Save the Date: The Occasional Mortifications of a Serial Wedding Guest

by Jen Doll

  Suddenly we were surrounded by a group of fellow business school guys, all back-slapping and joke-making. “After-party at that Irish pub in town,” one of them announced. “Be there, man.”

  Cody looked at me. “Are you going to come?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, though it seemed a better prospect than hanging out in my room alone. “I need to find out what my ride wants to do. I haven’t checked in to the hotel yet, either.”

  Elizabeth, who’d returned for a moment, shook her head. “I have to stick around, guys. I’m the bride.”

  • • •

  Later that evening, after my dress options had been hung in the closet of my spacious room, which featured a queen-sized bed and even a couch—this was no Manhattan hotel, and I suspected it was bigger than my first apartment with Elizabeth had been—I went out to a local bar with some of the other wedding guests. Many of them were guys. Elizabeth was always really good at being friends with guys. A number of them had harbored their own crushes on her, and most of them had moved on, but there were holdouts, I was sure. I didn’t see Cody. Instead, I started talking to another blond man, a peripheral friend from one side or the other who had, perhaps, only been invited as a formality. He seemed to know no one else there well. When I leaned over the bar at the same time he did to place an order, he bought me my drink. I figured he didn’t have anyone to talk to, and understanding that state of wedding guesthood I’d experienced myself and in some ways was again experiencing now, I asked him about himself. He’d been traveling a lot over the past years, he said, and had been very busy doing whatever it was he did, something in computers or business or finance, or all of the above. We didn’t talk about work much, because we quickly shifted to a real conversation, not just “What do you do?” but “Who are you?” We traded jokes and anecdotes like we’d known each other for years. I could feel my guard dropping as we spoke. And then it was last call.

  “We don’t have to go home yet, though, do we?” he asked. “I’m having too much fun.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed.

  “Wawa?” he suggested.

  We drove to the nearest of the convenience-store locations in his car, which I remember had heated seats—I had traded up from the breakdown-mobile—and there we giddily, somewhat drunkenly, roamed the too-bright fluorescent-lit aisles before selecting giant fountain sodas, Doritos, and sub sandwiches. We went to my hotel room, as it was the bigger of the options, and we sat and talked some more as we ate. Even though I didn’t know this guy, I felt safe with him, which of course is the sort of thing Lifetime movies warn you about and parents fear, no matter how old their adult children are. Mother, May I Sleep with Danger? is not a Tori Spelling classic for nothing. But I was trusting my instincts, even if those instincts might be said to have failed me before.

  At the time of Elizabeth’s wedding, it had been a few months since I’d traveled to Pennsylvania to see a sort-of ex. The confusion and vulnerability I’d felt after that trip had continued, lingering longer than it should have, partly because there’d been no one else, but also because that semi-relationship felt like a turning point. It indicated what I had chosen for myself and what I had rejected. He’d moved from the city into a two-story house in the suburbs that had all the potential of burgeoning family life, and when I visited him there, I felt nothing but trapped, freaked out, and wanting to flee. When the weekend was over, I took a bus back to New York; what a relief to be back to the city, back to normalcy. Later, though, I started to doubt myself and even wonder if I’d messed up. Here was a good guy who’d established the life he wanted and was actively looking for someone with whom to share it. People claimed it was the fault of modern women that we were single. We needed to stop being so picky and just settle and do this thing, grow up and get married and have families with the men who were decent, even if they weren’t the ones who swept us off our feet, even if it felt like the supposed magic was missing. This was a case in which I had done the opposite. I had run, and now I found myself looking back.

  Did my behavior make it my fault I was single? Did it mean, as well, that I was hopelessly immature and would always remain so? Fault seemed like the wrong word. At the base of it, I couldn’t help feeling glad that my instincts would not allow me to “settle,” that I’d chosen single instead of only sort-of-happily (possibly disastrously) together, forced to choose the lesser because I was afraid the greater might never appear. There was something more I wanted, and something more I could have, I knew it, or at least I really, really hoped it. I knew that this man in Pennsylvania wouldn’t have been right, and that, regardless of what certain people professed, my only fault would have been going along with what he’d laid out because I hadn’t found what was right.

