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I can’t really describe what I felt. Was it disappointment? Sadness? Anger? Before I even had a chance to really comprehend what is was that I was holding in my hand, I gulped down the rest of my wine and poured myself another glass — this was significantly larger than the last. Derek was getting married. During the time went spent together we talked about a lot of things, but we also would sometimes not talk about anything — just sit holding each other. But one thing we didn’t talk about, I quickly realized, was past relationships. We were both living in the present when we were together. We didn’t talk about our pasts, and we couldn’t talk about any sort of future, particularly any future together. And we definitely didn’t talk about being gay — being together was proof enough of that. I had been out to my family and friends for almost a decade with full support, which I was grateful for. But him? This changed my perspective altogether; it cheapened what we had had. Was I just his experiment? Was I just some out-of-town fling for him?

Finally, the feelings came to me. I burned with indignation. Who did he think he was? When I kissed him that first day we spent together, I had no doubt that what I was doing was OK; I mean, just the way he looked at me, that way he touched me. There was no doubt in my mind. But this? The bitterness continued to well up inside me. And the invitation? I jumped up and ran to my bureau and started to frantically dig through loose pieces of paper that I couldn’t help but keep — whether it was old tax forms or letters from my family. Digging deeper, I couldn’t help but feel like I was ripping through pieces of my heart, like patchwork pieces I had tacked on the past year and a half. I eventually found it at the very bottom of one of the drawers, tucked away in the far corner. I pulled out the letter, the only letter Derek had written to me. I couldn’t bear to read it again, but I quickly scanned the words. The tops of the letters all slanted to the right and the writing was thin and hurried, masculine. I went back to my coffee table where I had dropped the invitation. I scanned the envelope: flashy script with ornate loops and flourishes. The invitation was obviously written with care, by Becky.

The questions began to drown me. Had her told her to invite me? Did she know about us? Were they together when he was with me? Fuming, various scenarios flashed through my head. I could imagine him, arriving at their apartment beaming. She asked would ask about his business trip and remind him that they were supposed to be checking out venues for their wedding that day. He would respond that it was the same old song and dance and tell her that he had made a friend who had shown him around the sleepy little beach town, and that’s why he had stayed the week. She, totally self-absorbed and not listening, would respond, That’s nice, and ask his opinion on color schemes. In fact, he would say, here’s his name and address, why don’t you put him on the guest list? The scenes were all similar: He played the part of the straight, all-American businessman husband-to-be; she was the aloof, waspish socialite who was more concerned about what sort of press coverage they would get for their wedding and on which page of the paper it would be.

My vivid imagination being what it was, I couldn’t help but well up with tears, but I caught myself before I cried outright. I held onto my anger. Who did he think he was? I was a man, a human being, not some fodder for some repressed f*****t’s sexpedition. This was what I continued to think when I ripped through the various parts of the wedding invitation, seeing through the farce that it was. Numbers, numbers, dates, times. I ripped through the gilded text, looking for the information that I wanted, needed, but hoping inside that it was all a joke. Buried inside would be a plane ticket and a note from him telling me that it had been too long and that he needed to see me. I found no such thing. The wedding was in a week. It would be in an archaic Catholic church, with a reception, weather permitting, to be held in the courtyard out back.

I ripped up the invitation into smaller and smaller pieces, until the text was indistinguishable. I grabbed the RSVP card and scrawled on it my intention to attend. I would go and expose him. I would go and work my way into the very front, charming members of both their families along the way. I would make a tennis date with his uncle and talk about how beautiful the flower arrangement was with her mother. Everyone would love me but not have a clue to who I was, until, when the moment was just right, I would stand up and tell them all that it was bullshit. I would tell them all about how we were together, regardless of how long ago, and how he was lying to them all. How I was just, likely, another one of his salacious trysts, and ask them how many other men they thought he had been with. I would laugh as I told them all how they were being tricked. I would laugh as the old women gawk at me with shock all over their faces. I would laugh as I turned to them, standing at the alter hand in hand, and see disgust in her eyes and shame in his. Then I’d storm out and wait outside as the family members I had won over would come chasing after me, fawning over me and thanking me for not letting such a terrible thing as this happen. They would congratulate me for having the bravado to stand up in the middle of the wedding and telling the truth.

This is what I thought about for the next week. In a every case I could imagine, I would be the hero; I would be the one standing up and denouncing this travesty against an innocent bystander such as myself. I was victim here, and I wouldn’t let this happen. Midway through the week, I couldn’t contain myself. I called my younger sister and told her everything. She knew about Derek; I had gushed to her about him the second he had left my apartment. I told her what I thought had to be what happened — that I was just one of many of his sick indiscretions. And I would go to the wedding and expose him for what he was. My sister agreed, even egged me on. She was seething. She went on about how it was the repression of our society that made people feel like they couldn’t live their lives proud to be who they were. She even offered to go with me to the wedding just to cheer me on and get the crowd all riled up. I declined her offer and told her that I would take care of it myself, but I would tell her all of the details and how successfully it went upon my return.

I was more incensed than ever when I loaded my bags into the taxi one day before the wedding. Mentally preparing myself, I had never done anything like this before. I almost always avoid confrontations, and I have never been that diva who throws drinks in a girl’s face for not complimenting my outfit. But I felt like I was on my way to deliver justice, like some big gay superhero who was doing a great service for all gaykind.

