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What a nightmare. The one positive about all of this is that I’m alone and none of this will ever get back to Brent and Cheryl. Because I know for a fact that they’d both piss themselves laughing at this scene. I guess hooray for small miracles.
I leave the snack counter and head down the car as far away from the kids as possible, sink into a rather sticky booth, and pull out my phone. It’s a compulsion, one the thought of Brent brings on like a scratch that needs to be itched.
I promised myself on the platform (back when spirits were high) that I was going to stay off Instagram, at least as long as I’m in New York, maybe forever. And if I ever did go back on, the first thing I’d do is block and unfollow Brent.
My finger hovers over the app and then my fragile spirit caves. I just won’t look at Brent’s profile. I’m looking for photos of dogs and babies and sunsets. Just to cheer me up. Yeah. That’s it.
Denial gets hard to maintain as a new photo from Brent doesn’t immediately pop up. Friends from college posting pictures of their new houses… Old coworkers getting married… Random acquaintances having children in their new houses shortly after getting married…
Is everything on this app just tailor-made to make me feel bad?
Before I can debase myself fully by surrendering to the urge and going onto Brent’s profile, suddenly there he is. A blond-haired muscular guy with a cleft chin and dreamy eyes.
My heart wrenches at the sight of him. His face brings all the horrible memories of the past month rushing up to the surface.
Because Brent isn’t alone in the photo. Cheryl is with him. He’s smiling exactly the same way he had when he asked for my hand. And Cheryl is wearing the same grin she’d flashed when I’d asked her to be my Maid of Honor.
Little did I know that her joy was because I’d given her an easy excuse to spend more quality time with the groom.
Sadness at their betrayal clouds through me, momentarily distracting me from my headache. Then I see the location tag and I’m right back to anger. San Juan, Puerto Rico. The location I picked. The hotel I booked.
What kind of assholes go on someone else’s honeymoon?
Oh yeah, the kind of assholes who hook up behind the back of their best friend/girlfriend for two years. The kind of assholes who make their affair known three weeks before the wedding. The kind of assholes who told me that I was “overreacting” when I stabbed his flat screen with one of his ski poles.
Yeah, that last one wasn’t my best moment, but betrayal apparently makes a girl do some pretty unhinged things. Sue me. I suddenly didn’t have a best friend to talk me out of insanity.
The ski pole affair was regrettable, but it was better than my other plan which was to set his truck on fire. At least there common sense had won in the end. Because my ultimate payback had to be sneakier, but more devastating. I had to hurt them back just as — if not more — badly.
Of course, after moping around my parents’ house (because yes, he kept the apartment) for a few weeks, no greater plan materialized. I had to come to accept that I had just gotten screwed over by the two people I thought I loved the most in the world, and that there was nothing I could do about it.
And now they’re in Puerto Rico sitting on a stupid beach together and I’m… I’m…
I’m not going to stand for this shit.
I get up and stash my phone away. I’m picking option three.
If this is the commoner’s car, then the fancy bar car from my dreams has to be somewhere in first class.
I walk through eight cars before reaching a door that a uniformed attendant is standing next to. He’s on his phone and not paying much attention. I hang back and study him.
Okay, my shirt is mostly dry at this point at least. I’m dressed nicely, blonde hair loose and curled, makeup on point. I’d thought I was on a train ride to luxury, after all. Maybe I look first class. Maybe he won’t say anything to me if I walk in confidently.
I straighten my shoulders and stride purposefully toward the door like I’m on a catwalk — something made a bit harder by the amount of kids playing in the aisle.
Is this train just solely old men and children?
Regardless, I get to the door relatively unscathed. I reach for the handle and have pulled the door halfway open before the attendant notices me.
“Wait a minute,” he says. “I need to see a first class ticket.”
Shit. “I…” I consider lying, realize that won’t get me far, and instead admit, “I don’t have one.”
The attendant doesn’t even blink. “Would you like to upgrade?” he asks.
My answer is immediate. “Yes. Yes I would.”
He takes out a device and plugs in my order. I dutifully hand him my credit card and hope to god that it’s not bank breaking. I’ve been saving a lot of money living at home, but I’m also still making payments on a goddamn wedding dress. (A dress that was, in fact, set on fire in my parents’ backyard after a night of too much Instagram and Jack Daniels. It seems I have some dormant pyro tendencies.)
