“Oh, uh, wow,” I stammered. She had a very pretty smile—full lips and white, even teeth—and I was trying to focus on her face while trying to keep mine from turning red. I couldn’t believe she was actually coming on to me. “I have a girlfriend,” I said, for the second time that evening.
“I know,” she said, knitting her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “I meant me and Blake with you and your girlfriend. Like a double date?” If she was embarrassed by what I had just assumed had happened, at least she didn’t call me on it.
“Yeah!” I said, stretching my lips as far as they would go. “Good! Great! Awesome!”
“What’s awesome?” Blake asked behind me.
I jumped. “We’re going out on Friday!” I told him, a bit too eagerly. “On a double date, and I cannot wait!” I paused, trying to remind myself that I was not Dr. Seuss. “Awesome!”
“Are you okay?” he asked me. When I didn’t answer right away, he looked at Vicky, who didn’t notice him looking at her because she was studying me like I was a specimen in a laboratory that could be the key to a significant scientific breakthrough. She recovered sooner, put a hand on her boyfriend’s arm, and said, “He’s fine, sweetie. I think he’s just hungry. I’m so sorry I was late. Do you guys want to stay here for dinner? Because I kind of want a real meal. I’m starving.”
“We can move somewhere,” Blake said.
“You guys can go ahead,” I told them. “I’m waiting for someone. My girlfriend. Kim. I’m waiting for my girlfriend.”
“Okay,” Blake said, staring at me curiously. Vicky stood up and patted me on the shoulder. “We’ll see you on Friday then?”
“Sure,” I replied. “I’m bringing Kim. My girlfriend.”
“Great,” she said.
“Great,” I said.
Blake put an arm around Vicky, regarding me suspiciously. “Bye, Carl.”
I watched them leave. Just before the door closed, Vicky said something that made Blake laugh, and I wondered if it had anything to do with me. I hoped it didn’t.
“You used to like her,” Kim reminds me, fiddling with the tuner on my car’s radio before settling on a station playing Tyson Ritter and his gang wishing someone hell.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did,” she insists. “You found her cute.”
“That doesn’t mean I liked her,” I tell her.
“The point is, you were fine with her when she was his girlfriend. You just started reacting when he proposed to her.”
“I wasn’t fine with her. I just tolerated her. I figured she’d go away sooner or later.” And it was true. As I got to know Vicky, her calculated, controlled overachieving became less admirable and more like something that was getting in the way of Blake being his old fun self. We hardly saw him anymore, and he was always coming up with excuses for everything, almost all of which were Vicky-related. Friday night out with the boys? He’d have to ask for her permission first. A basketball game after work? He’d love to join us, but he promised her he’d take her shopping. A spontaneous beach trip? He can’t, it was Vicky’s uncle’s wedding, and he was going as her date.
“Carl, you can’t be this possessive of him. You’re being selfish,” Kim says. “You thought you and Blake would be each other’s wingman until you’re thirty. You feel betrayed that he’s getting married now while you could both be enjoying the bachelor’s life.”
“That’s exactly the right word,” I say. “Betrayed. Yes, I feel betrayed. Explain to me why there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Because it’s not fair to Blake,” she says, sounding frustrated with me. “He made a decision, and he needs you to support it. Why can’t you just be happy for him?”
“Because I’m not, okay,” I tell her, a little too loudly. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks out the window.
I reach for her hand. She lets me take it, but doesn’t wrap her fingers around mine like she always does. “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I just think he’s making a mistake. He hasn’t known her long enough. He doesn’t know her the way you and I know each other. How can you possibly know someone well enough to marry her in less than a year?”
“You can’t compare them with us, Carl,” she says. “It’s different for everyone.”
“And she’s trying to change him,” I say. “She’s trying to change him into someone he’s not. She can’t do that. She has no right. I mean, you’ve never tried to change me, have you? You love me as I am, even if I obviously need a lot of work.”
At this, she finally squeezes my hand back. “Maybe Blake thinks he needs to change, too. Maybe he’s willing to do it for her.”
“But he shouldn’t have to.”
“But maybe he wants to anyway.”
I can’t come up with a decent reply to this. Kim leans her head on my shoulder and starts running her hand gently up and down my arm—her usual way of comforting me, which works even when I’m in the worst mood. I can smell her hair—it smells like vanilla and cherries—and definitely not for the first time in the seven years we’ve been together, I feel very lucky that she’s my girlfriend, because what we have is more stable and special than what any other couple will ever come close to.
3
Martin is being melodramatic again. He slams his beer down on the table, crumples his gambas-stained napkin, and throws it at me. “You lied to me, Carl! Why, man?! WHY?”
I roll my eyes. “I did not lie to you. Kim said she wanted to go, and then it turned out she needed to stay at the office overtime.”
“But, but...” he gestures at his legs and feet. “I’m wearing pants. And shoes!”
“I can see that,” I say. “I’ve told you a hundred times, you don’t have to dress up for Kim. She doesn’t mind. Really.”
