SNIPPET

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate new beginnings and a beautiful life change for this woman”—Miranda pauses to rest a firm hand on my shoulder, the cuff of her suit jacket itchy against my skin—”whose strength and kindness are only surpassed by how damn hot she looks in a wedding dress.”

As the crowd in the church cheers and wolf whistles, I look at what is still the most handsome face I’ve ever seen. Scott’s blue eyes stare right back, one eyebrow quirked in amusement.

“Syd, would you like to say a few words?”

I nod, reaching for the piece of paper tucked into my gown’s waist sash. I know what it says, but I unfold it anyway.

“Scott,” I start. “Our past three years together were truly one of the relationships of all time.”

The crowd chuckles.

“I had doubts at the beginning of us, from your inability to admit when you’re wrong to you having a mattress without a bedframe at age 28. But there’s no way I could’ve known that those few red flags would be insignificant specks in comparison to all the other bullshit you put me through.”

Looking up from the paper, I scan Scott’s face one more time—his teasing smile, his perfectly sculpted beard, his olive skin, the tiniest hint of his dragon tattoo peeking over his shirt collar. I smile.

The crowd holds its breath, the tension in the room palpable.

“It’s been a long and bumpy road but, despite it all, I’m happy we ended up here, on this altar, this way. Because of you, I learned to value myself and my friends.” I look out into the pews at the mix of smiling and crying faces seated before me. “I learned that love, patience, and perseverance aren’t enough unless they come from both sides. I learned that some men will never learn to wash their hands no matter what you do.”

Loud groans of disgust echo off the stained glass windows.

“In conclusion, baby, sweetheart, lovebug…” I take a deep breath, dropping the paper and letting it drift to the laminated wooden floor. The fist of my right hand clenches so hard that my nails dig into my palm. “Fuck. You.” Then I drive my knuckles straight into his nose.

The inflatable punching bag pops back up and I hit it again, over and over, until the printout of Scott’s smug face rips free of its duct tape and crumbles to the floor. Miranda steps onto the printout, grinding the heel of her patent leather oxfords into his widow’s peak. She takes my almost-certainly-bruised hand, hoisting it into the air to thunderous applause. Like she’s declaring me World Heavy Weight Champion, she proclaims, “Fuck that guy!”

I try to keep my mascara from running as every single person I love gets to their feet and takes up the chant: “FUCK THAT GUY! FUCK THAT GUY! FUCK THAT GUY!”

I do not succeed.