This should be good.
Simon continues to dab at his eyes—the man must have tear sticks attached to his handkerchief because even though his eyes haven’t stopped dripping, his facial expression remains stoic. Wouldn’t be the first time he inconspicuously taped a tear stick to his eye. I was the one who introduced him to the magical Hollywood trick.
In grand fashion, Annalisa sets her shoulders back and makes a dramatic display of drawing a folded piece of paper from the depths of her cleavage like a magician pulling a bunny from his hat. The awe that falls over the crowd is exasperating. You’d think she’d just mastered boss-level sorcery from their oohs and aahs.
If they think that’s spectacular, they should attend one of my family reunions, where my aunt Suzie utilizes her cleavage like Mary Poppins’s carpetbag. Roarick, my brother, still swears to this day that he saw her pull a live succulent from between her “bosoms.”
Carefully, Annalisa unfolds the paper and looks up at Simon. One would think for being such a trained actress, she’d memorize her vows. But like everything else, it’s all for the show.
I stuff my hands in my pockets, and from over Simon’s shoulder, I stare her down. Just waiting to hear what she has to say.
“I can remember the day I first laid eyes on you,” she begins.
Yeah, it was at my apartment. Simon came flying in looking like a gnome-size Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson in jeans and a black turtleneck. He’d just finished an off-off-Broadway performance of A Day in the Life of Zack Morris, a less-than-titillating “play” that required the hole-in-the-wall theater to refund ticket prices to the audience due to the lead puking across the ten-by-ten-foot stage after an overdose of Sausage McMuffins that morning.
He barged through my door, told me there was vomit everywhere, and then ran down to his apartment, one level below me. Annalisa found him offensive.
“From your beautifully stark black hair.”
Dyed black hair.
“To your square, masculine jaw.”
Jaw implants; he got them five years ago.
“To your mesmerizing blue eyes.”
Okay, those are real and are quite fetching.
“You took my breath away.”
A snort pops out of me before I can stop myself. Annalisa’s eyes flash to mine, beaming a strong warning to keep it together.
I straighten up.
“I had just started making a splash in the movie business but lacked the confidence I needed to become a true leading lady.”
Uh, not the way I remember it. She already had an impressive ego by the time she met Simon.
“And then you walked into my life, like a knight in shining armor, but instead of a white horse and a suit of clanking metal, you were cloaked in a Tom Ford suit and drove an Aston Martin.”
“Ha,” I say, which catches the attention of everyone around me. Oh shit. “Ha-ow amazing,” I say to recover. “Just amazing vows.” I lift my hand and give Annalisa a thumbs-up. She returns it with a murderous look.
But come on . . . Tom Ford and an Aston Martin?
What a load of crock.
More like heavily pocketed parachute pants and a 1993 Geo Metro without power steering.
“From a lonely, defeated, and confused part of my life, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, you lifted me up and resurrected me from the smoke and into the heavens.”
Jesus Christ.
So basically, I was Satan, strapping her down in hell, only for Simon to come swooping in like a glamorized Tarzan minus the loincloth to rescue her from the pits of purgatory.
I can feel the eyes of family and friends on me, and not because of my not-so-subtle guffaw but because most of these people know the truth.
I’m the reason Annalisa made it into the movies.
I’m the reason Simon got his big break.
And I’m the reason their latest flick was so well received—not only am I now a highly sought-after screenwriter, but I wrote the screenplay that made audiences fall in love with them.
So, the question is, Why am I standing here next to an ex–best friend who was nervous the Botox in his armpits wasn’t going to keep him from sweating through his suit on his wedding day, watching my ex-girlfriend heap praise on him—praise the double-crossing nitwit doesn’t deserve?
I shouldn’t have to stand here, supporting them.
The movie is done.
The press is over.
The audience has gone wild.
There’s nothing holding me back. The studio can’t offer me any more threats.
I put my time in.
Nothing making me stand at this altar and take this abuse.
So . . .
I decide to leave.
In that moment. I know it’s time to go.
I take a step forward as Annalisa stares up at Simon.
Then another step.
And another, which draws their attention.
Annalisa sizes me up with those crystal-blue eyes. “What are you doing?” she says through a clenched smile.
I clear my throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I must announce to the masses that I have better things to do than stand through this mockery.” Simon moves to the side so he can look at me in absolute horror. Hinging at my hips, I make a graceful bow—because it feels right—and when I straighten up, I lift both of my middle fingers, one for each of them. “I pray to the Holy Spirit that this marriage goes down in flames.”
I offer my apologies to the pastor for my straightforward verbiage with a quick wave, then spin on my heel and jog down the aisle while camera phones flash and a cacophony of whispers echo against the forty-foot vaulted ceiling. One particular camera flash—a light so deathly glaring it’s like looking directly at an eclipse—momentarily blinds me, making me stumble down the rose-petal-dotted aisle and step on the lace of one of my shoes.
Whoa boy. I nearly fall flat on my face. A litany of curse words flies from my mouth before I quickly regain my balance, courtesy of the second-to-last pew coming to my rescue.
Mentally praising God for the assist, I dip two fingers into the bowl of holy water resting just inside the entryway, throw a peace sign up to the big guy, and then push on the handle to the doors.
Not so gracefully—thank you, undone shoelace—I stumble out the cathedral doors as a wave of cameras flash, blocking me from my unscripted breakaway. But their greedy flashes quickly turn into disappointed clicks when they realize I’m not the much-anticipated newly united.
If only they knew the moment they just captured will bring a hefty price when the news hits—the fleeing groomsman. They’ll find out soon enough.
Spotting my escape vehicle, I jog down the stairs of the cathedral, only for my untied and ill-fitting shoe to slip off my foot midjog on the second-to-last step. The loss of footwear careens me into the stair rail, and I perform a spin move so epic, the greatest running back of all time would be jealous. Catching my balance, I glance back at the shoe just as Simon comes into view at the top of the steps, an expression of pure murder crossing his eyes.
Yikes, time to go.
Goodbye, shoe.
“Someone stop him!” Simon calls out dramatically, as if I’ve just stolen his wallet. And I take that moment to book it.
I run—well, hobble on shoe and socked foot—through the parking lot, all the way to my car, trailed by the few paparazzi smart enough to chase after me.
With cameras flashing through my tinted windows, I turn my car on and grip the steering wheel tight with one thing on my mind: time to get the hell out of here.