the four who tried to kill me, and then I burned that fucking tomb to ash.
Now it’s up to me to grow the fuck up, stop wasting my time waiting and hoping, and get shit done.