“Really?” Henry repeats. “She doesn’t mind that she’s like, the empitome of fasyon, and we’re in shorts and step-in all the time?”
I don’t even correct him that it’s epitome, and that nobody says step-in anymore. “Look at me,” I say, gesturing at my own legs and feet, clad in shorts and flip-flops. Since I resigned from my full-time job several months ago to “find myself” and “decide what I want to do,” I have been partial to this laid-back, hassle-free style on my apprenticeship’s off days (which is five days a week). “She’s never ashamed that I look like this when we go out. Why should she be ashamed of you? You’re not the boyfriend. You’re just the boyfriend’s friends. She doesn’t care.”
Henry shakes his head at me. “Yeah, but dude, you look like...”
“Like her younger brother?” I finish for him. “That’s fine. I’m baby-faced. The ladies find it cute.”
“More like her driver,” Henry says.
“Alalay,” Martin butts in.
“Taga-buhat ng shopping bags.”
“Taga-bukas ng pinto.”
“-Taga-bili ng merienda.”
“Taga-timpla ng kape.”
“Taga-punas ng pawis.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” I say. “But I’m telling you, it’s not a big deal. Kim doesn’t judge. She’s not like, well, not like Vicky.”
“We know she’s not like Vicky,” Henry says.
“Nobody can possibly be like Vicky,” Martin says, grinning.
I grin back. “So what’s the problem with her?”
“Nothing,” Martin replies. He looks at his brother, who nods at him. “Kim’s perfect.”
“And that’s the problem,” Henry says. “Because you’re not perfect. And you don’t even try.”
I stare at the both of them. Could these two possibly be making enough sense to lead me to an epiphany? I begin to consider it, but I am distracted when Blake storms in, takes a seat beside Henry, gulps down Martin’s beer, and completely ignores me.
“You can’t ignore me forever,” I tell him. He doesn’t say anything.
“Apparently he can,” Martin says. I have a feeling the twins are enjoying this. I wouldn’t be surprised if they actuall
y placed bets on who would throw the first punch.
An awkward silence descends over the table. “Why are you so mad at me?” I ask, just so it wouldn’t be so awkward and so silent anymore.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Blake says. “Maybe because you assumed Vicky and I were getting married because we were, oh, I don’t know, having a baby, and not, oh, I don’t know, because we’re in love?” He is flushed and out of breath when he finishes this sentence. It’s still awkward, but at least it’s not silent anymore. Good start.
“You don’t have to keep saying, ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Blake,” Martin says. “Because you do know.”
“Yeah, and one ‘Oh, I don’t know’ is enough for sarcastic purposes,” Henry adds. “Carl got the point: that you think he’s being an asshole.”
“He didn’t say that,” I protest.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t think it,” Blake mutters, glaring at me with gritted teeth. He actually looks kind of creepy, like a thirsty vampire but not in a mysterious, intriguing Edward Cullen way. Not that I find Edward Cullen remotely attractive.
“Ooh, snaaap!” the twins chorus gleefully.
“You know what, this is a waste of time,” Blake says, pushing the table away from him and standing up so abruptly he knocks over a couple of empty glasses. I hope he pays for those; he’s the only one currently employed full-time. “I came here because I thought you were actually going to be man enough to apologize. But now I see that I was mistaken.” He fishes out a five hundred peso bill from his wallet, slams it down on the table, and says, “I’ll see you around,” before turning away.
What is up with all the slamming down of innocent things tonight? Sheesh.
Henry and Martin look at me expectantly. “What,” I say, getting a napkin and trying to sweep the shards of glass away from me.
“Dude, you totally have to go after him,” Martin tells me. “That’s your only choice, according to the Universal Laws of Bromance.”
“You’ll run across the parking lot to catch up with him,” Henry says. “You’ll grab his arm. You’ll shout, ‘Wait, Blake!’ And then you’ll finally tell him what you’ve been wanting to tell him all this time: ‘You’re my best friend. Please don’t marry Vicky.’”
“‘Marry me instead,’” Martin finishes, in a high-pitched voice. “Violin music, fireworks, fairy tale happy ending. Boo yeah!”
“Boo yeah!” Henry echoes, pumping his fist.
I look at them, confused. “Why do I have to shout at him when I’ve already grabbed his arm?”
“Minor details, man,” Henry says. “What are you waiting for?”
“Go get him, tiger!” Martin says, beaming encouragingly.
“I won’t let you down!” I promise, before bolting out the door to their enthusiastic applause. I chuckle to myself. Suckers.
But I do go after Blake, and I do catch up with him at the parking lot, and I do tell him not to marry Vicky. “You don’t know enough about her to love her,” I say, just as I rehearsed in my head. “She hasn’t been in your life long enough for you to want to spend the rest of it with her.” I feel very noble and very clever and very proud of myself.
“What gives you the right to tell me what to do?” he asks.
“I’m in a seven-year-old relationship,” I say. “So I think I know what I’m talking about. Besides, doesn’t it bother you that Vicky’s such a control freak? Don’t you mind that you’ll probably never get to have as much fun as you did when you were single?”
