broken yolk

7/31/2019 Broken Yolk

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Part 1

That day she'd had a tuna melt for lunch. Even afterwards, the throbbing cut on her finger had

served as a cruel reminder of it. The story went like this: she had forgotten to cut the bread before

she'd shoved it in the toaster oven to toast, and afterwards the bread had been too tough. That was

how she'd come to slice a good one on her finger. And as she sucked on it, flipping open the

cabinet doors in an attempt to find a first aid kit or at least some band-aids, that was when she'd

found the note on the table.

Went out for a walk. Don't worry--I'll be back soon.

To be fair to him, he hadn't taken one of this "walks" in, well, a while. In a few weeks, actually. It

was pathetic to count but she did it anyway. Up until today, she had been all too relieved to tally

up the growing number of walk-less days he'd had. Every time a day went by without Gregory

disappearing and leaving only a minimal note as proof of his existence, she had been all too

happy to tally it up in her mental scoreboard, but at the same time, that relief and happiness had

always been coupled with worry and doubt. She was a practical woman. Happy mental

scoreboard or not, she knew what was going on. It was too clear of a fact, glaring her right in the

face, too brutal not to notice.

That morning, after finding a pack of band-aids in the drawer she kept the matches and incense,

she erased the numbers on her scoreboard and hesitantly started over. Zero. A big fat goose egg.

She kept all of this in mind as she ate her lunch. It tasted more bitter than usual, and the lettuce

had become soggy, but she had the newspaper laid out in front of her, reading up on the latest

headlines. This was what she did every day to keep herself from sinking into some miserable

hole. The world was in such a sad state. It was easier to feel a detached sort of hurt for something

else than to confront the personal turmoil going on inside her.

- - -

"I don't get it," she heard the woman from across from her say. Her eyes were red and puffy, and

her hair was a frizzy mess. Across from her, there was another woman with thoughtful and

remorseful eyes consoling her. A friend, probably. "I don't get it. What makes a man do that? I


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love him with every bit of my being and-and what does he do? Sally Benning!"

"He's scum," her friend--a redhead with an overbite--says, shaking her head. The sad woman

blew into a napkin

Breanna, meanwhile, found herself attentively watching them, her newspaper absolutely

forgotten. She tried to figure out if this was really happening or whether she had stepped into

some sort of sick hallucination.

The redhead noticed Breanna's gawking and glared at her. Breanna stiffened and quickly went

back to her paper, but having found that she'd lost her appetite for her bitter tuna melt. Instead she

kept thinking of goose eggs. She listened on to their conversation but pretended to read her paper.

"What am I going to do?" the woman asked.

"You're going to be strong," her friend told her, patting her hand. "You're not going to let him see

you phased, okay? You're going to kick him out and you're just going to sleep around until you're

okay."

She compared their situations. They had startling similarities--except for a few things. For one,

Gregory was definitely not messing around. He was just hopelessly in love with someone else. As

far as she knew, there was no sex involved whatsoever. Just emotions.

But that was just it, wasn't it? Which was worse: Having someone sleep around with, say, Sally

Benning, who might be attractive and thin, or having someone absolutely and completely in love

with someone else that they sunk into temporary lapses of depression? Which was worse: having

absolutely no self-control sexually or having absolutely no self-control in loving someone else?


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This was a question she had been mulling over ever since all of this had started.

The sad fact was that she knew exactly which was worse. The sad fact was that she could have

easily walked over to the crying woman with the cheating boyfriend and have patted her back

while telling her that things could be worse, he could be madly in love with this Sally Benning.

"And," she could have also said, "you could be me. Silent and helpless."

- - -

She could pinpoint the moment this had all happened. The trigger for his early morning (and

sometimes late evening) walks, the subtle moping he did around their apartment, the way he

cringed when he heard her voice on the answering machine whenever she called to make plans.

It happened two weeks ago, on a Thursday, at Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew's anniversary dinner. "It's a

cheerful gathering celebrating love. And whatever you do, don't drink the punch; George is home

for the week."

