Page 72 of A Smart Girl's Guide to Second Chances
‘Some people are travelling for the wedding. We need to give them the heads-up,’ Matt said. As always, it was other people that were at the forefront of his decision-making.
‘A day or two won’t make a difference,’ I said. ‘I just... I need a bit of time to process everything.’
‘Yeah, of course,’ he said.
I stood up and pushed back my chair. The coffees hadn’t arrived yet, but I needed to leave.
‘Stay, Becs,’ he said, reaching for my hand. ‘We should talk.’
‘I just... have to go,’ I managed to blurt out.
Chapter 31
I didn’t cry in the lift, or in the hotel room, or on the plane. I held it together until I reached Mum’s hospital room.
She was awake and looked like herself again – colour back in her face, eyesore of a dressing gown on and a full face of makeup, including lipstick, firmly in place. Of course she’d felt the need to look glam for surgery.
‘Oh, darling,’ she said, as I sat on the seat next to her bed and burst into tears. If Mum had accused me of pulling focus on the day she was due to have surgery, it would have been a fair accusation. Instead she offered me a tissue from the box by her bed.
‘Can I stay at your place and look after you?’ I asked between sobs.
‘Of course you can, darling. I’ll tell Hamish not to cut his trip short,’ she said in an even voice. Neither of us mentioned that I’d never stayed at her and Hamish’s house. When I’d moved out, Dad had sold our family home, and his spare room was an office. I didn’t want to be an imposition on my friends, and most of them had more kids than bedrooms. I had nowhere else to go.
‘Now, I’ve heard rumours of a French bakery across the street. And I’d love to have something that doesn’t taste like institution waiting for me when I come to.’
I’d expected another sleepless night in Mum’s guest room, but I passed out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow. As the initial shock of Matt cancelling the wedding wore off, the feelings flooded in. In fact, all I did for the next two days was sleep and cry. I picked up Mum when she was discharged, got her comfortable and brought her meals and pills. Then I collapsed back into the spare bed with a box of tissues. I made Mum simple food – soups and sandwiches – but I had no appetite. I’d never understood it when people said they couldn’t get out of bed, but now I did.
Mum had fractured her ankle and been discharged from the hospital with a pain management plan and a rehabilitation team. But no professional had given me advice on how to manage the all-consuming body aches, or the moments when I’d wake up in the night feeling like I couldn’t breathe or when I missed Matt in every part of my body. No physio was booking an appointment to rehabilitate my broken brain, and life, and heart.
I made languid attempts to make myself feel better. I tried drinking – but wine reminded me of Matt. I tried to distract myself on my phone but found myself scrolling through his social media and photos on my camera roll. I blasted podcasts to drown out my thoughts, but he’d recommended most of my favourite ones.
Occasionally I checked my messages but no one needed me. Matt hadn’t reached out. Nothing was on fire at work. I felt like a ghost, like I couldn’t feel anything real, like I wasn’t part of the world.
On the third night I awoke with a start. I checked my phone – it was 3 am. I rolled over and closed my eyes, willing my bodyto take me back into the blissful state of nothingness I’d been in temporarily. But my brain had kicked into full gear; I knew there would be no more sleep for me.
I opened my laptop. As I was already awake, I thought I might as well be productive. Maybe doing would numb feeling. I opened a new document titled:Cancel the Wedding.
1.Tell family.
2.Tell friends.
3.Email all guests.
4.Cancel venue and catering.
5.Sell dress.
6.Cancel hair and makeup.
7.Cancel photographer.
8.Cancel Belinda.
I looked at the list once I’d finished drafting it and mentally allocated roles. I didn’t really want to do any of it, though I knew I’d put my hand up for half. That’s how our breakup would go. We’d both zealously try to do the right thing – split the tasks, split the bills. It would all be excruciatingly amicable.
I clicked on the ‘Share document’ button. I typed in Matt’s email address and stared at it for a few seconds. Then I hit delete. Maybe in the morning, the real morning, I’d feel stronger. Or maybe the day after.
I stared down at the diamond perched upon my left hand. I felt a wave of despair break through the nothingness. I yanked it off. There was a slight indent above my knuckle and my finger looked naked. Even my hand missed being engaged.