I continued to try to ignore him as subtly as I could as we filed onto the plane. When I was packing, I couldn’t find my usual carry-on bag, so I grabbed a decrepit, oddly shaped one that was leaning in the back of my entryway closet at home collecting dust. The bag must have been from when I was in school, because I barely remembering ever using it, but it fit everything I needed — it was also extraordinarily unruly, which I discovered as I tried to work my way through the aisle of the plane. Bumping back and forth between the seats, I found mine in a row of three that was vacant for the moment, and, considering most everyone had already boarded, would likely remain vacant for the duration. I struggled to push my bag into the overhead compartment. I managed to force it up there, but it refused to turn in any way as to allow the door to shut. I pulled it down and took a short breath, preparing to heave it up for another try, but as I grabbed the cracked leather handle, and bronzed, spindly hand rested on mine and closed its grip on the handle.

Here, let me help you.

The greasy businessman breathed this down my neck; it made me shiver with sickness. His lined face and overwhelming stench was just inches from me. Simply to avoid further contact with him, I allowed him to lift my bag into the compartment while I settled myself — I could only stifle my laughter as I noticed him have just as much trouble with it as I did. I took my seat by the window, hoping it was as far away as possible from him. After he had managed to store both of our bags, he obsessively touched his hair again and took the aisle seat of my row. Cursing under my breath, I suggested that he might be more comfortable across the aisle, where two seats appeared unused. He flashed his sharp teeth at me and leaned across the vacant chair that separated us.

I think I’m exactly where I want to be.

He pursed his lips and looked me up and down. He had been staring at me in the terminal; I just hadn’t noticed. I was inwardly repulsed, but tried not to let it show on my face, until we started our ascent. Reading while we climbed into the sky, I tried to leave everything that had gone through my head in the past week on the ground behind me. I was still just as angry and had just the same intentions to stop this wedding, but for just a few hours, I wanted to pretend that I was on a plane going somewhere far away where someone who couldn’t wait to see me would be waiting. But before we had reached our peak altitude, I did glance over at the greasy businessman once more. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his knuckles were white from gripping the arm rest relentlessly, but he was so bronzed, that the white on his knuckles was more like a taupe, which made the missing piece from his ring finger that much more obvious. I felt the blood rush to my head uncontrollably, and I promptly turned my head to look at the seatback in front of me, breathing heavily. This man — he was the target of my hatred; obviously not him specifically, but men just like him. Men looking for a cheap hookup while on a business trip, where they can simply cast off their ring for a weekend and be estranged from their wives, or, in this and many other cases, be gay. Maybe he bought a prostitute — maybe he or she was underage; maybe this man knew, maybe he didn’t. Just the thought of what this, to me unnamed, greasy businessman was getting himself into, just who he was exploiting, was sickening.

Even though this man represented so much that I despised, it wasn’t this man who I was after. This man was despicable, but he wasn’t the man who had broken my heart and invited me to his wedding to rub my face in it. No, Derek would get what was coming to him; I was going to make sure of it. This greasy b*****d wasn’t worth my time. But, having calmed myself down, I could possibly get something out of him. I went back to reading until the captain announced our optimum altitude and that the beverage cart would be around momentarily. Upon hearing that, the businessman once more turn his nauseating face toward me, looking for some reassurance that it was OK for him to feed his repressed alcoholism. In his excitement, he offered to pay for a drink for me. I coyly accepted his offer and ordered a double screwdriver. When we got our drinks, I think he made some sort of lewd comment about my choice, but I wasn’t listening to anything he had to say. I was, however, listening half-heartedly for a few keywords: wife, family, children — not surprisingly, none of these ever came up.

After two more single screwdrivers and his incessant rambling, I finally joined in his one-way conversation. There are times when I’m really good at nodding my head at people, making them feel that I’m not only paying really close attention and interested in what they’re saying but also making them feel important — so important, in fact, that only a few of my closest friends and sisters can tell that I’m still not listening to them and really just looking straight through them, focusing on some point far away. This is the tactic I employed when I leaned toward him, feigning interest while trying not to throw up at the sound of his voice. One more screwdriver and two hours later and I had taken on another persona. Being not the most flamboyant of guys, I tried to flare it up for him as much as possible — judging by his reaction it was exactly what he expected, and wanted. Originally from a small town, I was a designer on my way to test the waters in the big city, following close on the heels of some good friends with whom I would stay for a few weeks while I was getting my life together. I forced myself to listen to just snippets of his never-ending, egomaniacal rant just long enough to gather that he was an illustrious corporate lawyer eager to show me around, which he said in the slimiest way possible, oozing with lust. I giggled at this, mostly just to keep my drinks down. I pulled out my phone and asked for his number, to possibly make this complementary tour happen, and when he pulled his blackberry from its holster, I playfully snatched it away from him, pretending to be far more drunk than I was and blaming it on being a lightweight, which I made sure to tell him multiple times. Scanning through his phone, I pretended to enter my number — all the while, he sat staring at me, licking his lips. He was too engrossed in me to notice me type a few numbers into my phone, which I saved.

I tossed his phone into his lap, lifted the armrest, and slid into the empty chair between us. He looked at me eagerly and started to lift the other armrest, but I stopped him.

Be ready for me in the bathroom; leave the door unlocked.

