It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (22 page)

“So tell me everything. How was the show? How is life? Are you happy?”

Let me just say, thank goodness KK wasn’t even close to full-term, because his reaction to this question was jarring enough to make any woman’s water break.

“Umm . . . what kind of question is ‘Are you happy?’ Has someone been telling you I’m not happy or something?” he snapped back at her.

“No, no, not at all. Just the opposite. I was just asking how everything was,” she replied, nervous and utterly confused.

His head swiveled. My eyes met his accusatory glare, which I had nicknamed “The Death Stare.” Uh oh. I’d become all too familiar with this look, and even happened to have one of my own, which I’d perfected during my terrifying teenage years, but Twenty-Six’s gave me a run for my money. His was fierce, laced with pent-up anger. Steam practically protruded out of his eyes, and there was no question that once it was used, I was S-C-R-E-W-E-D.

Ohhhhh, fuck . . . here we go again
, I thought. And even worse, poor KK! I could see the panic in her eyes, she was like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to run and hide, and even worse, unable to drink it off. Twenty-Six leaned in and rhetorically whispered into my ear, “So, how much shit have you been talking about me to your friends?” With an eye roll, and a hefty dose of annoyance, I “whispered” back, “Stop! She’s just asking about your life, like are you happy? Are you happy with life, with being engaged. And she’s pregnant.”

The bickering between us continued, as I found myself attempting to explain the lack of malice behind her question. It was like I was teaching a toddler something but failing so miserably that I was beginning to question who was smarter, the teacher or the tot. He’d made up his mind that I’d been bad-mouthing him behind his back, and no amount of explaining was going to change it. That was the thing about Number Twenty-Six—he had the ability to carry an entire room, for better or worse. His mood was contagious, rapidly spreading from person to person: If he was happy, everyone else could be; if he wasn’t, everyone else was doomed. So, I did what any doomed girl in this position would do . . . ordered another glass of wine and started gulping.

The next morning was the wedding day, which meant a total takeover of the house. The hair and makeup team arrived, and within minutes commandeered virtually every inch of the downstairs portion of the house. While blow dryers were blowing, curling irons were curling, and airbrushes were working their makeup magic on each of us bridesmaids, the men sat on the couch in the adjacent living room drinking beer and watching college football. While the other men were thrilled that their wives were occupied so they could watch football unmolested, mine kept asking me when I’d be done and able to hang out with him. I have to admit, though many would have seen this as a red flag as well as slightly annoying, in the moment I found it oddly endearing.

“Once the ceremony is over, I’m all yours,” I’d reassuringly say as I gave him a small smooch and pretended to be in denial over last night’s mortification.

Several hours later, next thing we knew, the sun was setting and the bride was walking down the aisle. And there, underneath an enormous oak tree, I watched as my best friend said, “I do.”

A few bridal party photos later, and it was finally time to get the party started. I made my way through a sea of guests and into the cocktail party to find my dapper fiancé dressed in my favorite Hugo Boss suit waiting for me near the bar. Damn, did he look good in a suit! Almost good enough to make me completely forget about the night before. Almost. We sipped on cocktails as we made small talk with some of the guests and bridesmaids. Everything seemed great until he surveyed the crowd, which happened to include many of Phil’s former baseball teammates, and yet again leaned close to my ear. Out came yet another rhetorical accusation, “So just how many of these guys have you hooked up with?”

Dear Lord, not again
, I thought as I rolled my eyes. While I may have been able to get past the meritless accusation from last night, this one was more difficult to ignore. In fact, it fucking pissed me off. He’d gone from lashing out at a pregnant woman to insinuating that I was a whore. Who says that to someone, let alone their fiancée? And the funny thing is, I hadn’t even dated, let alone slept with, let alone touched with a ten-foot pole, a single one of them. Even if I had, did he have the right to bring it up?

I remember feeling as if he just wanted to pick a fight with me. I questioned whether he was mad that he wasn’t the center of attention or if he truly was this jealous a person. Whatever it was, the joy of the ceremony and the excitement of the party had evaporated. His mood was already saltier than the Charleston air and it was only going to get worse.

With the cocktail hour over, you could cut the tension between us with a dull knife. We entered the reception hall, where under a clear tent festooned with hydrangeas, peonies, and Jo Malone candles, we found our assigned seats—mine in between Sarah and Leslie, Twenty-Six’s across from me, along with the other husbands and fiancés, something he obviously took offense to. Some snarky comment from him about how “strange” it was that couples didn’t get to sit next to each other, and he’d racked up yet another strike in what had to be the longest at-bat in history. I’d gone from the point of embarrassment to annoyance and was teetering on the brink of being flat-out repulsed by my own fiancé. I was tired of walking on eggshells with him, I didn’t want to get in another fight and couldn’t promise restraint if he decided to accuse me again of sleeping with someone. Basically, I was over the drama and instead of dealing with it, I decided to run away. Well, really I decided to skip away with Caroline and Leslie on each arm as we made our way to the scenic dock where we proceeded to snap selfies and giggle. When we returned to the tent to bust out some dance moves, I couldn’t find my fiancé. Not that this was all that bad of a thing at this point, but after ten minutes went by and he was still nowhere to be found I decided to text him:

ME:
Where are you?

26:
You were ignoring me, I left.

ME:
You left? What? Come back, we can dance.

26:
Nah, I’m waiting for a car outside.

