THE END
Well, this is an uncontested new low. My best friend has let herself into my apartment and found me passed out at the piano in my wedding dress. She shakes me gently, pain
shooting to my head as I meet her compassionate gaze—shame chasing the pain, tears chasing the shame, a finished piece of music, the best I’ve ever written, taunting me on the music beside alongside an empty bottle of wine.
‘That was for him.’ I nod at the manuscript, voice raspy, throat dry from a thousand glasses of pinot gris and hours of wailing. Black and white notes blur as I stumble through the opening bars, clashing tones hurting my brain, scared I’ll never get this jangled mess straight again. Not just this piece. My life.
‘Audrey, come on. I’ll make some coffee.’ She lifts my hands from the keyboard and pulls me from the piano stool into a hug. ‘I’m sure it’s incredible. You’re just tired.’
We both know I am more than tired. Much more. I’m hungover. Devastated. Angry. Furious, actually—
We catch sight of ourselves in the full-length mirror: Rachael in dark jeans and a soft cream jumper, blonde layers slicked into an immaculate ponytail as she props me up— face blotchy, eyes red, brown hair tumbling from a claw clip— bride of Frankenstein. I loved the simplicity of this second-hand gown. I was convinced the black ribbon belt would elevate the ivory, as if fussing over the little details could somehow have saved us from this mess.
‘All of this would have been lovely,’ Rach says as we slip further into a warped horror version of what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
Sunlight was meant to be streaming through these windows, but the curtains have been drawn for days. There should be mimosas. Strawberries. Croissants. Hope.
The doorbell cuts through the fantasy, and I clutch Rach’s arm. ‘Did you call off hair and make-up?’ I can’t bear the idea that a duo of flawless, upbeat women may step into this wreckage. I don’t have the strength to explain this turn of events to a single other person, or even to hear Rach explain on my behalf.
‘It’s all done,’ she assures me with gentle confidence as she heads to the door. My parents and Sara aren’t due until after lunch. I need to sober up before I can endure even my own family reeling alongside me, reaching for some higher purpose to explain my cancelled wedding, because apparently everything has to happen for a fucking reason these days.
When Rach returns moments later, she’s smothered by a delivery of flowers. An explosion of pastel pink and antique cream peonies—my favourite—tied with a white ribbon. Flowers like these don’t say, Sorry your life is in bits. They blast Congratulations or Well done or Good luck! I pull the card from its little white envelope. And, as the florist’s handwriting comes into focus, all the oxygen whooshes from my lungs: See
you at the church. Fraser. x
When did he order these?
Back in our other life, no doubt, before everything lurched sideways, forcing Rach to spend two straight days tearing apart our fairy tale. She assured me that handling this was an unwritten role in the bridesmaid duty statement—making the calls, cancelling the bookings. Detangling me from the future I was promised. Sweeping away the wedding when it all imploded . . .
‘All the best love stories end at the altar,’ I whisper as the peonies hit the wooden floor, crushed petals scattering at my feet.
In Rach’s eyes, there’s a flash of some boiling maelstrom of emotion that I can’t pinpoint and that we simply can’t entertain. She cannot break. She is the scaffolding.
Just as fast, it’s gone again and she gathers herself, grasps my bare shoulders, holds me firm, and makes me look at her while she tries to bore some optimism into my brain subliminally. She is so beautiful. So competent and comforting. So lucky that this is me and not her . . .
‘I know it seems impossible now, but this doesn’t have to be the end for you,’ she promises, unable to disguise the waver in her voice.
I cannot take toxic positivity today. Not even from Rach, who is just trying to save me from myself. I won’t.
‘Look around us,’ I whisper, glancing at the bomb site of tulle and lace and the climate-scientist-sanctioned eucalyptus-leaf confetti I was so obsessed with just a week ago. ‘It’s all over, Rach. Accept it. This is the end.’
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