I wrapped my arm around him and whispered this into his ear. The moment after, he hurriedly undid his seatbelt and rushed to the back of the plane. I slid back to my seat and rubbed the illusion that I had created from my eyes. I can’t say I felt good about what I did next; I didn’t want him to take the brunt of my ire, but I couldn’t let a man like him do the things he was doing without any reflection upon his conscience — like how it could affect people like me or, even worse, his family. I checked my phone; I had sent myself a text message containing the number I had lifted from him with the subject line the same as the listing in his phone: home. Downing what was left of my drink, I headed for the back of the plane, phone in hand. I tapped lightly on the door; he said it was occupied, but it was unlocked.

It’s me.

I whispered through the door. After I announced myself, I heard the rustling of clothing and the clicking of a belt buckle as it hit the floor. Acting as quickly as I dared without rousing the suspicions of the surrounding crew and passengers, I opened the door and saw him standing there half naked “ready for me,” as it were. With such a look of disgust on my face that I can only pray he caught, I snapped his picture, making sure not to miss anything. He didn’t even have time to react by the time I had closed the door and gotten back to my seat. With the help of a little rough wind, it took him some time to make it out of the bathroom — plenty of time for me to warn the flight attendants about this man sitting across the aisle from me who had a little too much to drink and should be watched closely. After moving his bag into the window seat on the other side of the plane, I settled back into my seat. Just moments later, as I expected, the greasy businessman came storming up the aisle checking the seats for me. His eyes were huge and veins were popping out on his neck. He looked like someone who spit when yelling in anger, so I headed him off by handing him a note I had just written:

HOME: 262-591-7468
Unless you want your family to know what kind of despicable piece of perverted s**t you are, I suggest you sit the ******** down and shut the ******** up.

I’m holding onto this photo. ******** off.

After handing him the note, I looked at him matter-of-factly, like we were just two strangers who had shared some meaningless conversation while sharing the same form of public transportation. I looked up at him with a cordial smile and saw devastation. He stumbled back a step and a flight attendant came up to lead him to his seat across the aisle. For the remainder of the flight, he sobbed softly to himself and kept trying to order drinks, which the crew refused to serve. With just a couple of hours left on the flight, emotional exhaustion had taken its toll on him and he curled up against the window asleep. I, on the other hand, couldn’t get any sleep no matter how much I wanted it. I first felt justified in what I did, but when I closed my eyes, I could only see the look of despair and hopelessness of the businessman when I handed him the note. I could’ve just told him to back off in the first place or that I was straight and he was creeping me out. But for some reason, I just had to take it that far — maybe it was too far. I’m not a sadist; I don’t enjoy hurting people, but this man was acting with no regard to anyone else, even the people who, I could only assume, loved him the most. It was a gamble when wrote that note under the presumption that he’s not separated or divorced or anything, but I was apparently right. He’s one of those people who think they live above moral laws and, thus, can act however they please. It’s a caste of people living on the upper fringes of society where they never even experience what comes along with having to make a living. Building to taxi, to plane, to taxi, to building, to taxi, to meeting, to building, to beach, to plane, to taxi, to building. These people move in ways that bypasses anything that could even be considered reality. So for them to go off and do something or act in a way that your average person would find totally inappropriate and unacceptable is nothing in their minds. It’s totally normal for them to act and look the other way, while demonizing everyone else who is not a part of their system. They are the unfaltering examples of hypocrisy, and that is why I had to threaten the greasy businessman in the way I did. I didn’t feel good about it, but I felt that it was right.

I must have dozed off at some point during the end of the flight because I awoke with a start when the plane touched the tarmac and roared to a slow crawl. I looked across the aisle; the businessman must have moved — neither he nor his bag was there. I worried for a moment about the bag I had stored in the compartment above me. I had handed that note to him fully knowing that he could retaliate, but expecting that he wouldn’t. My whole body ached when I stood after we had come to a stop, and I had an inexplicable headache. Opening the compartment, my bag was just where I had left it. I pulled it down and casually looked around for the greasy businessman. I caught a glimpse of the back of his head near the front as he filed off the plane — he must have worked his way into first class while I slept; I wasn’t surprised. I worked my way slowly through the plane, the jetway, to the luggage carousal, and toward the taxi stand outside. My exhaustion immediately caught up with me as I walked; teetering slightly on weak legs, the lights above me seemed to flicker, casting an eerie shadow alternating from in front of me to behind me. The shop signs sparkled a little, emanating small halos. I looked straight to the daylight outside and everyone walking toward and away from me transformed into listless shadows moving to the light. They were husks that once held a person but now just moved in whichever way some unseen force pulled or pushed them. I thought for just a moment that maybe I was just another one of them — one of the masses being herded by those who don’t even touch the same ground we walk one. Maybe the greasy businessmen were right. Maybe life was better when you acted without regard for anyone else. You could move and act unhindered, experience things that the masses would never be able to experience. Sure, someone could get hurt, even someone close to you, but everyone runs that risk just living every day. How was it any different?

Emerging into the daylight, the faces around me returned. I saw rosy-cheeked children clinging to their parents’ legs, reunited lovers and friends, and, of course, the lost but optimistic tourist trying to find a taxi. No, those people weren’t right; people can’t be treated that way. They have faces, minds, and free will. No one should be able to treat someone like that — no one. I sense of relief washed over me. I barely remember hailing the taxi and getting in, but after establishing which hotel I needed to be at, I leaned over my bag and shut my eyes.