  The thing is, settling isn’t settling when it’s what you want to do more than anything else. But if a person settles by choosing something she doesn’t want in hopes of someday wanting it, or because she only wants what accompanies it—the house, the car, the wedding—that’s a far more certain recipe for ruin, not to mention less mature, than is an informed choice to be single. You can’t just “go along” with a relationship. I knew I couldn’t.

  Back in my hotel room with my new friend Paul, I was reminded of that glorious feeling of instant connection. These are the rare moments when you can nearly see and certainly feel the magic, at least very early teeny-tiny sparks of it, flying around like just-visible dust particles in a sunny room. We kissed, and then we moved to my bed and kissed some more. We were lying in that bed, partially clothed, the covers around us, when he looked at me seriously.

  “I should tell you something.”

  “What is it?” I asked, figuring he’d confess he hadn’t slept with anyone in a while, or that he had some unusual proclivity or another.

  “You sure you’re ready for this?” He smiled, and I smiled back.

  “C’mon, we’re both adults here,” I said. “Just tell me!”

  “I’m married.”

  “What?” I said, finding only the words to repeat myself. “What?”

  “Yeah,” he said, putting his head on the hotel pillow and staring up at the ceiling. “I mean, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just feel like we have this thing, you know?”

  “Where is your wife? Why isn’t she here?” I demanded.

  “She’s traveling. She couldn’t come.”

  “She couldn’t come?”

  At best, it was a paltry explanation for what had happened in the past few hours. I wondered who else at the wedding knew. They had to know. Unless . . . was this guy really even a legitimate wedding guest, or had I picked up a townie who’d sold me a line? At the bar, none of the other guests had seemed to notice or indicate anything awry. Had anyone seen him come back to my room? Had he been talking to anyone about me? If we did hook up, would anyone know? Oh, God. I could not be that girl at the wedding who was consorting with married men. I would not be that person. I shook my head.

  “This is not okay,” I said. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you. Are you really even invited to the wedding? Who do you know here?”

  He chose not to answer. “We’re both adults here,” he said, giving my words an entirely different meaning than I’d intended. “Is it really so wrong? This has never happened to me before. I love my wife. But you and I have something; you know we do. Can’t we just have one great night?”

  I looked at him, his sad, serious, handsome face, and I believed him. I suspected he wasn’t a routine philanderer, but that didn’t mean that what had seemed so promising and special—because he was right, we had had something, for a second, for a couple of hours even—was now hopelessly tainted. “No one will know,” he added, a creepy cap on how tawdry it all felt.

  “No,” I said. “You need to leave.” Realizing it was useless to argue, he got up slowly, buttoned his shirt, put on his shoes, and left. Only later did I realize he’d
forgotten his tie. Its red-and-white pinstripes pointed accusations. I put it on the table on the other side of the couch from where we’d sat and talked, behind a seashell lamp. I didn’t want to look at it.

  • • •

  The next morning was gray and rainy. I felt that internal knot that comes of things you didn’t mean to do but feel bad about nonetheless and, unfortunately, cannot change. I got out of bed and showered and dressed and was looking out the window, inspecting the gloomy conditions, when my eyes fell on his tie. I resisted the urge to toss it from the balcony. Then came a light knock at my door, followed by another, harder, and when I went to open it, there he was, smiling and full of morning pep, as if nothing had ever happened. “I think I left my tie,” he announced. “How did you sleep?”

  Wordlessly, I turned and grabbed the tie. I wanted that thing out of my hotel room, and fast. I prayed no other wedding guest would pass by on their way to breakfast to catch wind of this conversation. “Fine,” I said, aiming for Arctic Circle–style coldness, and handed it over.

  “Have you eaten yet? Want to get some food?” inquired Mr. Does Not Take a Hint.

  “I better not,” I said. Is this guy for real? “I have things I have to do. In fact, I have to go, I’m already late.”

  “Gotcha,” he said, nodding. “Well, I had fun last night.”

