Page 110 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

To fill the time, I ask the bartender stupid questions.

“What’s Lillet’s taste profile?” “How many ounces are in a martini glass?” “Do you have ginger ale?”

When an older woman stands beside me, I gesture for her to order first. “Can’t decide what I want,” I say to her with a smile.

She gives me a polite smile back and orders. While her drink is being made, she turns to face me and then extends a hand.

“I’m May.” I swallow, then shake her hand.

“Emma. Palomino,” I tack on at the end.

“Ahh, yes,” she says, knowing. “I’m the mother of the bride.” I want to curl up into a ball and die.

“Then, congratulations. They make a beautiful couple.” May nods demurely while silently assessing me. Likely holding me up beside her daughter and deciding I couldn’t possibly hold a flame to her. “What did you order?” I try my best to divert the conversation.

“A French 75.” I recheck the cocktail list, thinking I might follow suit. “You’ll want something stronger, dear.”Yes.She’s right.

“I think you’re right,” I mumble under my breath, then give her a tight smile. My fingers tremble as I let my hands fall down to my side.

The bartender hands May her coupe glass, but as she turns to leave, she says, quietly, “Jealousy is for those with no value of self. You don’t strike me as someone who should be lacking.”

It’s a compliment and a warning. She walks away, and I order a double Johnny Walker Blue, neat.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Alex

I stare at Jess as she walks into the Cabinet Room, and I despise her. I see her for what I always thought she was.Not mine.

For the first time, though, I don’t want her to be.

I keep my eyes trained on her, like tracking a target, and fight against the urge to lace my fingers between Emma’s. To look her in the eyes and let her know that another woman doesn’t hold any appeal to me. I want to reassure her, however pointless it is now.

While I stare at Jess, I can feel Em stare at me.

I feel her hand slip out from inside the crook of my arm. Her perfume wafts towards me as she steps backward, putting space between us, then walks away.

The finality of her absence shatters me.

Goodbye, darling.

When the newlyweds begin making their way around the room, I move in the same direction, staying out of sight mostly, only talking to someone once Damian and Jess have finished and are already moving on.

Once a near complete loop has been made, I find Emma standing beside her seat at the very end of the table. A rocks glass in hand and a sedentary smile that says nothing.

When I feel the hand on my back, I have to close my eyes like I can block out what’s about to happen.

I turn to face the bride and groom and hate it. I hate everything about it.

“Hey, man,” Damian says. I don’t reply. Staying mute feels safer because under no fucking circumstance do I want to say,“Hey, man,”back. I don’t want to talk about the weather or pretend like someday we might be actual friends again. I don’t want to pretend to still be in love with his wife either. But here we are.

Emma, being perfect as always, saves me, moving forward to my side.

Jess extends a hand to her first, “Jess. Nice to finally meet you.” Jess plasters on a fake smile, and Emma does the same.

Emma’s voice conveys only genuine sentiment, though, when she says, “Hi, Jess! I’m Emma. Thank you for inviting us. You’re a beautiful bride.” Emma is far more gracious and kind than Jess deserves. And I love her more for it.

“We’ve gotta catch up,” Damian says, and I nod solemnly because no-fucking-thank you.