I continued to fuzzily sip on my drink and watch the patrons of the bar ebb and flow like water in a tide pool. I soon bored of the group whom I’d been so fond of upon their entrance — they talked, joked. The girls daintily lifted their neon pink drinks and the guys tipped back generic beer bottles. All but their overindulgent friend, who, to my chagrin, had seemed to sober up a bit and wasn’t nearly as entertaining. But others came and went as well, rarely by themselves, and me, skulking in the darkest corner closest to the exit so I could make my escape when someone finally noticed that I was there, drunk, alone.

A severe-looking woman sat at the bar smoking by herself for just a while, and I watched her intently. Her unnaturally dark brown hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail, which looked to almost lift her eyebrows back just enough so she didn’t look like she had work done, but she also looked surprised. She wore a thin black turtleneck shirt and dark jeans, with pointy high-heeled boots. The gold bracelets around her wrists clanged together as she lifted her cigarette to and from her mouth. In my haze, thought she couldn’t be too old, but the pony tail, the turtleneck — cheap tricks. Her hands rested on the bar like leathery talons, and when she smoked her cigarette all of the lines that weren’t on her face showed up around her mouth. All of this in addition to the unnatural hue of her skin — a “healthy” copper, some might say. She nervously tapped her foot and occasionally looked around the bar expectantly. With every turn of her head, the light shot from her oversized gold earrings. She was one of those people who smiles nervously and laughs louder than everyone else, overcompensating for something. Waiting at the bar, she did just this, chatting with the bartender. She talked to them like she had them completely enthralled, but had she taken a moment to move her attention away from herself, she would’ve noticed that they were hardly looking at her, much less listening to what she had to say. And it wasn’t always the same bartender she was talking to — sometimes they would, out of necessity, switch places at the bar, and she just continued talking to whichever one like they had been friends for ages. She threw her head back and laughed whenever any of the bartenders responded in the slightest — for her, it confirmed that they were listening, for them, it was a last-ditch effort to get this cougar off their backs.

I watched, amused by the prospect of her telling them about her “glory days” when she was announced prom queen or lost her virginity to a football player in the janitor’s closet, because that’s just how they did things those days. Laughing to myself, the whole scene seemed to slip to the left, tilt even, like everything in the bar should start scooting across the floor toward the exit. I held onto my table, interested in the prospect of watching the bar simply slide away, but secretly knowing that I had really just propped my head up on my hand and had allowed it to tilt a bit, still cupped in my palm. I swirled the ice around in my glass and closed my eyes, the jingling evoking childhood memories of seagulls drifting from buoy to buoy, my fat tabby dragging itself to the back door at dinner time to mooch whatever she could, shop doors along the boardwalk opening and closing. I was happy to get out of town, regardless of the reason, but I hadn’t even been gone a full 24 hours, and I already missed the fresh, briny smell of the sea floating through my window in the morning and mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

I opened my eyes to the unfamiliar, uninviting, fictional place. It hadn’t looked real since the moment I had arrived. Choking down the watery swill at the bottom of my glass, I cursed myself for staying at a place like that — convoluted and garish. Still, I felt like there was a reason I had chosen it, but I couldn’t figure it out, though every time it crossed my mind, I gave up relatively quickly. A waitress came around and, feeling the scotch bubble in my stomach, I ordered a beer to finish off the night. Carried away in myself, I had lost track of the neighborhood cougar stalking the bar, but, fortunately, she wasn’t far off. It turned out her waiting had paid off; she sat, legs crossed, on a stool a little farther down the bar talking excitedly to what looked like a much younger man — and what seemed as a very attractive one at that. He wore black slacks and shiny black shoes and a tailored dark blue shirt. The cuffs were rolled up past his elbows and it looked like he had a habit of touching his hair when he responded promptly and vigorously to the cougar. I noticed he was in shape, had a strong profile with an impressive jaw line, and had obviously spent a very long time on his hair, making it look as if he hadn’t spent any time on it at all. It had a slight sheen to it due to the extra-strength gel holding various small pieces of it up in different directions. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t really see his face, but I could tell that on a surface level, he was definitely trying too hard. Why he would try so hard to impress some withered old hag such as the cougar escaped me, but I was also very much intrigued, so I continued to watch them casually converse. As usual, the scenarios of why they were meeting ran through my head, as I continued to pay close attention to their interactions and mannerisms. Maybe she had snuck out of her wealthy husband’s bed after he had had a few too many night caps so she could rendezvous with her latest fling who she had met, just today at the indoor pool. Maybe he had searched her out, stealing dangerous, furtive glances at her from across the hotel restaurant while he worked as a server and she dined with her frighteningly large husband, who likely could have (and would have) killed him had he seen the way they looked at each other. But their bill, he was able to slip her a note to meet him later at the hotel bar for just a drink, nothing else. And so she waited, and he considered not going at all, but thought, What the hell?, and tried extra hard to clean himself up to throw in her face what she was missing if things didn’t turn out well, but dress himself up enough that if things went really well, he wouldn’t come off as a scrub and might walk be able to walk away from the coat closet later after a hot hook-up with a seasoned older woman.

