wedding #2

In the six weeks after our break up, I will have gone to three weddings.

Friday
We are at an art museum in a small Southern city. My girlfriend, N, and I hardly know anyone at the rehearsal dinner. The Middle Eastern food is delicious and plentiful. We feast on tender slices of lamb, rich creamy yogurt, and garlicky hummus. Plates and plates of cheeses, olives. Fresh, cool tabouleh. Platters of pistachio, walnut, and honey drenched pastries.

I return from retrieving more wine, and a boy has sat down next to us. Slender, thoughtful. Dark hair and dark eyes. He is a teacher, and he lives in New York. Eventually the DJ plays some decent songs, and N and I head for the floor. Soon only the three of us are dancing. A salsa tune starts, and the boy, Nice Guy, asks me to dance. I note that he can dance. “How do you know how to salsa?” I ask, impressed. “I lived in Cuba for a while,” he explains. I am even more impressed.

As we talk, he says something funny, and I laugh, surprised. It feels like the first time I’ve laughed in months.

Later that night, we sit with the groom, our mutual friend, EB, in the hospitality suite. After a few minutes Nice Guy says he is tired and leaves. I am a little disappointed.

Saturday
The groom and his groomsmen stand outside the hotel, handsome in their tuxedos, on their way to be photographed. I smile at Nice Guy.

At the end of the ceremony, a priest delivers a loving, thoughtful speech about conversation. About how the bride and groom both love a good conversation, about the power of words. About how things break down between countries, between races, between people – when they stop talking to each other.

Tears run down my cheeks, and I wonder when Clerk and I stopped talking to each other. We used to have such good conversations.

At the rehearsal dinner, I am seated away from N, away from my brother, away from our high school friends. In the corner. My tablemates and I realize we are at the singles table. Ugh.
After dinner, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It is Nice Guy, here to rescue me. “Would you like to dance?” I smile.

I follow him to the dance floor, and he explains, “N says your table is boring.”

“It is,” I yell, over the music. “All lawyers.”

We dance for a while, and I dance with various men: friends and relatives of the groom. When the emcee announces the bouquet toss, I run to the bathroom and hide in a stall.

Later I stand by myself, watching happy couples dance. N’s boyfriend, C, stands next to me. I have met him only once before, and he had seemed gruff, ornery, quick.

“I just want to tell you, I’ve been there,” he says, in his Texas drawl. “Three years ago, and we were engaged. And then I got a phone call. So I know what you’re going through. And it seems like it’ll never end. But you’ll meet someone, like I met N.”

And I start to cry again. Nice Guy walks up to us. “Wow,” he says. Must have been some ceremony.” I smile through my tears. “Oh, you know, weddings always make me cry,” I lie.

Later, Nice Guy and N perform a song for the newlyweds - "Over the Rainbow." N sings, and Nice Guy plays the guitar. It is sweet and beautiful and sad.

At the end of the night, as we sit at a table resting, someone mentions the World Series game, and I ask Nice Guy, “Are you a baseball fan?” He says he is, and I ask more specifically, “But you’re not a Red Sox fan, are you?”

“Sure,” he answers. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Tired of them. Tired of their fans,” I spit. Then I soften. “Well, I’m a Cards fan, and last year…” True, but not the whole truth.

After the reception, Nice Guy and I join some others at a local bar. After a while, we are bored and tired, and the hotel shuttle picks us up.

After a few blocks, the shuttle driver announces that he wants to go to Arby’s. “No problem,” we say. We pull into the parking lot and the driver says, “I’ll be right back,” and abandons us, in the car, with the motor running.

Nice Guy and I talk for a while, and then I exclaim, “I can’t believe he went in!”

“Yeah.” He says. “This would be a perfect time to make out. Wanna make out?” I smile, but don't answer. A few minutes later, I ask him, “Did you really say we should make out?” He kisses me, and I kiss him back.

Eventually the driver returns and returns us to the hotel. We sneak into an empty meeting room, and Nice Guy kisses me again. Eventually, I sit on his lap, facing him.

“Girl, you are hot!” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, unsure.

And we continue to kiss.

But after a few minutes, I stop. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I can’t.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, sincerely.

“You….you seem like a nice guy.”

“And so…?” he questions.

“I...I’m not supposed to do this with nice guys. I just…”

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks.

I cross my arms and look down. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “You must have been with some very bad man.”

I look at him and say nothing.

“It’s ok,” he says kindly. “But you can’t blame a guy for trying. I’m still going to call you.” I give him my phone number, and he walks me upstairs to my room.

Sunday
In the morning, I wake up, as usual, sad. My brother is deep asleep, so I decide to go for a run. The downtown streets are deserted, and I listen to the same angry Ani DiFranco song for thirty minutes straight. At one point, I run across a street, and suddenly hear honking. I realize I had run in front of oncoming traffic. I sprint the last few blocks, and as usual, at the end of a run, I start to cry.

I sit outside, alone on a concrete bench, sobbing.