I don’t miss the way Cami and Cici look at each other, silently talking, probably wondering if they should schedule me a grippy sock vacation.
The jury’s still out there, but for now, I’ll use my experience with keeping everyone else happy to my benefit.
Possibly my very first selfish act.
“I’m fine. I promise. This day has been shit. I’m sure I’ll need a shoulder to cry on another day, but for tonight, I’m all cried out. I just want to take a hot bath in this fancy ass hotel, order in some junk food, and go to bed. I can face . . . everything else tomorrow.” A beat of silence passes while I pray they let me have this. Maybe they’ll be so worried about me, they’ll give me anything I ask for to keep me from jumping.
A little morbid, Liv.
“Please, guys. I promise, if I have another mental breakdown, I’ll call you right up. I’m pretty sure Bradley’s card is connected to all these rooms still,” I say.
It’s a lie.
One I won’t admit to them, of course. Unfortunately, I was the one who had to book the rooms after weeks and weeks of hounding Bradley. “So please, go to yours, rack up some room service charges. That will make me feel better.” I lie through my teeth, but it turns out, another perk of coming out of the daze of making everyone but myself happy is I’m a really, really good liar and I’m absolutely excellent at hiding all of my emotions.
I wait with bated breath to see if they buy it, if I bought myself some alone time to wallow and be miserable without them hovering over me.
“Livi . . . ,” Cici says, unsure, but Cami looks me over and nods.
Whether she sees through my lie the way she always can or she buys it, I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter.
“Okay, Liv. You call us if you need something. I also need hourly sign-of-life texts in order to keep your dad from busting down the door. At least until you fall asleep.”
I relax, knowing I’ll be alone for the night, that I’ll get the opportunity to just . . . be without them watching. To come to terms with my new reality without them hovering, no matter how much I love them.
“Deal,” I say with a weak smile. All the fight fled with my braveness.
Cami sees that, too, shakes her head, and sighs.
I would guess she sees right through me, but my need for this must be just as clear because she claps her hands together and nods at Cici.
“Okay, let’s clean up a bit and drag anything exclusively wedding out of here and then we’ll leave you be, Liv.”
And not for the first time, I’m so incredibly thankful the universe decided to give me Camile Thompson all those years ago when I needed her most.
FOUR
SATURDAY, AUGUST 19
It’s hours later, long after I lied and texted Cami I was going to sleep in order to end my hourly check-ins, long after I actually did attempt to fall asleep, and long after yet another cry session.
I don’t even remember what that one was about, to be honest.
I’ve cried for everything since Cami and Cici left to give me space. Small sniffles and soul-crushing sobs and everything in between, but each and every tear was cathartic.
I’ve cried for my failed wedding, but not the lost relationship.
I’ve cried over how fucking stupid I was but gave myself some grace, realizing I wasn’t fully at fault.
I’ve cried over letting all of our guests down but recognize they don’t matter in the grand scheme.
I’ve cried about disappointing my mother but understand it’s not fair for her to put that kind of pressure on me.
I’ve cried over how I feel guilt for this failed marriage when I was the only one putting effort into it.
I’ve cried for the realization that nothing in my life is mine.
And at some point, I just cried to cry.
Sometimes, that’s the best kind of all.
It’s also long after I finished an entire bottle of Champagne that could be saved for a happy occasion but is now forever tainted with poisoned memories.
The buzz is what has me moving to my phone, opening the web search app, and typing in a number of searches, each getting more and more unhinged.
Failed wedding.
What to do if you get left at the altar.
How to get over an ex.
How to get over an ex you may have never actually liked.
Cure for people pleasing.
How to put yourself first.
Jilted brides.
What to do if you’re a jilted bride.
How to return registry gifts.
Do you have to return registry gifts?
How to disappear and start a new life.
Jilted bride support.
That’s the one that led me here, staring at a private Facebook group.
Jilted Brides of North Jersey.
A group for women to talk about their experience of failed marriage without pressure or judgment. All welcome!
It could have been the alcohol.
It could have been the fact I flicked that little angel on my shoulder who said, What would your mother think if she found out? She’d be humiliated, off and into another dimension.
It might have been I’ve never once in my life met someone who was left at the altar and here was an entire group of women who had gone through this.
Or because suddenly, in the darkness of a five-star hotel room, I felt unbearably lonely.
Regardless, it’s sometime between midnight and two am and I’m still awake and click request to join.
Then, I answer the questions required for consideration:
When did your relationship end?
Where do you live?
Would you be interested in an in-person support group?
If yes, leave your cell number.
Not long after, I pass out, my eyes puffy and swollen, my nose raw and red, but my mind content in the fact that, somehow, I’m not alone in this.
And sometimes, that’s all you need to get through the day.
I’m smiling when I walk down to breakfast the next morning.
Not because I’m happy, but being able to leave this hotel at checkout and go back to my apartment without a chaperone depends on looking like I’m so totally fine.
I’m not, by the way.
I’m hungover and sad and stressed because I’m not that sad, and I’m wearing a pound of makeup, and I’m mad. Slowly, I’m creeping into the anger stage of grief, and I think I want to stew there for a good, long time.
Self-care and all.
I think my new version of putting myself first requires giving myself the grace to be fucking furious.
Cici gives me a happy smile when she sees me, the smile widening when she sees mine. Relief takes over her whole face, and I worry for a moment I’m a bad friend for lying to her about how I’m feeling in order to get alone time.
But the new version of me puts me first, and I can’t do that if my friends are hovering over me.
“Good morning!” I say, and I wonder if I laid it on a little too thick, my voice sounding fake even to my ears. I refuse to let myself admit a small part of telling them I’m absolutely fine is because I don’t want my friends and family worrying about me. They’ve been through a lot the past few days as well, and I refuse to be a bigger bother than I’ve already been, to let them suffer at my expense.
Nope.