Jordan props her elbows on the table. “If something serious happened to me, I would call you because we’re friends.” She raises an eyebrow at me.
“Same here,” I say dejectedly, as I play with the stem of my wine glass to avoid Jordan’s eyes.
Kate’s silence is totally weird, and though I’m trying to resist thinking about its implications, it’s raising my paranoia levels. Did she know I was going to be fired? Did she know about Neil and Stacey? And if she did know anything about any of it, then why didn’t she warn me? At this point, the question is whether I want to hear the real reasons for Kate’s lack of communication, and I’m not sure that I am.
“Yeah. I wouldn’t count on getting those portfolio samples from her.” Jordan takes a long sip from her drink while giving me a pointed look.
“But I need to talk to her about the wedding too and let her know it’s off. She’s my bridesmaid—”
Jordan puts up her hand to stop me and shakes her head. “Give it up. You’re not going to hear from her. She didn’t even call you for your birthday. She called me to say she wouldn’t make it, and I don’t think I’ve ever received a phone call from Kate.”
“But why? Is it because of work or the wedding?”
“My guess is all of the above. Personally, I’ve never trusted her. There are negative Nellies, and then there’s Kate. What’s someone with her glass-half-empty-and-the-rest-is-filled-with-poison outlook even doing in PR?” Jordan throws her hands up in the air, exasperated by the subject of Kate. “Face it, Allie. She’s ghosting you. You’re never ever going to hear from Kate again.”
Deep down I know she’s right, and my heart breaks in a million pieces all over again. I’m not sure now which breakup is harder—a fiancé or best friend?
Kate’s spirit animal is the hedgehog. When Kate is in a good mood, she’s my funny little comrade who makes me laugh harder than anyone else with her quirky and often wry observations and humor; but when feeling cornered or defensive, her spikes go up, and one must handle her with care. Although she’s the most introverted of my friends, ironically, she’s also the person I spend the most time with on a daily basis, that is, until recently. Though I took her on as a mentee (she was competent and efficient if not always eager), we didn’t become friends until the night she found me shell-shocked and staring at my computer after being majorly chewed out by one of our bigger clients and asked me what was wrong.
“There was a typo in the A-Kon Batteries press release,” I said, still recovering from the irate phone call.
“What was the typo?” she asked.
“We inverted one of the numbers in the phone number for their headquarters.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.” Kate was the one who actually drafted the release, but it was ultimately my responsibility as the senior account manager to check her work. “That sucks, but it’s not exactly tirade-worthy. If people call the wrong number, they’ll just look up the right one online.”
“Yeah, but …” I buried my face in my hands.
“But what?”
With my hands still covering my face, I whispered in horror and embarrassment, “The wrong number belongs to a sex shop. They specialize in vibrators.”
The second the word vibrator came out of my mouth, Kate burst out laughing, and, after a couple of shocked seconds, I started laughing along with her.
“C’mon,” she said, still laughing, “let’s go get a drink.” Even though we were going to catch hell in the morning for the mistake, that night, over a couple of mojitos, our work friendship solidified into a personal one, and the next day Kate admitted to Paige that she had made the mistake, while I took the heat from the client. Since the “Night of the Typo,” we’ve weathered many campaigns and projects together, and she’s been a loyal friend. One of the many reasons I looked forward to Kate as my bridesmaid was that something would go horribly wrong (as they do at weddings) and she would be the one to make me laugh when it did. But wouldn’t a loyal friend check up on me after I got fired?
Jordan taps on her glass to get my attention. “Speaking of the wedding, have you heard from Neil?” she asks.
“Nope, and I’m starting to think I’ll probably never ever hear from him again either. But it’s all still feeling a bit surreal, as if he never existed, as if our relationship never existed.” I look at her helplessly.
“Unfortunately, I bore witness to it, and it existed,” Jordan testifies. “And how’s the wedding canceling going?”
I squirm. “Um, yeah. I haven’t gotten around to that yet.”
“Allison,” she gently scolds, “vendors don’t care about your heartbreak. They care about the money.”
“I know. But it’s only been a week,” I deflect, “and like I said, it’s all a bit surreal. Even though I hate Neil, I still can’t believe he’s just disappeared into the ether. Don’t I get an explanation? Some sort of closure? How could he have been having an affair under my nose?”
I’m tempted to hunt him down and force him to give me some “closure.” But that’s only for “psycho-exes” and I’m not there yet (though I’m firmly of the belief that the reason a woman becomes a “psycho ex” is because her ex drove her there).
“I know. We all want closure. But, the thing is, most of the time the explanation or answer isn’t what we want to hear. It’s better to just move forward. And you can start by canceling your wedding contracts.” Jordan pats my hand. “Do you want me to call? I’ll say I’m your lawyer. People usually respond to that.”
I laugh sadly. “Thanks, but I got it.”
SATURDAY MORNING I think about Jordan’s comment that it’s best to just move forward. Despite my heartbreak and how absolutely mortifying the task, I really have to move forward on canceling the wedding. Dragging my feet on this has given me an icky feeling in my stomach. Guests have made arrangements to be there for me and Neil, and it’s only fair to give them notice; though it’s rather unfair that I’m the one who has to be responsible for cleaning up this mess when I’m not the guilty party. Anger bubbles up in my chest and even though the rational part of me is screaming, “Nooooo,” I pick up my phone and call Neil.
While his phone rings, I pace the length of the condo back and forth and back again. My call eventually goes to voicemail and, panicking, I immediately hang up for fear of leaving an angry incoherent message—one that he might share with Stacey. I wonder if he saw my number and decided to ignore it. Slumping down onto the sofa, I type him an email instead.
Subject: Wedding
Neil,
I just called and got your voicemail. I haven’t begun canceling our wedding contracts because I think you should be involved. Please give me a call this weekend because I’d like to cancel everything Monday morning.
Allison
I read the words back to what must be the most depressing email I’ve ever written. Who was this Neil that I agreed to spend my life with, and how did he so suddenly become a stranger?
The only person who can give me these answers is Neil, that is, if he ever calls me back, which I’m beginning to doubt. So when my phone rings, I jump a mile. I look at the caller ID. It’s my mother. Sigh. I’ve been avoiding her calls all week, which makes me feel that I’m no better than Neil, Stacey, or Kate. I take a deep breath and answer.