Everybody had brought someone, including Morgan, who brought Thierry Leyton. She

remembered the exact moment she'd seen them enter the overcrowded room, with her skinny little

arm latched through his. He stood too primly straight, regarding the room with a sort of muted

scowl on his face. And Morgan had looked flushed and pink and happy. Maybe a little too happy.

That should have told her something about that night. The way Morgan was bright and glowing

and could never stop smiling. She was like a light bulb with legs. She never let go of his arm,

either. Everywhere she went, he went. Like a ball and chain. Or a balloon wrapped around a little

kid's wrist.

When Morgan had finally gotten around to them after exchanging social niceties with everyone

else, Breanna kept her gaze ahead of her. She knew that looking at Gregory's face would have

been unbearable, in a way, just because the moment she had found out about his little secret it

was hard to not read him. She read him too well now and that was the problem. It was a problem.

A big one. It was like finding out your purpose in life but to a much smaller spectrum. Once she


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had found out, she knew the answer to everything, even when she didn't want to.

"Breanna! Gregory!" she crowed. That was Morgan. She crowed. "How are you two?"

Both she and Gregory had mixed responses. She said they were doing good, and Gregory opted

for the word "great."

"How about you?" Breanna asked. She glanced at Thierry, who was looking at her with a strange

expression. She couldn't blame him. It just wasn't his scene. She could tell him exactly what scene

he belonged in--the kind with crystal chandeliers and seven course meals with diamonds

encrusted in the silverware--and that it was a far, far cry from the scene he was in now.

"How are you doing?" she asked, transferring her glance to Morgan.

"Oh! Just fantastic!" she giggled. "You'll see!" she whispered.

Breanna looked at Thierry, whose slight frown had disappeared from his stoic face. She wanted to

tell him he looked like a fish out of water, a rich boy out of his castle, but the fact was that she

hadn't talked to him since school had let out, not even when Morgan had surprised them all one

day by announcing that she was now the girlfriend of Thierry Leyton, the most hated human

being of all time. She feigned slight happiness, but really couldn't feel any more than the pretense,

because, in reality, nothing had changed.

She wasn't the only one who felt this way. Gregory and Raymond had seven grueling months of

trying to practice looking at him without contempt and hate. It wasn't easy, but with Morgan's

pleading and with the whole seeing her so happy with him jig, Raymond was easier to sway with

her lightbulb-ness than Gregory was. Gregory was... in short: in pain. He hated Thierry for all the


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wrong and right reasons. The right reasons were that Thierry was a bona fide asshole, he was

racist, and he was just a very hateable human being. The wrong reasons were that he hated him

because he was with the woman he loved. He had finally gotten what Gregory couldn't, and he

hated him more than enough just for that.

It shouldn't have been a surprise to her--because in a way, she had seen it coming. Or, at least, she

should have seen it coming. There had been something clearly wrong with the picture the moment

Morgan and Leyton had entered the scene, and later on, after everything had happened, she

wondered why she couldn't have at least smelled it: the smell of catastrophe wrecking havoc on

her life; the odor of fire and burning and rubble and ruins. If the realization had been too vague,

too large and monumental for her to possibly comprehend, she should have at least felt it in her

heart. Her heart should have been heavy with it, waiting to burst out in horrific fireworks and

quakes.

When Morgan had gigglingly whispered "You'll see!" to Breanna, she had meant it. Breanna did

see. And hear, actually. And so did the fifty-some guests that night. Morgan had stood up with

her bright and lovely face and her voice had been so crystal clear that everyone heard it within a

good fifty foot radius without missing a beat. That was when, in front of everybody she knew and

loved, she made the announcement.

"Thierry and I," she said, before taking a large gulp of air, "are getting married!"

And that was when she revealed the diamond ring she had been hiding all this time, tucking it in

when she had wrung her arm around his for the entirety of the party.

To be fair, she wasn't the only one who knew how to take this very recent bit of shocking news.