Still a bit drunk, I watched them together. She would smile and talk, bigger and louder than she needed to, and throw her head back laughing like anything either he or she said was the funniest thing yet. Every once in a while, she would lean in close to him to tell him something, then she would lean back out and go through it all again. Occasionally, she would touch his arm lovingly, then place that hand back in her lap and reach for her martini on the bar with the other — playing it coy, I assumed. He, on the other hand, was not sending back the same signals, nor was he acting like he ever realized what sort of trap he had walked into. He stood close enough to allow her to touch him, and he didn’t shy away when she did, but he never returned any semblance of her physical affections — not in the slightest. He alternately shifted his weight from one foot to the other and at one point draped his arm over the back of her chair, letting his hand dangle there. The realization came to me all at once through my drunken haze — he was gay, and she didn’t notice. At this, I grinned to myself — oh, how the world works in funny ways. She continued to devour his, what seemed to be, pleasurable company, and he continued to keep his safe distance from her. It was the most complicated game of cat and mouse — the cat patiently waiting for the mouse to give in, while the mouse deftly avoided the cat’s advances.

I was about ready to go up and hit on him myself, though I still couldn’t see him straight on, but then I got a chance to at least let the cougar down gently. He put down his drink, put his hand on her shoulder, and leaned over to tell her something very quickly. She nodded and waved him away, and he walked toward the restroom. I swallowed the last of my beer and carried it up to the bar, ordering another. I positioned myself on the side of the woman where the man wasn’t standing, with my back toward the restroom. I sipped nonchalantly from my beer, while the woman pulled out another cigarette. I politely asked for one of her cigarettes, and she happily obliged. After lighting the cigarette from one of the matches on the bar, I made sure to compliment her shoes, attempting to gain some gay credibility before informing her that her secret young date wasn’t into cougars, much less women at all. She gushed about how she absolutely loved them and started into a diatribe about how she got them, but I wanted to get to the point.

You know he’s gay, right? That guy you’re here with?

She cocked her head a bit and looked at me curiously with a crooked smile. She took a long drag from her cigarette.

Who? Him? My nephew? That’s ridiculous, Derek’s getting married tomorrow. Too bad I can’t make it to the wedding…

Were I sober enough I would’ve left right then and there, graciously making my exit. Instead, I just stood there; I’m sure the shock showed in my face, but the woman was too caught up in her own story of why she wasn’t going to be at the wedding to notice. While she went on, I retreated back into my head. That was why I had picked this place without even realizing it: Derek had mentioned how much he loved this hotel. He had described it to me in great detail. He had even told me that it was like a movie set out of a murder-mystery. I was completely floored. How I could have forgotten a detail as important as that escapes me even to this day.

Oh, here he comes now. Derek! Come meet my new friend!

I broke myself of the paralysis that had seized me and could only thank God that I had chosen to stand with my back facing Derek as he approached. I don’t even remember what I told the woman, but I checked my watched and cursed, telling her I had to get back to my room for an international call — it was 9 in the morning where they were calling from. I left my half-finished beer on the bar and rushed out, quickly turning the corner heading for the elevators. No one else was there waiting for the elevators, and the only sounds the echoed against the walls were the squeaking of my sneakers as I paced back and forth cursing under my breath and the sound of my jamming my finger against the button, attempting to will the elevator to open its doors faster. I breathed heavily with the fear that at any second he could’ve turned that corner and I would’ve been trapped there. The elevators wouldn’t open and there would be nowhere else to go but to him, which I could never do again. What would we have said to each other? What could’ve he have said to me? I’m not even sure I would’ve given him the chance to say anything before I would run past him to the emergency stairs. But he never turned the corner, and the doors slowly opened to the elevator, which I threw myself into. The doors closed much more quickly when I was in the elevator, but it didn’t help. I went from feeling just cornered to feeling truly confined and trapped. My chest heaved and I felt like the air was getting thinner by the second. When I thought I was about to collapse, the doors opened again to my floor, and I walked as quickly as I could, without looking frantic, to my room. Slamming the door behind me, I dropped to the bathroom floor and hugged the toilet, leaving there the small amounts of food I had consumed over the past few days.

Being unable to purge myself anymore, and realizing that the physical cleansing that I obviously needed did nothing for me emotionally or mentally, I uneasily stood and stuck my head in the shower under cold water. The water brought the feeling back into my body — starting at the top of my head and moving to my face neck and shoulders. That’s when I realized I had been crying. The water had carried most of the salty residue away, but I could still taste it on my lips. I was embarrassed, disappointed, ashamed. I should’ve stayed, faced him, at least listened to what he had to say right there, but instead I ran off scared and topped off a panic attack with vomit and tears. I wanted to call my sister, but I knew she’d be out with her friends and wouldn’t want to deal with me in the emotionally fragile state I was in. Why couldn’t I buck-up and deal with it? One of hardest things I’ve had to realize in my life is that people can’t always be there for you, and sometimes you just have to tough it out on your own. Granted, there were many times before and after this that I had to rely on myself, and I came out just fine, but this was not one of those times. I did end up calling my sister when I had gotten ready for bed; her voice mail picked up after two rings — she was out with her friends as I had thought. Instead of crying and mumbling indecipherably into the phone, I simply slurred about how I liked the city and some of the interesting people I had watched at the bar as well as, of course, the ridiculous motif that pervaded every corner of the hotel I had inexplicably chosen to stay at. Closing my phone, I flipped on the television and drifted off to sleep amid promises to make me a millionaire and reassurances that I would never cook anything the same way again.

I hadn’t been in town for 24 hours, but I felt like it had been days, weeks even. I was so physically and emotionally spent. Turning on the television, the digital clock in the bottom right of the screen turned over to noon. I laid back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. I thought about getting ready, but something held me back. Well, again, I knew what was holding me back, I just didn’t want to face it. I could’ve just not gone at all; it’s not like a wedding invitation is something that you automatically have to answer without even thinking about it. Derek and I hadn’t talked in more than a year; he probably wouldn’t have even noticed that I didn’t show up. But of course he wouldn’t — he wasn’t the one who had sent me the invitation. My heart thumped a little harder, reminding me of why I had come. I couldn’t let the wedding happen.

