I Do. You Can’t. He Better.

The synagogue was filling up. After what felt like an eternity, the day had arrived. The planning that you ignored and the people who you knew but did not know each other were being ushered into the main sanctuary. Your brother, who you mistakenly asked to be your Best Man, opened the back door allowing you a peek to see how the beginning of the end of your life was about to take place.

“Executions,” you mumbled with your suddenly pale white skin, “are less painful.”

Your brother stared at your slumped posture, listening to your shallow breathing watching you wipe your forehead.

“Let’s get this train wreck moving.”

His look turned to curiosity as he walked you to the back of the sizeable room, gathering both families, to a bar stocked for the cocktail reception after the ceremony, poured two shots of whiskey, and asked what was going on.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her. She was glaring at you while her sister and parents were fawning over her. She threw down her makeup bag on the table next to them and headed your way in her Vera Wang wedding dress. She whispered in your ear. “I told you not to drink. No alcohol until the wedding is over. What don’t you get about that?”

After thirty-five years of waiting, this was HER day, but she was writhing in agony. You were ignoring her rules and ignoring her.

“Dear. Dear,” her father called, forcing her to return to them but confirming he knew who was boss.

You downed the shot before your brother could raise his glass, requesting another. While pouring he asked if you were sure you were ready to take such an enormous step.

“Look, just because pretty much everyone we have ever known is sitting out there does not mean you have to go through with this. Do you love her? Really, really love her. I mean, Kid, what did I just witness?”

You looked like you were about to have a heart attack. The sweat was dripping down your face onto your white tie. “Okay, so everyone we have ever known is out there. All dressed in tuxedos and gowns, waiting to wish me a wonderful life. They don’t know. They do not understand.”

He poured a third shot as she approached them again. You felt her hostility. She should have been the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. Your lives were seconds from tying together before God and man. The feeling should have been overwhelming, and you should have wanted to laugh… and cry.

You drank that shot as if you could have finished the bottle. She smiled at your brother and asked him to pour one for her, thinking she was being playful, not ruthless. Your brother pushed his untouched glass towards her as she whispered in your ear, “I cannot believe what an asshole you are. You must drink alcohol just to marry me. I am so angry. I hate you. Do not embarrass me again. Everybody is watching you.”

Your brother heard her and started humming Barry McGuire’s Eve of Destruction. He wanted to grab your father and tell him what he just witnessed but could not do it as he heard the orchestra outside. You drank her shot as your parents, her parents, and everybody else in the wedding party watched you.

“Just say it,” you silently reminded yourself. You knew you’d regret it if you didn’t. Say it. Tell her. Tell everyone what you said to your friends last night. Tell her what your friends had suspected the more they got to know her.

Your brother understood but was helpless. You were on your own for the first time. You had no lifelines.

“Say it. She has mental problems. And even if she doesn’t, you have never been more miserable in your life. She bullied you into this. So did your parents. She fooled them. Tell them that the second those doors open, your life as you know it will come crashing down. She has already taken control of your life. Sure, you’ll disappoint your parents, and her father will want to hit you and bill you for the dress, and the band, and the rabbi. But the end game. The end game! You are going home with the one person in the world you detest and worse, has no desire to be with you. How did you get here? Say it. Tell them.”

LIKE OLD TIMES

“So, what are you gonna do?” your cousin asked as he downed his second glass of Stoli trying to get the bartender’s attention.

You were breathing through clenched teeth as the bartender served another round. “Marry her. What am I going to do? You have a better idea?”

Your friend Vince stared at you. “Steven. You cannot do this. You cannot marry someone who hates you. She’s making you miserable.”

Finishing that drink with a certain amount of ease, the lights went on. It was eleven o’clock. Six of your friends stood by you on Saturday night after your out of towners dinner. The night was young and they wanted to take you out.

You walked outside as the valets began bringing cars to the guests.

All of you waved as you watched your fiancé’s father drive out of the Polo Club to their condo in Pompano as she sat in the back of his white Cadillac holding her hand in a motion you recognized all too well. “Call me later.”

With a broad smile, your friend Bob clapped. “Okay, she’s gone. Woo hoo. It’s eleven-thirty. Where are we going? When we get there, you can tell us what in God’s name you are doing this for. Two in the front, four in the back. It’s my rental. I’m driving.”

You took everyone to Nippers, one of the few after-hours’ bars in Boca. The time was approaching three-thirty, and you did not want to leave. You were happy. You were in your element. It was the first time you had laughed in what felt like weeks. Leaving meant going home. Alone. While it would be the first time you were by yourself since she took over your life a year ago, the clock would continue to tick. You had to be at the temple no later than two for pictures.

She gave you your marching orders two weeks in advance. “You are to walk into the room alone and you had better look surprised when the photographer tells you it’s time to see me. Do not walk in with anyone. Do not make jokes. And you better smile as if your life depends on it.”

You walked into your apartment at four o’clock, and the phone was ringing. “Don’t answer it. Just do not answer it. Nothing good will come of it.”

“Hello?”

“You Son of a Bastard!”

You turned and mouthed, “Son of a Bastard?”

You learned how she tended to display immature, childish tendencies, lack of empathy for others, sadistic streaks, a cruel immature sense of humor, and destructive tendencies to unwitting people.

You thought the sound of her voice was grating on most days, but now she was facing turmoil. She wanted to scream as she had done so many times before, but her parents and her niece were sleeping, forcing her to curb her enthusiasm for you.