Raymond had gone so white he was almost purple, and Percy seemed to be the only one who

clapped afterwards, along with a flabbergasted Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew. Charlie was trying to get

Raymond to breathe again. Breanna had been too afraid to look at Gregory but did so anyway--


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maybe out of morbid curiosity or just to prepare herself for what was to possibly come

afterwards--and saw everything she would never want to see. The look of utter devastation on his

face--then how it flickered to hurt, then complete agony--was definitely something she should

have readied herself for. Later on, however, she realized that she could've prepped herself for it,

but it would've proven useless. No matter what you did, no matter what thoughts you thought or

what deity you prayed for mercy from, nothing could prepare you from looking at the face of the

person you loved after hearing that the person they loved was getting married.

During the scattered applause after the confusion had died out, people running up to Morgan to

congratulate her while Leyton stood in the back, in a cool and unfazed way, Gregory turned

around and brushed right past her, weaving through the crowd. He was headed for the exit. "I'm

going for a walk," he'd muttered lowly to her as he passed her.

"What's Swedish for getting married?" George asked her, while his blond date blinked in

bewilderment at all of the fuss around them.

"Honestly," Charlie said, "what Swedish do you actually know?"

A few minutes later, after having to make her way through the crowd (which was buzzing with

the news), she found herself in the backyard. She couldn't help but let out a large exhale of air

once the cool night air hit her skin. She wasn't being dramatic. It was just that it was going to be

much harder to pretend she didn't know what she did, and that it didn't hurt her the least bit.

So she dug into her purse and came up with a pack of cigarettes. She lit one up and felt no guilt

about it. After inhaling and exhaling, she stared at the glowing, orange butt. She flicked it with

her fingers, tapping it against the wooden rails, and watched the tiny embers as they flew out into

the night, glowing before fizzing out, invisible, dead.


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Nobody knew about her habit. Not even Gregory had a single damn clue. Usually she only

smoked when he went out for one of his long walks, so she was safe. He had his secret, and she

had hers. Seemed like a fair trade, right?

Not really.

She thought about Morgan getting married. The basic idea--without any of the sordid specifics,

like the groom or the dress or the details or the holy matrimony. Then she filled in the blanks.

Leyton.

She was getting married to Leyton. It didn't add up. It just didn't. She wondered if it even added

up to Morgan. Maybe it didn't, but she was too drunk with the nectar of love or whatever the hell

it was they called it, and she was doing this under impaired judgment. And

Leyton? Seriously? Marrying into the Pettigrew family? Had fate or God or whoever it was in

charge of the free world taken a vacation and left them in the hands of a crazy, irresponsible

babysitter?

"Ward went that way."

She turned around, startled and nearly tucking her cigarette behind her back as a reflex, but as she

squinted in the darkness and saw exactly who it was disrupting her thoughts, she relaxed. Or

relaxed wasn't the word, exactly, but she sure as hell didn't care about hiding her only visible vice

in front of him.


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She took another big puff. She thought about ignoring him. She thought about sticking her hot

cigarette butt right on the sensitive skin of his neck. She also thought about asking him just what

the hell he thought he was doing, marrying her best friend's sister--and, most especially, being

here, like this.

"Congratulations," she said stiffly, not really meaning it. She couldn't think of anything else to

say, besides "I wish you'd burn in Hell, right where you're standing."

"Thanks." He seemed like he didn't really mean this, either. He stood beside her with his hands in

his pockets.

"You've come a long way."

She thought she heard a smirk in his voice. "Not really."

What she did then couldn't have ever rested as something bad on her conscience. She threw her

cigarette down on his shoe, furiously hoping that it would burn through the leather before he had

a chance to kick it away. That was the thing with men like Thierry Leyton. They never changed

but always seemed to attract people who held a hope very close to their heart that they did. She

called it having a little too much faith in mankind that it turned into a dangerous and mad

delusion. Morgan had it. The first time Morgan had announced it and Leyton hadn't been around,

she kept saying he'd changed, like a Buddhist mantra. Oh, but he's changed. He's changed so

much. He's so different now.

