Page 2 of Play Along With Me
Except we're not running toward some romantic getaway or reconciliation. We're running toward the service exit, where Daniel pushes the door open with more force than necessary.
"My car is right there," I say, pointing to my ancient Volvo with the dented passenger door. "I can give you a ride if you want to—"
"Audrey." His voice cuts me off. "I'm not leaving with you. I'm removing you from the premises."
Oh.
Oh.
The realization hits me like a cartoon anvil. This isn't a rescue; it's an eviction.
"Right," I say, nodding so enthusiastically that frosting flies from my hair. "Of course. You have a whole... bride situation to deal with."
Daniel looks at me with an expression I've seen exactly once before—when I suggested we name our hypothetical future daughter after my favorite Teletubby. It's a look that says he's questioning every life choice that led him to this moment.
"Why are you really here?" he asks, his voice quieter now.
Because I still love you. Because I made a terrible mistake. Because I've been composing texts to you for threeyears and deleting them all. Because sometimes I drive by your apartment just to see if your lights are on.
"Free cake," I say instead, gesturing to the evidence smeared across my body.
He doesn't laugh. He used to laugh at all my jokes, even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.
"You need to go," he says, checking his watch. "Janine is probably wondering where I am."
Janine. Even her name is elegant and streamlined. I bet Janine has never gotten trapped in a revolving door or accidentally sent a screenshot of a dating profile to the person in the profile. I bet Janine folds her underwear.
"Congratulations again," I say, my voice catching. "I hope you'll be very happy together."
I turn toward my car, dignity in tatters but somehow still clinging to me like the remnants of wedding cake.
"Audrey," he calls after me. I turn, heart leaping traitorously. "That book you mentioned. Keep it. I've moved on to different stories now."
The metaphor lands with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
I drive home in silence, the taste of wedding cake lingering on my lips like the ghost of a kiss that wasn't meant for me.
The next three days are a study in pathetic fallacy—it rains outside while I create my own indoor downpour.My apartment becomes a shrine to heartbreak, complete with tissues arranged in artistic piles and empty ice cream containers forming a protective fortress around my bed. I name them: Fort Disappointment, Castle Regret, and the Tower of Terrible Life Choices.
"This is rock bottom," I tell my cat, Mr. Darcy, who stares at me with the particular disdain reserved for creatures who can lick their own buttholes. "This is what a human emotional collapse looks like."
I've cycled through the entire Netflix romance category, oscillating between scoffing at their unrealistic happy endings and sobbing when the leads inevitably overcome their contrived obstacles. My phone contains thirty-seven draft texts to Daniel, ranging from dignified well-wishes to a concerning number of quotes from Taylor Swift songs.
On day four, my best friend Leila stages an intervention by simply letting herself into my apartment and opening all the windows.
"Sweet mother of God," she says, waving her hand in front of her face. "It smells like sadness and sour cream in here."
"That's my new perfume," I mumble from beneath my duvet. "Eau de Pathetic."
Leila yanks the covers off me with the efficiency of someone who's done this before. "You've hit your wallowing quota. Three days is the scientifically proven limit for post-wedding-cake-disaster mourning."
"I'm conducting important research," I protest, gesturing to my laptop where I've been stalking Daniel and Janine's honeymoon photos on Instagram. "I'm tracking the correlation between my misery and their tropical happiness. It's basically science."
"What you need," Leila announces, "is a rebound."
"What I need is a time machine," I correct her, "and possibly a personality transplant."
But Leila is already scrolling through her phone, a woman on a mission. "I know the perfect guy. He's funny, he's single, and most importantly, he has no knowledge of your wedding cake incident."