“Where have you been? My father asked me at least half a dozen times to get you on the phone so we could all share a laugh before my big day. But no. You were out. I don’t understand you. What is your problem? I do not remember telling you to go out. I never permitted you to go out. I don’t care if your derelict friends were in from out of town. They could have gone out by themselves. You are an asshole. When I couldn’t reach you, my mother wanted to call 911. My father wanted to drive to your apartment and make sure you were all right. Everybody was worried about you, but what do you care? I need to be at my best tomorrow and now I’ve been up all night. You Bastard! You asshole. My day. I finally have a day and you had to ruin it because everything is always about you.”

You wanted to hang up. The whispering at the top of her lungs had to be giving her a sore throat. It was giving you a headache. You knew it was all bullshit. All lies. She was with her family and she would never interrupt a visit with them by calling you. Her father couldn’t care less about your whereabouts and she could not tolerate her mother, so who cares what she thinks? As for you spending the rest of your life with her, it’s no wonder after she slammed the phone down and thinking about all you had to drink, you walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grabbed a beer.

You opened it, chugged it, reached for the phone, and dialed the hotel where most of the guests were staying.

After asking for your little cousin, you belched and glanced at the clock. 4:45.

“Ugh. That’s gross. I just lied down. I think I’m drunk. It has to be you. What happened? Let me guess. She called. You wanna come over?”

“You have a minibar?”

“By the time you get here it’ll be five and I have an 8:30 tee-off with your friends.”

“Yeah, that’s perfect. I’ve seen them play. If your hammered and sleep-deprived, it puts you at an advantage.”

“Okay. See you in a few.”

You were more awake than most people who have had as much to drink as you, but when you knocked on the door, you had a bag of bagels. That was the first time I think in history that breakfast was bagels, cream cheese, and whiskey.

You spoke in-depth for the next two hours and how funny was it when we walked into the lobby and your friend Bob chuckled. “Holy shit. How drunk are you?”

You looked at him, handed him the remaining bagels, cream cheese, and bottles from the minibar, asking him what he would like.

Bob inspected the brown paper bag with the word Einstein’s on the outside, laughing as he pulled out the mini whiskey bottles. “Cool. Breakfast on the course. Wait, hang on. He opened a beer, chugged it, and quipped, “Snap, crackle, and burp. The breakfast of champions. We gotta stop and make a real beer run before we get to the course.”

WALKING HAND-IN-HAND WITH THE DEVIL

The sun was setting, and the hangover took on a fresh life after drinking those four shots. You spoke with your cousin and came up with a plan. It was now or never. “It’ll take time, but they’ll get over it. Besides, you are not at your best when you are with her. She treats you like crap. In fact, she treats most people like crap. Say it. Say it. Why did you even show up? Because you always do what you’re told.”

With a cheesy smile, the caterer, a short man named Harvey, in a tuxedo looking like he had done this a thousand times, tapped you on the shoulder. “You wanna take the bottle with you as you walk down the aisle? It would not be the first time. You ready?”

You saw the line of people in the wedding party as the doors were getting ready to open.

“Steve. Deep breath. You’ll be fine. Okay. If there’s nothing else. The music has begun. Let’s have a wedding.”

You were watching it play out in slow motion. “Say it. Say it. Mom. Dad. I can’t do it. It’s over. Let’s have the party but just dedicate it to something else. Hey, your anniversary was last week. It was last week. Say it. Say it.”

You were in quicksand. This is not how you envisioned your wedding day. “I’m supposed to love her. This is a shotgun wedding except she’s not pregnant. Pregnant? How could she be? The second I gave her the ring, that ended.”

“Flower girls. Where are my flower girls?”

“Okay ladies, like this,” Harvey said as he motioned to the seven-year-old girls the proper tossing of the flowers from their wicker baskets.

“Next, I need…”

Your mind went blank. Your execution would have been easier. You looked like you would rather have been anywhere else.

She and her father walked towards you. He smiled as she turned and said, “It’s a magical day,” before whispering in your ear, “You smell like a brewery. I told you not to drink. No alcohol. None. But you couldn’t allow me my one day. I ask for nothing all year, and you had to destroy this for me. I hate you.”

She had a smile on her face the size of the Atlantic Ocean while grabbing her father’s arm and revealing strategically enough for everyone to hear, “I love him so much.”

“Say it!” you thought. “Say it now. Say it. She knows you won’t. All she needs is for you to make it down that aisle. Say it.”

“Okay, the Best Man and the groom. You guys ready?”

“No! Say it! Tell him. You can still do this. Tell him. Save me. Somebody. Anybody!”

You saw the smirk on her face. She was aware she had won.

Walking down the narrow aisle with your brother rubbing against your shoulders, you glanced at your friends, knowing in the back of your mind, once the Rabbi concluded and you stepped on the glass, you may never see them again.

“How is he doing it?” you heard Bob ask. “He’s gotta have a hangover that would kill a horse.”

“Just another Saturday,” your friend Scott said.

Your brother studied you as you reached the chuppah. He shook his head, thinking about the amount of alcohol in your system, and mumbled, “You had your chance.”

You took deep breaths. “It’s over, right?”

She was not letting you go. Even if you said something, she would have put the kibosh on it. You can’t say no, you never could, and this might just cost you everything.

“I think it just did.”