When she'd come back inside, the sticky heat of the living room plastering itself back onto her

skin, a lanky arm shot out of the crowd and dragged her to a corner. It was there that an angry red

face was waiting for her.


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thumbs-up and a weak hearted "Good job."

"Anyway," she said, brushing her silky strawberry hair behind her shoulder, "I have something

really important to talk to you about. That's why I've been calling."

Turned out, she wanted Breanna to plan her wedding--or, at least, help out with planning the

wedding--because Morgan's interior designing firm had just landed a huge account and needed

her working almost 24-7, which meant her not being able to handle most of the wedding things

personally.

"That's why, Breanna," she said, "I choose you. I trust you. You're organized, and you're smart,

and very strong willed. Of course, I'll be paying you. It's just... I know what you're thinking, but I

want to get married this year, and yeah, I could just pass on the account to someone else but I

just can't, you know? These are just two things that I want to happen, really badly." Then she

smiled. A real beatific smile. "I guess when it rains, it pours, right?"

She talked on about the details, the semantics, and whatever tasks she would have to do, but all

she could think about was, Why her? Obviously Morgan had already provided the answer to her

pulsating question, but she could think of plenty of Morgan's friends that would happily do it for

her.

She thought about what it would do to Gregory. But once she thought that, she wished she hadn't

thought it at all.

"So how about it?" She asked this in a large exhale of air. Obviously Morgan had come expecting

a yes, seeing as how she'd brought a bottle of some very expensive champagne. And to think of it,

Breanna really didn't have any reason to say no besides, of course, Gregory's agony about

Morgan's upcoming nuptials. But as she thought about it some more--it couldn't hurt, spending


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time away from here. Away from Gregory's silent yet very blatant sulking. Away from the secret

that always ate away at the shell of her throat. Why not? It would be a good distraction. She

would hate it, but maybe it was what she needed.

It would hurt, she thought to herself, but it couldn't hurt as much as it did being here.

"Sure," Breanna sighed, forcing a smile. "Why not?"

Morgan, squealing with joy, popped open the champagne, and Gregory walked through the door

as the cork shot across the room. He looked into the kitchen, at the woman he was supposed to

love and the woman he actually did love. Breanna gulped down a stone that wasn't supposed to be

there. She weakly smiled at him, but his eyes were on Morgan, who was giggling, her hair soaked

with alcohol.

"Gregory!" she said. "You've got a good woman, you know that? She just agreed to plan my

wedding. Never let her go, do you hear me? Never."

- - -

So the wedding was being planned. In bits and pieces, and certainly very slowly, but being

planned it was. It was a very good distraction, but she couldn't deny that there were times when it

hurt her. Like the time Morgan had asked her to come along to the wedding dress fitting and,

under wedding planner obligation and also under the obligation as one of her woman friends, she

went along. Sitting there in the waiting room, staring at the platform where Morgan would stand

to show off her white dress, with the tall mirrors surrounding it so that she could inspect herself

from each and every angle. There were mirrors everywhere. She remembered the saying that

bride-to-be's were one of the most beautiful things in the world, next to pregnant women.

Something about the glow of life and exhilaration radiating from their skin. Frankly, it sounded a

lot like bullshit to her, but it was a common phrase, so her argument was hers and only hers.


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Also, she'd had a pregnant coworker once, and another one of their friends had happened to

mention that she looked beautiful pregnant. To his face she said "Thanks," but after he had left,

she had turned right around and said, "Beautiful? I don't feel beautiful. He should try gaining

twenty pounds and then try telling me if that feels beautiful."

As she waited, there were several women trying on their own dresses. Poofy ones with

monumental trains, ones with lace, ones with rhinestones. They went up to the folding mirrors

and looked at themselves. Strange as it was to say, Breanna had never seen women so in love

with themselves as when they were wearing wedding dresses. They drooled all over themselves,

ran their hands over the fabric, traced their silhouettes, and stared at their reflections. It was

ridiculous, really.