With that, I was out of bed, throwing down my wardrobe bag and laying out my clothes swiftly, neatly and with purpose. I didn’t hesitate a moment more; I couldn’t hesitate. I would’ve collapsed had I stopped moving. I was working up momentum. While I ironed out my suit, I tried to sift through the notes that I had scribbled on my way to the airport to put myself in the state of mind I needed to be in to do what I intended to do. I wasn’t breaking up a wedding; I was telling the truth. I wasn’t going to idly stand by and let this a*****e trick this poor girl into being an accomplice, a victim, to the bullshit that he was throwing in her face, her family’s faces, and his family’s. I threw my notebook on the bed and flipped it open, attempting to read through it as I ironed, but I quickly noticed that it was completely illegible. Even if it wasn’t crinkled and smeared where tears had made the ink run, I couldn’t even made sense of the words that were there. It wasn’t English or shorthand even — some ancient dead language of symbols that conveyed more emotion than it did words. I tried to remember what the words meant, exactly what I was thinking when I had written them, but I couldn’t. I tried to hold on to how I felt then, how I felt when I had first opened the letter and read the script: Derek and Becky.

The ironed sizzled in my hand, the slight smell of charred fabric. I cursed myself and lifted the set the iron on its end at the end of the board. A smoke-tinged steam floated from my shirt. I lifted it up in the sunlight to examine the damage, but fortunately there was none. I had lost track of how long I had been ironing, lost as I was in my head trying to stoke the flames of my anger. It was almost one and a fine mist of sweat had beaded on my forehead. I felt jittery and gulped down a few glasses of water to counteract what was likely the result of too much coffee too early in the day. I climbed into a steaming shower and lightly rinsed myself, hoping that it would clear my head. Stepping out and looking into the mirror, I realized it didn’t work like I had planned. Not only did I look tired and emotionally spent, I had a crazy look that would seriously impede on my credibility when I went through with my plan. Some more water and some face cream later, I looked a little better in my suit and tie — a bit more believable, at least.

I was losing time and I felt like I wasn’t at all ready. It was only a half hour until the wedding and I hadn’t met any of the family or friends whom I would have to win over before Derek and Becky said their vows. If I didn’t have anyone in my corner, than I would just be some crazy slanderer looking to defame the beautiful couple, or a jilted lover looking to get my revenge and ruin Becky’s magical day. I couldn’t stop looking at myself in the mirror, checking my hair, my tie, wiping away the imaginary dust and fuzz with a sweaty hand. With only 10 minutes to spare, I forced myself out of my room; the heavy door slamming in the empty hallway brought to mind the finality of a mausoleum opening being sealed. Frightened, I looked around half expecting a wraith to be reaching for me and closing its skeletal hand around my neck. I tried to breathe but found it almost impossible — my Adam’s apple bounced reluctant off the knot of my tie, giving no relief whatsoever. I loosened the knot a bit and undid the top button of my shirt. Though it dressed down my suit a bit, I thought that it might give me a common-man look, with which everyone in the audience could relate and, in turn, feel my plight, my purpose for being at the ceremony.

The mirrored elevator doors opened into a relatively empty lobby. Even so, I felt like all of the remaining patrons’ eyes were on me. Still sweating profusely, I nervously checked my watch — only five minutes until two. I took long strides to the line of double doors that led outside; my pointed, well-shined black shoes clicked on the floor with every step. I was close enough that I could see a line of women in bridesmaid’s dresses across the street. I wasn’t close enough to the door to grab the handle a pull it open; I was actually closer to the entryway of the hotel bar. Thin trails of smoke drifted into the lobby and were quickly taken away by various invisible currents shooting through the grandiose lobby. I had quit smoking regularly years ago and that cigarette I had bummed from the cougar last night had been my most recent in month's, but then more than ever I had to smoke. I turned toward the bar, even though out of the corner of my eye I could see the trail of women file their way toward the doors of the church. I remembered that in the bar they sold 10-packs of cigarettes.

It was just as poorly lit as the night before — a trick to keep the bar patrons there as long as possible, I was sure. They kept their cigarettes in a glass case near the end the bar next to the cash register. Full packs at the top, then menthols, and half packs near the bottom, almost out of view. Standing next to the case was another one of the attractive bartenders, meticulously rubbing the spots from a freshly cleaned glass. I almost ran up to the bar and demanded a half pack of the Lucky Strikes that I so desired, but watching him for a minute made me pause. Black vest, crisp white shirt rolled perfectly three or four times just above his elbows allowing enough mobility for his job. His dark blond hair was perfectly fin-shaped on his head, and his small, silver-rimmed glasses balanced carefully on the ridge of his nose. He alternately brought the glass he was polishing close for inspection and then held it at arm’s length. He looked up at me questionably.

Hey, can I help you?

I was standing at the bar, and I didn’t even realize I had been watching him. I asked and paid for the half pack of Lucky Strikes that I had walked in the bar to get. I got it and ordered a drink. I pulled out a cigarette and searched my coat for a light I knew I didn’t have. The bartender pulled a pack of black matches from his vest and lit one, offering it to me. I leaned forward and he cupped his hands over mine. For a moment we met each other’s eyes and I saw a spark in the emerald of his. I took a deep drag and blew the smoke out my nose. He stepped back and smiled. He looked down for another glass to polish, but I stopped him.