Cut to me stumbling down a gravel driveway in my five-inch stilettos, where I find him in the parking lot waiting for a cab. I pleaded with him to stay, less because I actually cared about him staying at that point and more because I didn’t want to create yet another embarrassing scene. After promising to pay more attention to him and even dance with him, he agreed to rejoin the party. I led him back down the driveway toward the tent where the music was blaring and the party was jamming. We had almost reached the end of the driveway before he made yet another snarky comment. I don’t even recall what he said, because in a five-minute-long argument, all I remember was when he called me a “bitch.” I froze.

It wasn’t the first time he’d called me this name, but it was the first time he’d said it in public, loud enough for a slew of guests and the wedding planner to hear. My humiliation had hit an all-time high,

“Is everything okay?” the wedding planner interjected.

“Yes, totally fine,” I replied with a fake smile.

But it wasn’t fine. Not even close. It was the third and final strike; he was out. I’d finally been pushed to my breaking point—I was tired of the snark, tired of the childish behavior, tired of the accusations, and now I was tired of him. It was bad enough that someone who supposedly loved me was calling me a bitch, but that he was doing it in front of a hundred people at a snazzy event made my biggest fear of public embarrassment come true. It was one of those weekends where I just couldn’t please him, no matter what.

I wasn’t completely innocent, I get it—I was inattentive, to say the least, as I spent the better part of the weekend focusing less on Twenty-Six and more on insuring Sarah’s dress was perfectly fluffed and her teeth were lipstick-free. But that’s what I was there to do. It wasn’t my weekend to be the perfect fiancée but rather the perfect maid of honor. This wedding wasn’t about me, or him, or us; it was about Sarah and Phil. I’d had enough and finally blurted what I’d wanted to say all day, “If you don’t want to be here, then just leave.”

Immediately, his eyes widened as if he’d been waiting to hear those magic words. Before I had even finished my sentence, he’d turned around and was headed straight back to where I’d found him, at the end of the driveway waiting to get a cab. I could have chased after him (again) and had it not been for strikes one and two, maybe I would have. But as I stood there, mortified, with blistering feet and a long gown now dredged in dirt, I didn’t take a single step. Instead, I watched him make his way down the driveway until he was out of sight. I gathered myself for a minute and then walked right back into the party. This would be handled later; for now, I was going to grab some champagne, take my heels off, and dance the night away with my best friends.

When the party was over, I called to let him know we were on our way home. I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t answer and assumed I’d find him snoring in our bed when I returned to the house. But I didn’t. Instead, all I found was an empty spot in the driveway where his car had been parked. Dozens of unanswered calls and texts later, complete with shedding drunk girl tears to my friends and their husbands, I finally called it a night. In bed alone, I asked myself,
How in the hell did this go so terribly wrong?
This was supposed to be a fun weekend, a weekend to show off my new love, and instead it had become a complete disaster. Was I right to avoid him during the reception? Probably not. Was he immature about it? Probably so. But still, those minor details shouldn’t result in anyone leaving a wedding, let alone leaving town. As I sobbed in bed, I looked at my phone one last time, saw all of the attempted calls to him, and in that very moment I knew deep down in my soul that this relationship was never going to work.

When I awoke, the realization that he wasn’t there hit me once more. I called him, but no answer. I packed my bags and said goodbye to my friends and began the lonely four-hour drive back to Atlanta. About an hour in, I still hadn’t heard from him, causing me to go from pissed off to now terrified that something horrible had happened to him. I called again and again, like a crazy fiancée, until finally he answered.

“Where are you?” I shouted.

“I drove back home last night.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

“You told me to leave, you kicked me out, Andi.”

Now that I knew he was alive and safe, my worry turned back to fury.

“First off, I didn’t
tell
you to leave,” I explained. “I told you, after several snarky comments and you calling me a bitch in public, that
if
you didn’t want to be there, then leave.”

The lawyer in me says that what I told him wasn’t a direct order to leave but merely a conditional statement:
If
you want this, then do that. He still had a choice, right? But it didn’t matter. He heard what he wanted to, and with his departure had made me feel a way that could never be forgotten. I spent the remainder of the drive crying and wondering what to do. I knew the way we treated each other wasn’t healthy. I knew I didn’t want a life filled with fights like these and public embarrassment. I wanted to be done with him, but something inside of me just couldn’t let go.

That night I slept alone at my place. The next morning, I did what I always did with him . . . made up. I had gotten into a routine of not only tolerating these situations but accepting them as part of our toxic relationship. It was as if I was addicted to this man and the destruction that resulted in loving him. Being in such an unpredictable relationship was foreign to me, but so was the intense love I had for him, and I figured, maybe this was just the price I had to pay for finding the spark I had longed for all these years.

Lesson learned:
When you know, you know.

I
t’s been about four days since I moved my stuff out of our apartment and the rage within has yet to subside. I keep playing back the fact that he actually had the nerve to pack up my things—no, not pack,
pile
them—in the corner of the room. It triggers so many other angry moments like Charleston and our fight in Italy. I know, I need to get over it, but it’s hard to when I feel so much ill will toward someone I once loved. Right now, there’s no better adjective I could use to describe my feelings toward Number Twenty-Six than
hate.
Despite being taught by my parents to never use that word, I feel justified in saying that I HATE him!

I’ve hated very few people in my life, in fact, probably only two or three people ever. One was the bitch who slept with my college boyfriend because her only goal in life was to be a home wrecker, the other was another ex-boyfriend’s sister-in-law because her only goal in life was to make me miserable, and the third is probably Number Twenty-Five, because his only goal in life was to humiliate me. (That’s a whole other story I’ll tell you about later.) Each of those bitches/assholes deserved hatred from me. And right now, so does Number Twenty-Six.