When Morgan came out, people stared. It was silly to say, but it was true. Other wedding dress

advisers came by to gawk and compliment her, and Morgan turned in the mirror, beaming, with

her reflection beaming right back at her. Breanna shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"What do you think?" Morgan asked her. Her eyes were glazed over. She could have told her it

looked horrible and it wouldn't have mattered.

"It looks great," she said, nodding. "Beautiful. They'll cry their hearts out."

"Do you think Thierry will like it?"

"Men," Breanna said, "don't care about wedding dresses. If they did, they would be the ones to

pick it out. If churches didn't frown on nude weddings, you could guess where we'd all be by

now."


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"Don't be silly, Breanna," she told her. "What about you? How do you picture your dream

wedding dress?" She twirled.

She blinked. "I don't know," she answered. "It'd be Well, for starters, a dress."

"Oh, come on! Specifics, Breanna. Don't tell me you haven't thought of them? Mermaid, princess,

traditional, halter, sweetheart?"

She wanted to tell Morgan that she didn't have specifics. Maybe she'd had them, once upon a

time, during a time when the fruits of youth had been ripe for picking and she still believed that

Barbie and Ken were the perfect couple--but for the moment the specifics were lost on her. They

were out there. Somewhere. Floating around where the good parts of her relationship had

disappeared off to, along with missing socks and pens. For the moment, she wanted to tell her, I

am too busy trying not to worry about my relationship to wonder whether I want a sweetheart

dress or even the option of a traditional veil. She didn't want to inflict further pain on herself by

entertaining thoughts of her own wedding, which now seemed a million years away.

The present was more of a problem than her future wedding dress.

"I honestly don't have a clue, Morgan."

She frowned. "Oh. Well. You'll know, Breanna. You'll know it when the time comes. The perfect

dress is out there waiting for you."

And then she told her that was great. That was exactly what she wanted.

- - -


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"You're late."

She was, but she hadn't expected anyone to care, most especially him--especially since they were

just going to pick the wedding china, one of those most menial duties of being her wedding

planner. She was surprised he even showed up, much less the fact that he had been waiting for

her, with a glass of bourbon in his hand. The strange thing about Leyton was that she always saw

him with some alcoholic beverage in his hand and yet was never drunk.

She was honestly a little startled. "I wasn't expecting--"

"What?" he drawled, jingling the ice in his glass. "That I wouldn't care about picking out the

china for my own wedding?"

"Well." She thought about it for a second. "Yeah."

"I couldn't just let you pick out everything, could I?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because that's what everyone looks at during a wedding--the plates."

He stood up. "You, obviously," he said, stuffily, "have never been to a Leyton wedding."

Breanna had never picked plates before, nor had she been surrounded by so many plates. It

reminded her of when she was little and she would wander into the more fragile section of

department stores and her mom would tightly grab her by the hand and tell her to be careful. This

stayed with her even after her childhood clumsiness faded. This fear to touch delicate things in

case they would break, or the fact that she could possibly misconceive them to be less fragile than


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they actually were.

"What do you think about these?" He was pointing to a set. Classy, but simple. It had a simple

leaf border around the edges.

"I think they're plates," she said dryly. Not that she meant to be a pain, but picking plates would

have probably taken ten minutes, tops, for her, which included the picking and the ordering. She

would have picked the first decent ones she'd found.

"Details, Madison," he said to her. "Don't think that just because it's a minor detail it shouldn't

matter."

She took a look around them. They were the only two people here, besides the old lady dozing

behind the counter. They were surrounded by glass display cases, lit up to show every detail of

the plates behind them.

She took a look at the price tag. "Jesus Christ! Is that just for a regular set?"

He nodded. "It's good, but not great. Let's look at their vintage plates."