Wait…

He looked up expectantly, but I shook off my thought. He set back to polishing, but he kept his attention on me.

Well…

You’re dressed for a wedding…the Carters?

I looked at him quizzically.

The one across the street? It’s all over the news.

He waited, and I started talking. It was less talking and more mental gushing, everywhere. All over him, the bar, the hotel — it poured out into the street and hit the church doors with the force of a tidal wave. I started at the beginning. I told him how Derek and I had met, the time we’d had together, receiving the invitation. He continued about his work, polishing glasses one by one, wiping down the bar with the damp towel sitting at the serving station right in front of him. I don’t know why I trusted him so much with all of the information I was piling on him; I wasn’t even paying attention to how he reacted. I was too wrapped up in my own convoluted narrative to notice. I chained smoked the entire time, and he continued to fill my glass in mid-sentence; I would only pause to take a much-needed drink, but I would launch back in before my glass even touched the bar.

As I went on, I didn’t miss a breath, but I eventually became aware of the warm salty tears in my mouth. It didn’t stop my story-telling, but it did slow me, as I paused to wipe my face on my sleeve — at first, every few sentences, but then it was almost every other word, until I couldn’t tell any more. By then I had finished my story and was taking the last swig from my glass and the last drag from my cigarette — possibly my last, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore. Thoroughly embarrassed, I wiped my face with the dry towel the bartender had placed on the bar in front of me. I looked up at him expecting something completely different than what I got. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he wasn’t even standing there anymore, or if he had a look of disgust or disdain on his face, but it was none of these. He stood there, without and towel or glass in hand, looking at me kindly, with pity. He was obviously younger than me, so for a second I felt like maybe he was just pitying an old, sad man, but I quickly realized this wasn’t the case. He seemed honestly concerned for me and concerned for what I was about to do — even though I had missed my opportunity. When I finally gave him a chance to respond, he spoke with a sage-like voice that transcended his age.

Don’t do it.

I felt the tears well up again, but I held them back.

But after everything? After everything he’s put me through? After everything he might put this woman through, even if she is a heartless socialite b***h that I know she will be? After what he might put other men or women through just for his sick pleasures?

He leaned forward on the bar just inches from my face.

Have you ever met the future Becky Carter? Do you know anything about her beyond the fancy handwriting you saw on the wedding invitation?

I couldn’t say that I did, and I just sat there slack-jawed, staring forward. But I couldn’t imagine her any different from the self-centered, trophy wife that I had created in my mind. But I couldn’t imagine her any other way. What kind of ******** up person would do that? Either she did it full-knowing and was just plain evil, or she didn’t care enough to enough about the person she was marrying to ask any questions about him or his past.

Well, your plan? The one where you ‘expose Derek for who he really is’? Weren’t you supposed to pull that off at the ceremony? Have you checked your invitation? I’m pretty sure your opportunity has passed…

I acted surprised for a second, but I knew he was right.

Making my way through the alley to the church courtyard was like exploring a deep-sea grotto. I moved slowly in the darkness seemingly oozing from the bricks themselves. My footing was thrown off by the hodgepodge of stones that had been thrown down as a foot path, making me feel more affected by my stint at the bar than I did in my head, but I hesitated to touch the slimy sides of the alley.

I had spied people standing around the alley's exit from the other side, but as I moved closer, those people had all gone -- I quickly realized where they had gone to when I emerged. I brushed aside a bundle of vines that, I appropriately thought, draped over the exit like a veil. Surveying the scene, I saw the guests, save those who were hanging back swirling their glasses uncomfortably looking at the ground, huddled around in the far corner diagonal from me. In my mind, I questioned the lingerers -- one man in particular caught my eye. He was a bit disheveled and slightly chubby; a five o' clock stubble covered the baby fat hanging from his cheeks, and plastic-rimmed black glasses obscured his eyes. He closely examined his brightly polished black shoes, every so often rubbing the top of either one on the back of the opposite leg, then bringing it back in front of him to examine again.

I noticed within arm's reach a sliver platter that still had a few glasses of champagne, so I grabbed one and walked casually over the man standing back. He looked up at the sound of my shoes against the patio and smiled cordially before looking back down.

I've never been punctual with weddings, I said, taking up a spot next to him and drinking from my champagne. What did I miss?

He smirked, still looking down but glancing alternately and me and the group formed in front of us. Not too much -- nice service, quality food, top shelf booze. He raised his glass.

Here, here. I raised my glass to his. You look like you should be up there, involved somehow. Why hang back?

He smirked again. I think my invitation was an afterthought.

Oh? I asked. How's that?

Taking two consecutive sips from his drink, which seemed to rosy his cheeks a bit, he continued. Becky and I dated in college. Actually, I asked her to marry me, and she said no. But that was ages ago, and I'm here now for them. He motioned with his glass toward the group before taking another drink.

Hm, I responded with a sound of acknowledgment. That's admirable; I wish I could say the same.

What's that? My response caught him off guard, but he wasn't entirely paying attention, so I continued.

Oh, I mean, I think my invitation was sort of an afterthought as well. I'm an old friend of Derek's, but I haven't heard from him in quite a while. Frankly, I'm surprised to be here.

Well, you can't hold onto stuff forever. He shuffled his feet before looking back at the crowd.

