Page 55 of Love Beyond Repair
The next evening, we go to Kelsey’s favorite restaurant. Not mine. This place has strings of fairy lights strung from the ceiling and rose petals scattered across white linen. Romantic, I guess, but it doesn’t feel right being here with her.
The server brings the bottle of champagne I ordered to our table. Kelsey feigns surprise, but I know she’s playing along. She knows why we’re here, but I wait until dessert.
She’s mid-sentence, telling a story I’ve already heard twice, when I reach into my pocket and pull out the box. Her eyes go wide, hands flying over her lips. The table beside us gasps. Someone points, and the cameras come out.
And then she’s crying. Again.
On autopilot, I drop to one knee. My mouth moves before my brain catches up, the words spilling out rehearsed and hollow. The ones she’s waited for.
I don’t remember exactly. Something about our young love, forever, and making it official. People clap. Someone screams. Another camera flashes. I’m not sure whose memory this moment will belong to—mine, hers, or the stranger filming it.
But then my parents appear smiling, beaming, like they’ve just won a bet. They stand with their chests puffed out, cameras in hand. It's like being part of a TV show I didn’t know was taking place. As if everyone knew the outcome, even though I wrote the script.
Kelsey squeals. She repeats her answer—yes, yes, yes—over and over.
Then I wonder if she asked them to come; she must have. I never told them. I smile for the cameras. For her. For the version of me everyone wants to believe in, and then I slide the ring on her finger. She bounces on the spot before running straight into my mother’s arms. They beam at one another. The look between them screams mission accomplished, but for the first time, I feel truly duped.
“I told you,” my mother mouths, and Kelsey nods frantically. My father shakes my hand.
“Well done, lad,” he says, grinning.
I beam back, because if you fake it enough, sometimes even you believe it. And maybe one day it will feel like the right choice. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll stick.
Now, I’ve got to find a way to want the life I just committed to.
Chapter twenty-eight
Bex
Sitting on the old, worn sofa, I stare at the pink and white envelope. I know what’s in it. Amy warned me earlier. She and Terry received their invitation today as well. Being a couple now, they get lots of joint requests. I’m thoroughly the lemon of our little threesome.
Living with them is depressing. They don’t mean to be hard to live with, but it’s becoming increasingly impossible to stand being around them. All the touching and kissing is sweet, but after day one hundred forty-five, it’s very irritating. I wonder if that’s how Amy felt living with Ben and me. If she did, she never let on.
My focus falls back to the envelope, challenging me to open it. To confirm what I already know. Hand-drawn pink flowers wind along the edges of the expensive white paper, and my name is scrawled in fine black calligraphy across the center.
I slide my finger under the flap, and it pops open. I extract three pieces of thick, white cardstock: the invite, the menu, and the reply form. There’s also a self-addressed envelope with a stamp to make replying as simple as possible. More pink flowers decorate every section of the invite. I mean, who the hell has time to draw all that?
Mr. & Mrs. G. Jones
Request the pleasure of your company at the wedding of their son
Dr. Benjamin Jones to Miss Kelsey McMillan
on the 4th of May, 2000.
We hope you will join us for their special day.
RSVP by March 1st, and please include your meal choice.
No gifts. Donations will be collected for the local cancer center.
Tears fill my eyes as I read the words again. He’s getting married. I knew they were engaged. When you’re still tangled in the same friend group, news travels fast. And, formy benefit, someone phoned Amy within minutes of thehappyevent.
I listened to how Ben had gone down on one knee in front of a restaurant full of people and declared his undying love. He promised to care for her forever, producing an exquisite diamond ring. There was applause. Cheers. Congratulations.
It burns in my memory even though I wasn’t there. I throw the invitation to the side, like I do with everything I don’t want to face. I’ll deal with it later. I’m not sure what’s worse—that they sent it? Or that I opened it? Why even invite me? To twist the knife, or make sure I still bleed?
Since our reconciliation a year ago as a group, we’ve kept in touch by socializing once a month. We normally meet at the local pub, and the five of us have a few drinks and a catch-up. Two couples and me, skirting around safe topics that avoid the pain.
