I Object [gxg]

2. The Reception

I spend dinner at a round table, trapped between the two Mariani brothers. I can't imagine a more awkward place to be. I'm just glad that Nessa and Connor spend most of their time traveling from table to table, talking with their guests, and when they come back Nessa plops herself down in the chair to my right.

"This day is so exhausting!" she exclaims, staring at the untouched plate of food in front of her like it's a marathon. Or an ultra marathon. One of those big fifty-mile ones that must mess up your body.

"That's the price you pay for making it perfect, I guess," I offer. My own food vanished into thin air ages ago.

"To be honest?" she says, picking at the food even though it's her husband's. "I would've been fine with a courthouse and two witnesses. Connor's the one who wanted all this." She waves her hand at the flowers and white tablecloths and friends and family.

"You'd have been a witness, of course," she adds, misinterpreting my pinched lips.

"Oh," I manage. "Thanks."

Maybe I'll look back on this one day and laugh.

The ping of a fork against a glass reminds me that today is not that day, and I look up as Connor nods at me to stand. Right, the maid of honor makes a toast. I've known that for months, and I thought I'd used the time well enough to prepare, but my legs suddenly fail me.

Cam pushes me to my feet. What a helpful guy. I just love swaying in front of a roomful of expectant faces while my heart gallops out of control and my brain implodes.

Someone hands me a microphone, and it trembles in my hand. Or my hand trembles around it. I don't understand. I had my toast memorized and suddenly it's gone in a puff of pink, flowery-scented smoke and "Newlyweds!" banners. My dinner shifts menacingly at the bottom of my throat.

"Hello," I finally stammer, to the amusement of my table. The audience waits patiently, indulging me for the moment.

Okay. I can still save this. I glance at Connor, then Nessa. Then I look at both of them together, so perfect and meant for each other, and I definitely ate something I shouldn't have earlier because a hard lump has situated itself right in the area of my throat that I need clear to breathe.

"I've known Nessa and Connor since—"

The next word is "college," and I know that, but it seems so woefully inadequate next to the truth. But what am I supposed to say at their wedding? That Connor had approached me at the bar next door, and I'd obliged? I can probably recount the whole sordid affair in detail that would haunt these people's dreams for years.

I can't do that to her.

She's my friend.

My friend!

That doesn't change the fact that my one-night stand with her husband only solidified my position as third wheel to a person I knew I could never have.

"I—"

I try to forge on. I really do. But the words are like quicksand in my mouth. Soupy, meaningless. A trap.

A loud thump echoes from the speakers as the microphone hits the table. "Sorry," I whisper as I pass Nessa and make a beeline for the door. I can't do it. They can have their happy ending, but I can't be part of it. I know I'm selfish. I know I'm being childish. I'm an adult, I should be above this high school-level drama. But none of those realizations change the fact that I just can't.

I wrench open a door at random, not really caring what's on the other side as long as it's not people. I just want to be alone.

I fall to my knees beside a cushy ottoman, digging my elbows into its plush depths and squeezing my temples so hard I wouldn't be surprised to find brain oozing out my ears like a zit.