As he inspected the plates with a seriousness that she honestly found ridiculous, she thought

about asking him exactly why he was doing this--picking plates--and why it mattered. And also,

the bigger picture: Why he was marrying Morgan? As far as she could tell, he didn't treat her any

more special than he did anyone else. Every time she saw them together he wasn't any different.

And wasn't love, more than anything else, supposed to change someone?

- - -


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"You know," she remembered Lymm telling her, after she and Raymond had just fought. He'd

pleaded for Breanna to head over to Lynn's apartment to see if she could mediate between the

two. "You know that love really isn't what they say it is, right? In the books? In the fairytales?

Nobody comes and rescues you from your tower. Nobody fights off a big bad witch or even slays

a dragon. The problem is that everyone does what they can to make a show of it, to make love

extravagant, like it's a show that everyone has to watch. Why can't love be hidden? A secret?

Since when did love have to be shouted from every corner of the room? And if they can't see

love, why do they have to doubt it, assume it isn't there?

"It's because people have over heightened expectations. And it's not their fault, either. It's

nobody's fault. It's just that sometimes, it gets to be a little too much. That's not what love is

about. It's not about declarations and making sure everyone knows what's yours."

"Then what," asked Breanna, "is it about?"

"I don't know. That's the truth, too. I have no clue what love is about, but all I know is that it's not

about that. And sometimes that's all you need, you know? Nobody has a clear definition of what

life is, and yet here we are, living. You just have to know what it isn't about. The rest is okay not

being known."

- - -

Thierry cleared his throat. When he caught her attention, he had one of his eyebrows arched.

"I'm sorry," he said dryly. "Am I boring you?"

She sighed. "They're plates," she snapped. "I'm a good planner, Leyton, but plates are the least of

my problems."


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"Yes, from the looks of it, your hair still remains a crime against humanity," he mused. "Take a

look at these." He pointed towards a set in the glass. "Vintage. Toughened porcelain, but still

smooth."

She looked, albeit begrudgingly. She didn't know what the plate standards were, but she thought

they were okay.

"It's your china," she told him, stepping back, a little miffed. "I guess I was just here for

supervision." She looked at her watch. It took her an extra thirty minutes, too.

Leyton headed over to the counter to make the order. She heard indistinct conversation behind

her, and she continued to look at his selection. He went through a lot of trouble for plates.

"I don't get it," she said to him, later on. She didn't want to get too comfortable with him--

obviously that was her last wish--but she was bewildered by his rapt attention to detail. In other

words: plates. "What's with the plates?"

They were out of the plate store now, and he'd given her the order receipt. She'd folded it up and

placed it in her pocket, in a sorely civilized manner.

"I don't know if you've heard," he said to her in his usual arrogant tone, "but wedding china is

fairly important in some cultures."

"Yeah, but what's it to you whether they're vintage or not?"

That was when he looked at her, and she couldn't exactly decipher his expression. His brow was


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furrowed but there was little else distinct about it. He had his hands in his pockets again.

"I don't expect you to understand."

"Fine." So she won't understand. Not like her life would stop just because she didn't understand

why plates were such a big deal to him.

They walked along in silence, passing a few people, all bundled up in warm clothing. It was a

damp morning. And as they walked it suddenly occurred to her that walking with him was

unnecessary. Their destinations were, probably, in completely different directions.

"My parents had plates," he suddenly said, just as she had made up her mind to leave. "But they

were all ruined."

She gave a slight nod. So it was all for sentimentality. And here she'd thought, all this time, that

he didn't even know the definition of the word, let alone the word itself. "Oh."

Then it felt weird. Walking along, with his history brought up. The sentimentality had changed

the way the air felt, a little. It made it a little denser.

And that was the best cue she could take to head separate ways before things got any weirder.

Part 2

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?"


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There was an angry red face in front of her. Again.

"You're planning her wedding? Planning? I thought we were all against this! We were going to

boycott this, remember?"

Raymond still wasn't too happy about his sister's engagement. Gregory was in the living room,

watching the news, trying to ignore the shouting going on in the kitchen.