  “Yep, okay,” I said, eager to shut the door before I said what my brain was humming and I’d surely regret, something to the tune of Dude, you’re married. What the fuck is wrong with you? I had to see this guy later. He was—I was pretty sure he was—a wedding guest. I managed a perfectly pleasant, if meaningless, “Have a good day,” and then felt heavy with the knowledge that he might have just ruined mine.

  By the time I was heading out onto the boardwalk, I felt a little better, though. I hadn’t known. And nothing had actually happened, thankfully. But, man, people are messed up, I thought. A wedding and a marriage, was, in my opinion, supposed to indicate an ultimate kind of trust, taking that chance and putting one’s confidence in the fidelity and integrity of another human. That in itself was scary enough. That the trust could be broken so easily, and so seemingly casually, shocked me. If you couldn’t rely on another person, if you couldn’t put your faith in that human for life, why get married at all? I knew of couples who had open marriages, and I supposed in those cases the integrity and trust was about whatever had been discussed and agreed to, but I didn’t think from our interaction that Paul had an open marriage, and I knew that kind of marital arrangement wouldn’t work for me. Worse, though, was lying to the person you’d promised to love and care for forever. That was a chance I supposed all committed couples took: If you let yourself believe in someone else, there’s always the risk you might get hurt. That person might let you down.

  I walked for a while, watching the surf, and then got ready to go to Elizabeth’s shower brunch. It was at a nearby restaurant, and I arrived early, with just a few of her older relatives beating me to the location. As we waited for the bride to arrive, I reminded myself that what had happened with Paul was no more my fault than that had been the end of things with the man in Pennsylvania. I’d done the right thing, choosing single, choosing not to insert myself into someone else’s idea of marriage, or their reality of one. Had I had a few more drinks, I might have been carried away and not had the wherewithal to stop things with Paul, I thought. What if I hadn’t wanted to? What if he hadn’t told me? That he had confessed indicated that he felt it was important. He might have wanted me to behave exactly as I had. But this was fruitless pondering. I pushed it all to the back of my mind, sat back in my chair, and put a smile on my face. The bride was opening presents.

  • • •

  That night we were at the bar again, and I didn’t see Paul. Elizabeth and Lagan arrived late, having had the rehearsal dinner with the wedding party beforehand, and we all rushed to buy them drinks and offer our congratulations. Cody was there, and we started talking again. I don’t remember what we said. It wasn’t the same as what Paul and I had talked about the night before. It didn’t have the same import or connective feel. But by the end of the night, he and I were clearly going to hook up, and I felt a sense of relief, because the barest minimum level of relationship acceptability had been met in this case. He and I were both single, and us being together couldn’t possibly hurt anyone else.

  Saturday, the wedding day, was gray and cloudy, too. The fog refused to lift, and there was a dampness to the air that made my bones feel cold. Though it was May, it had been a chilly spring, and it was barely clinging to the high fifties. It wasn’t raining, exactly, but when I stepped outside onto the small hotel balcony, droplets of water seemed to come at me from every direction. I’d slept late and, waking up, I realized I was starving.

  I put on a sweatshirt and jeans and headed out, past the bar we’d gone to the night before, past surf shops and souvenir stores and a place selling cotton candy and popcorn, its door hung with a Closed sign. Finally I reached an establishment that was both open and sold pizza. I placed my order for a couple of cheese slices and a large Diet Coke. After sprinkling my food liberally with crushed red pepper and Parmesan, I sat outside on a bench to consume my meal. There was a tall, good-looking couple headed my way, and I watched them, thinking they looked familiar. As they got closer, the woman paused. “Jen?” It was Elizabeth’s friend Gillian. She gave me a hug and started in on her story: “We just got here. I couldn’t take off work. Ooh, that looks good! We’re starving.”

  “I’ve been here since Thursday,” I said, and showed off my pizza. “I’m basically a Jersey resident now. Get some food! Where are you guys staying?”