He, then, caught me off guard. Maybe he knew something, but I quickly realized that he was caught up in himself, and it was lingering feelings for Becky that he was trying to let go.

Couldn't have said it better, I said to him, giving him a consoling smile and lifting my glass again to meet his. Come on then; let's go see what this is all about. We got dressed up and came all the way out here; we might as well.

The guests were spreading out on the patio like drops of oil in a bowl of water -- small groups laughing, chatting and clinking glasses. A few were moving toward the alley, jackets and bags in tow, obviously prepared to go. Some older women, wearing dresses the colors and patterns of which definitely dated them, slid past the bride, interrupting our conversation with well wishes and endless compliments about her dress and the ceremony -- not to mention the that her new husband was 'quite the catch.'

Becky was still standing quite close to me and looked eager to continue our discussion, despite the obligatory thanks she had to give to her departing friends and family. I figured I had lost my chance to sneak out gracefully, so I reached for the nearest champagne glass and waited politely for her to turn back to me, which she soon did, flustered and all smiles. Despite my mood, I couldn't help but smile back at her.

Sorry, she laughed, wedding and all. She brushed her hair from her eyes.

I completely understand. I tipped my glass toward her before taking a sip. You were saying?

Oh, right. Well, Derek and I just met about a year ago and just fell for each other. And since I met him, he's just always working so hard -- he's either with me or at work. I've barely even met any of his friends, though I have to assume he has some. She smiled mischievously and motioned toward the guests with a wide arc of her arm.

That can be said without a doubt, I said, returning her grin. I felt like we were sharing some secret between us, some secret about Derek. The funny thing was that I knew her secret: She knew that Derek had friends that for some reason or another she didn't know about, and this didn't bother her in the least. But she obviously didn't know that once Derek and I were more than just friends.

But when I was sending out invitations, he gave me such a small list of people to invite, so I swiped his black book and invited some extras. While she spoke she didn't keep her eyes on mine, but instead would scan the patio back and forth smiling and waving at people across the way.

Thankfully, her guests were a welcome distraction from the worried look on my face; again, I was sure I was completely transparent. So, how has that worked out?

Oh, it's gone great! A lot of the people were previous business associates and old college buddies. Maybe an old girlfriend or two, but everyone seems to get along pretty well. So, which one are you?

I caught the champagne in my throat but managed to choke it down without coughing. Sorry? The mention of old girlfriends before her question threw me off. She just laughed.

College buddy or business associate? The others had companies or fraternities next to their names. You just had a little star.

Oh? I couldn't be bothered to wonder what that star meant. Let's just say that we've worked in the same industry for quite a while. Regardless, I'm glad you invited me. I honestly don't know if I would've made it here had you not.

She smiled again at me, then looked past me, over my shoulder. Her eyes lit up and she waved someone over enthusiastically. She looked at me then looked at our approaching guest, causing me to look over as well. Not surprisingly, Derek was headed our way, stopping here and there to shake a hand or get a pat on the back. He eventually made his way to us. I could have been imaging it, but it looked as if his eyes were locked onto Becky's in a way as to avoid having any eye contact with me whatsoever -- with more determination that just a newlywed with his bride. When he got to us, she threw her arms over his shoulders, locked her hand together, and brought him in for an innocent kiss. She was still a good half foot shorter than him with her heels on, so he had to bend down a little to meet her halfway. When she came back down, a woman called her name.

Sweetheart, you guys catch up. My aunts are driving me crazy! She looked exasperated. Coming! Her shoes clicked as she shuffled quickly across the patio.

Derek turned to watch her run toward a giddy group of women who instantly started pulling at her dress when she got to them. He then turned back to me with his hands in his pockets. Rocking once back and forth on his feet, he breathed deeply and raised his eyebrows, opening is eyes considerably -- they were clear and beautiful, complemented by the brick wall with the creeping ivy behind him.

Crazy, right? He asked with what I interpreted to be a nervous edge in his voice.

Crazy. I avoided looking him straight in the eye until I took the last swig from my champagne. You haven anything stronger? I tapped my empty glass with my finger and gave him a sideways look.

I'm glad you asked. Come on. I set my glass down and he led me with his hand on my shoulder into a small bungalow tucked away behind the church. From the outside, the diminutive building looked as if it were falling apart at the seams, but inside it was remodeled and cozy, even. It had a few small rooms, a kitchenette and a walk-in refrigerator/freezer. The room closest to the door we entered looked like a coat room; I assumed the others were for storage. In the kitchenette, there was a butcher-block island surrounded by four or five bar stools. Derek turned around to examine the bottles on the counter; I took a stool on the other side of the island, with his back facing me. I watched him as he set out two glasses, tossed a few cubes of ice in each and carefully pour some black label scotch in each. I watched his hands as he worked. They were strong hands, but they moved deftly and gracefully, with a certain degree of care. For a split second, I could feel them.

Before he had turned around, I had shaken the memories from my mind and had pulled out two cigarettes -- one I let dangle from my lips, the other I held in my hand for him to take. He turned with our drinks and seemed to be taken aback. But he set them on the table and took my offering. I brought out my matches and leaned toward him, preparing to strike the match. He leaned into me and the match flared between us. We both puffed on our cigarettes, and for a moment just started into each others' eyes. I knew he could read me -- anyone there could have. I knew he knew what he was seeing in my eyes; I didn't have to say anything. But seeing the light flicker in his eyes, I thought I saw something -- a dilating of his pupils perhaps.