"I couldn't say no," she told him.

"Couldn't say no?" he stammered. "COULDN'T SAY NO?"

This got her a little annoyed. "Look, I'm not too thrilled with it either."

"Then why, Breanna," he said, groaning, thumping his forehead against the table, "are you

helping along Satan's hand in the destruction of my family?"

"Raymond, maybe they won't get married after all, you know? Maybe they'll cancel. Maybe,"

Breanna said, glimpsing towards the living room, "at the last minute, they'll cancel."

"There's no chance," Raymond said, shaking his head. "When Morgan's got her mind made up

about something, it's already good as done."


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"Then maybe Leyton will decide to break off the engagement."

He froze. Then his eyes narrowed at her. "What are you saying? Are you saying Morgan's not

good enough? Because she is so much better than that twittering blonde idiot! She's just gone way

below her level--"

"No, no. That's not what I meant. At all."

Sighing, she sat down in front of him. He looked at her, pleading and desperate, before burying

his head in his hands and groaning.

"This hurts me, too, you know," she whispered.

"Oh yeah?" Raymond said. "How?"

For a very brief second she thought about telling him. Raymond, Gregory is madly in love with

your sister. And then he would say, But what? I thought he was in love with you! And then she

would pathetically answer, No. No, he's not. He'd ask how she knew. That's what he would do

next. And then she would start listing all of the evidence on her fingers, trying not to cringe the

whole time. That's what would happen if she told him.

"I don't know," she said instead. "But it just does."

Then they lapsed into silence. One of those silences where she knew for a fact that both of their

heads were getting overrun with thoughts. They both fell into each of their own fears and worries,

trying to mentally untangle things. What Breanna wanted to tell him was that, sometimes, things


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weren't as simple as untangling things. Sometimes the chords and ties were wrapped around

together. Sometimes it was a matter of cutting one tie--sacrificing one tie--to get the rest free.

And it was just a matter of choosing the right one, choosing the right wire, to snip. It was a

ticking time bomb. Red or blue, red or blue.

Then he finally spoke.

"You know, life is funny sometimes," he said to her. "Really tests your temper. And then it's

funny, because once you decide you're done with life's tests, and a clear form of suicide is on the

way, that's when you realize that that's just another test from life, too. Everything's a test,

Breanna. Have you ever thought of that? This," he said, sadly, "is just another test."

"That isn't funny."

"Yeah. I know. It's just sad." He rested his face in his arms. "But sometimes, you know, just

because nobody's laughing doesn't mean that it isn't funny." And then he gave a weak laugh

meant for absolutely no one and nothing.

- - -

Morgan hadn't told her that Leyton was going to be involved in a lot of the wedding planning

until he already was.

"I don't know why you're so surprised," one of her friends, Elena, had told her at work. So far she

had been the only one she could confide in with this whole wedding planner business. "He's the

groom, isn't he?" Then she stopped chewing, staring at the speared lettuce on her fork. "Oh wait.

That is weird."

And weird it most definitely was. He was involved. Not fanatically involved, but involved


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nonetheless. Last week, he had surprised her by showing up at the catering place. And he'd also

ordered the entire menu, with exception of the few Breanna had managed to get in--Morgan's

preferences. For example, herb chicken. Morgan had been fairly adamant about the herb chicken,

but Leyton wasn't too thrilled with it.

"Herb chicken," he frigidly told her, "is dry. It doesn't fit with anything else in the menu."

That was when she pointed out that the reason it didn't fit with anything else in the menu was

because he had chosen the entire menu.

"Well, what do you think about him?" Elena asked her. "From what you told me--"

"He's horrible. In a nutshell." Because she really could go on and on about this. "Nobody likes

him. Or trusts him, as a matter of fact. We think better of the scum between our toes than we

think of him." She shook her head. "Nobody likes him," she repeated.

"Except Morgan."

"Except Morgan. And therein lies the problem."