  Gillian and Elizabeth had met at work, one of those first jobs you move on from quickly, if you’re lucky, retaining the coworker you’ve befriended who also moves on. Now she was working in real estate and doing very well. She’d married a few years ago, and she and her husband, who was quiet and a cop of some sort—I didn’t want to ask again—lived in one of those prosperous, if nearly identical, suburban towns of the state. They were staying at my hotel. “How are you getting to the wedding?” asked Gillian.

  “Oh, I guess I’ll walk,” I said. “I don’t have a car. I’ve been walking everywhere or, sometimes, getting rides with people.” I thought of Ted, Paul, Cody. Sweet fancy highway breakdown, this was shaping up to be a messy wedding. “The chapel’s just around the corner, right?”

  “We’ll drive you,” she decided. “It’s too far to walk in heels. Call me when you’re ready, and we’ll go together.” She texted me her number.

  “Excellent,” I said, texting her back so she had mine. Suddenly having wedding friends felt very good, and after finishing my pizza, I walked into a neighboring nail salon where I got a manicure and pedicure in defiantly chipper crimson before I returned to the hotel to get ready. With last night’s hookup with Cody separating my near-miss with Paul, my spirits lifted further. There was no reason this wedding couldn’t be the great time I’d anticipated before the incident with Paul, before the car broke down, even before what had happened back in the Pennsylvania suburbs. While maybe I still wasn’t entirely sure what I wanted in the long term, or how to achieve it, I could definitely say that what I wanted in the short term was to have some fun at a wedding.

  I put on a magenta silk wrap dress that tied in a bow at the waist and vintage earrings that looked like little bells, and called Gillian. “Perfect timing,” she said. “Meet us downstairs in the garage. We’re in the blue truck.”

  Elizabeth had wanted to have the ceremony on the beach, but the hint of a storm brewing hadn’t lifted as the day progressed, and her pastor, who was eighty-six, wasn’t eager to trudge through the wet sand to marry her. The backup location was a tiny, more than hundred-year-old chapel. The bride arrived in a restored Ford Model T, and as we reached the church, we saw her standing next to the old-fashioned car, tall and elegant in a white dress with
clean lines and a lace bodice. Clustered around her were bridesmaids in pale green, all of them carrying flowers: calla lilies, hydrangeas, and peonies. A photographer shot the scene, over and over.

  Walking inside that church, with its rough-hewn wooden pews and whitewashed walls, was like being transported back in time. We took our seats, and the minister, who we’d heard had performed with John Coltrane, led the congregation in a rousing version of “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.” For the ceremony, Elizabeth and Lagan recited their vows at the front of the little room, and people laughed and cried at all the right moments. It was lovely, everyone agreed. A beautiful bride, a handsome groom, and perfect pitch throughout, musically and otherwise. It was the first church wedding for much of the groom’s family.

  When it was over, while more photos of the wedding party were being snapped, we got back in the truck and drove the several blocks to the Victorian hotel where the reception was being held. The clouds had cleared some by then, and rays of sun peeked through and burned off those that remained. Outside in this new warmth on the hotel patio there were beverages set out, ice-filled pink cocktails that were the signature wedding drinks, named for the bride and groom. We stood and sipped tentatively as other guests joined us. “These are pretty good,” said Gillian’s husband. “But I think I might want a beer.”

  “There’s a full bar,” Gillian said. “Get whatever you want.” They wandered away from me, holding hands. I was alone again, and there, right in front of me, was Cody.

  “Oh, hi,” he said.

  “Oh, hi,” I repeated. “Have a signature wedding cocktail.”

  “I think I will.”

  • • •

  The wedding went by like all weddings do, the white satin swirls of a bridal gown circling on the polished dance floor. Drinks and more drinks. The tables were spread with linen tablecloths in the large ballroom of that Victorian hotel and, in reference to the international nature of the couple, were named for cities they’d visited. At each place setting there was a small satin bag with flowering tea buds they’d purchased while traveling in Southeast Asia. Several tables away from me was Paul. He was a guest after all, though I never did find out whose. We sat, and we all turned in our seats to watch Elizabeth and Lagan dance to “I Got You Babe.” Paul looked at me for an instant and smiled. I looked away.