Scarred (Part 2)

That next year, she started slipping away from me. I didn’t think a whole lot of it—we were in college, and busy. One night she called me, and I realized I hadn’t talked to her in over a month. Then she told me: she had met a guy. They had gone out a few times, she said, and things were going extremely well. She went on about him for a few minutes. How he made her laugh. How right it felt to be with him. When she was done, I told her how happy I was for her, that it was great she had found someone, that I hoped things continued to go so well. Then I lied some more and told her I had to go, I was late for class. I wasn’t, but I did feel like I was going to throw up. I went to bed instead and stayed there for sixteen hours. It sounds awful, but I consoled myself by telling myself what jerks most guys are, and that college relationships don’t last that long. That may or may not be true—I’ve never really paid that much attention—but it made me feel better. After that, I didn’t think much about it. I waited for the day it would end, when she’d be “mine” again. Even when she didn’t always come home for holidays, I tried not to let it bother me. She stayed at school that summer, and I didn’t talk to her the entire time. That September, when I had been back on campus for a few weeks, I finally got an email from her: Wow, it’s been *so* long since I’ve talked to you! I don’t even think I’ve told you this...I’m engaged! Can you believe it? He asked me to marry him during the fireworks on July 4. Isn’t that romantic? We aren’t getting married until after next year, when we both graduate, but.... There was more, but I don’t remember what it was. I really don’t know if I even read the rest. I’ve never believed in destiny per se, but I always assumed that Laura and I were meant to be together. It just seemed so right. Then reality arrived in my inbox. Now she’s up there, getting married, the star of the show, and I’m just another face in the crowd. The minister is now telling us, the congregation, that we must speak now or forever hold our peace. I can see myself doing it—standing and voicing my objection. How would I phrase it? You see it in the movies, but does it ever really happen? I don’t know the protocol. If I could just stand up, I could ad-lib. If only my knees weren’t so weak. Luckily—I guess—I’m usually able to keep myself from doing things rashly. What’s the point? They’d end up getting married anyway, and Laura would never speak to me again. I’d have it all off my chest, but even I know this isn’t the time or place. Besides, I still can’t quite get to my feet. I’ll be damned if I feel very peaceful, but I guess I’ve opted to hold my peace. Even though I can barely hold my lunch. Not that I ate any. Now he’s sliding the ring onto Laura’s finger, the diamond-crusted band coming to rest against the rock-studded one that’s already there. Again, I seek out the scars on the back of her trembling left hand. They’re small, but I know where to look. In truth, I have a hard time looking away. It has always seemed to me that that’s the way love works. The mind (or heart, or whatever) becomes fixated on a person, or an aspect of that person, and gets stuck there. If the love is reciprocated, then all is well. If not, then the loved one, like Laura, moves on, and the lover, like me, is left to fade into the crowd, the congregation, like everyone else, as someone else slips a ring onto her hand, adjacent to the scars that have been there for years. It’s my fault those scars are there. Mine. I was the one driving the car, and I wrecked it. I’m not sure how her hand got wounded, and I don’t think she is either, but it was cut up pretty badly. She had other wounds, too, but that was the most visible because it was bleeding everywhere. I had some wounds of my own, but I wasn’t aware of them until later. Some onlookers convinced us to sit on the ground until the ambulance came. What a picture we must have made! Two teenagers sitting next to a wrecked car, bleeding all over each other. I sat there and held her hand and tried to make jokes. I did get a smile—weak and forced, not the good one, but a smile nonetheless. I would have tried even harder, but she shushed me, placing a finger of that hand against my lips, leaving a smear of her blood behind. Later, as the pain faded and her wounds healed into small red scars, I would sometimes reach over and brush them with my fingertips, marveling at how deeply I had cut into her flesh with my one moment of inattention. Now the moment everyone has been waiting for. The groom is kissing the bride—his bride. I finally manage to tear my eyes away from Laura. I can’t watch. There’s no confusion this time. The moment is too long, and only too long.