Page 93 of False Start
I unsuccessfully attempted to coax both Zina and Leslie into being my date, but neither were available for the weekend. And it sucks to be here alone because Bryant will be here. He called to tell me, but I haven’t seen nor spoken to him in the six months since I last talked to him and half-drunkenly told him I kissed another man. It’s not for lack of trying for contact on his part, but I’ve remained radio silent.
I’ve done nothing to move past him in these six months, and I’m afraid everyone inside will know as soon as they look at me. It’s a ridiculous notion, but one that causes me anxiety nonetheless.
“Are you going inside or did you dress up to standoutsideof the party?” Ben Slate asks.
I turn on my heel with a smile on my face and launch myself at my old friend. He happily catches me and spins us around as we both laugh. “Ben!”
“Damn, woman. It’s so good to see you.”
“It’s been too long. How have you been?”
He holds his left hand up to show me his empty ring finger. “Divorced. Single dad.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shrugs. “Shit happens, Z. Just hate it happened to you.”
“Yeah. He did a number on me.”
“Any chance I can talk you into falling in love with me?”
I laugh and punch him in the shoulder. “Zina would murder us both in our sleep.”
His face softens at the mention of my sister’s name. “How is she?”
“She’s good. Still working for the Voodoo.”
He offers me the crook of his arm. “What do you say we go inside and give ’em hell?”
“Sounds like a plan.” I sound unconvincing, even to myself.
Once we’re inside, Ben leads me to the bar in a room filled with fancy circular tables and gold-covered chairs, and then he orders us a few shots of tequila.
“One for courage, and one love.”
I snort. “Fuck love.”
“Here, here,” he says as he holds his full glass in the air. “Fuck love.”
“We should probably take our seats. The ceremony will begin soon.”
Ben and I choose to sit on the bride’s side of the aisle since Amos’ is full with massive, bulky football players who look like oversized cartoon characters in the folding chairs they occupy.
I catch my first glance at Bryant as he walks behind Amos to the altar. Even after all this time apart, he still takes my breath away. His long, dark hair is down which surprises me since he’s wearing a suit—black with a mustard yellow tie. As if he senses me, he turns his head in our direction but not quite far enough to see us.
“Fuck, Z, if you and B can’t make it, who can?” Ben asks.
He has a point. Bryant and I were the couple all other couples wanted to be. Even when we’d been married and together for years to the point of comfort, we were still head over heels in love.
“I can’t figure out how to forgive him,” I admit. “I can’t get the images out of my mind.”
He shakes his head, disappointment clearly written across his handsome face. “What the fuck was he thinking?”
“He wasn’t. He was drunk.”
“Doesn’t excuse it.”
“No.”