“No,” he says, jerking his car door open. “Priorities change. People grow up. You should try it sometime.”
I place a hand on his shoulder. “But you don’t understand. You don’t have to pretend that you don’t care that this is moving too fast. It’s okay. I’m only trying to help. I want all the best for you.”
“No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand: I’m not pretending, I really do not give a shit. I’m ready to marry Vicky.” He pushes me away (as easy as swatting a pesky fly when you’re nearly six feet tall) and gets behind the wheel. “So, no, it’s not okay. And no, I don’t need your help. I know what’s best for myself.”
Before he revs the engine and speeds off, he says, “By the way, your girlfriend called me, looking for you. She says you were supposed to be celebrating your perfect relationship’s seventh anniversary today, if only you remembered. She says she never wants to see you again. She could be exaggerating, but I just thought you’d want to know.”
4
The bride isn’t smiling—she’s biting her lower lip, nervously scanning the inside of the church. Guests flit cheerfully about, and a frazzled wedding coordinator in a beige suit is trying to get everyone to settle down. The groom is standing by the altar, chatting with a couple of choir members. He keeps scratching his elbow and re-adjusting his tie, and he can’t seem to focus on the conversation. His eyes dart around, not landing on anyone in particular. He’s not smiling, either.
And then their gazes find each other, and everything fades into the background. Nothing else matters. He nods at her; it is the slightest movement, but she catches it, and she nods back just as subtly. The choir starts singing a ballad, their voices slowly filling the vast space. This is their song, and it is bridging the distance between them.
I don’t know the bride. I don’t know the groom. I don’t know anything about these people, except that they are getting married today and they have paid a team to capture every moment, every word, every glance—a team that includes me. I don’t know anything about these people, but I can’t bring myself to do what I always do when confronted with happiness that isn’t mine—doubt it and dismiss it and tear it down. I can’t, because it is there, almost tangible, despite the fact that neither of them are smiling yet. Because I know that once she reaches the end of the aisle, she will smile, and I know that he will, too.
I am right about this, of course. And when all the wedding toasts have been made, when all the presents have been hauled off to their new home, when the last guest has left, I overhear the plans they are making. She is doing all the talking: We have to write our thank-you notes, you should tell your mom to join us for lunch before we leave for Italy, you have to let your boss know you’ll be on vacation, and could you please stop re-adjusting your tie? He doesn’t seem to mind. He can listen. He can wait. He is content with her hand in his—the way she speaks is strong and firm but she holds his hand comfortably, easily, like he is naturally a part of her. And maybe he already is.
“So do you think she’ll show up?” Blake asks, three months later.
“I hope she does,” I say.
“She will,” he says, and even if he sort of just answered his own question, I believe him. I have to. “Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s get you married.”
Martin materializes beside me, “Did you just say ‘let’s get married?’”
Henry laughs. “Nah, he said ‘let’s get YOU married.’ Disappointing, but true.”
“What a letdown,” Martin says. His expression turns serious. “I’m really happy for you, Blake.”
“Me too. Even if you chose this loser here as your best man,” Henry says, gesturing at me.
“Hey,” I say. “Don’t question the groom’s decision. He’s the boss.”
Robbie comes up to us to introduce his girlfriend (Martin says, “Nice to meet you, Jill” and Henry says, “We’ve heard so much about you,” and Blake says, “No, I swear to God they haven’t.”) and to drag his brother and me inside the church, where everyone is waiting.
And then we are watching Vicky walk down the aisle, and I finally understand what people mean when they call brides “radiant” or “resplendent.” I cannot describe her in terms of how her jewelry matches her shoes or how expensively coordinated she looks—I can’t do that anymore—but I do know that she is positively glowing with happiness. When the gap between her and her husband-to-be is less than a foot, she stops. They look at each other. He takes one tiny step towards her, and then ano
ther, until the gap is no longer there.
The party is in full swing; the waiter keeps refilling my wine glass, the band is playing Dashboard Confessional’s “Stolen,” ladies are spinning around in their highest heels, and my best friend and his wife are in the middle of the dance floor, clearly the best one of the best ones in each other’s eyes. Robbie brings me the guest book, and after giving it some thought, I finally write, “Congratulations, Blake and Vicky! I wish you all the best, and I wish you all the rest.” I hand the book back to Robbie, but he is gazing fondly at Jill from across the room, and I clear my throat and say, “Look at you, all lovestruck and adoring.” He grins and tells me, “Man, sometimes I don’t even feel like I deserve her,” and I say, “Well, maybe that means you just have to work harder to deserve her.”
I am on my way to the men’s room when someone hands me someone’s camera, and although this isn’t technically my job, or at least not today, I oblige. I stand by patiently until the group assembles themselves and someone yells, “Okay, go!” At the upper right corner of the frame, I think I see a familiar face just before I press the shutter. She came, I think. But the flash pops and she is gone.
I feel a tap on my shoulder from behind, and I prepare myself to be taking photos of strangers for the rest of the night. I turn around to see Kim smiling tentatively at me. “You came,” I say, and she says, “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
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