Elena thoughtfully nibbled at her cherry tomato. "That's tough. Real tough. But, I mean, do you

think they're going to last?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head. "Absolutely not."


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But the truth was, she actually didn't know. If she had to guess, to really guess, she would say

what she'd just said. No. Of course they wouldn't. Because Leyton was Leyton, and no matter

how much the Pettigrews loved Morgan and how much they had put up with him during their

relationship, there was no way they were actually going to let her get married to him. In fact,

there should've been an intervention in the works right about now.

"Maybe she really loves him." To be fair, this was an optimistic, let's-have-faith-in-mankind

thought. But it just happened to be completely irrelevant.

That wasn't the point, she then told her. It really wasn't. Leyton was the reason this entire

equation wasn't working. If Morgan had been marrying, say, a stranger, things wouldn't be this

bad. Sure, Gregory would still be head over heels in love with her, but at least he didn't have to

lose her to Leyton.

Elena snorted. "You," she said, pointing her baby carrot at her, "need to get yourself out of this

hole you've dug yourself into. Listen to me. Are you listening to me? Get. Out. Now. Before

things get worse."

Because they will. She didn't say it, but she didn't have to. The thing with having a series of

unfortunate events happen to you is that, sometimes, there is no end in sight. Sometimes things

get better. Sometimes things get worse. But usually, things get a lot worse right before they get

any better, and in the meantime, you are just absolutely fucked.

- - -

She had walked in right while the maid of honor was making her speech. The maid of honor, a

perky brunette, was dressed in frilly peach chiffon and had vivid make up that even Breanna,

standing all the way to the back, could distinctly make out.

Then the crying came.


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Breanna stood beside a large vase of lilacs, trying not to be noticed. Not that she wasn't supposed

to be here--she'd requested to see the hall and they said it was perfectly okay she dropped by at

this time just as long as she didn't freeload off of the food--just that she felt a little uncomfortable

walking in on somebody's wedding reception. So she tried to hide behind the vase, all the while

cringing as the maid of honor's sobs filled the room, amplified.

She had gone to her fair share of weddings. At her job it seemed like somebody was getting

married every few months; they were crazy about weddings and showers. And one thing she

always seemed to notice about the receptions was that the seating was almost always terrible

(once they had sat her by the bride's drunk uncle, who had then kept trying to grab her knee under

the table) and that the maid of honor's speech was indistinguishable. Too much crying.

Completely undecipherable.

There was polite scattered applause after the maid of honor's speech, who was now giving the

slightly embarrassed bride a soggy hug. Breanna couldn't help but smile a little.

Just then, a man in a black suit obstructed her view. She budged a little against the wall, turning

her head, nearly tipping the vase over--before she realized just who the man was.

"Leyton?" she whispered.

He turned around, seeking out the voice for a quick second before his cool gray eyes rested onher. "I thought that was you. But then I didn't think you'd be so ridiculous, hiding behind a vase."

She stepped out, glaring at him. Frankly, she was getting a little tired of him showing up at all of

her wedding planner-esque activities. Couldn't she get some peace around here? "Don't you


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work?" she demanded.

"As a matter of fact," he said, regarding her frigidly, "I do. I just happen to be able to choose my

hours."

"So get a hobby!"

"Maybe weddings are my hobby."

This was absolutely ridiculous. "Then why'd your fianc hire me in the first place? Why don't you

just plan your own damn wedding?"

He gave her a blank look. Just then, he reached out towards her, and she flinched, stepping back,

startled. "Relax," he drawled. "There's a leaf in your hair." He showed it to her. It was a leaf from

the lilac vase. "Or maybe I should have just left it there, so you could walk around looking like an

idiot all day," he mused. "Really, Breanna. It amuses me that you always seem so surprised to see

me so involved in my upcoming nuptials."

"Surprised wouldn't be the word," she muttered to herself. "It isn't normal," she spoke up.

"Grooms usually don't give a shit about weddings. And seeing how as you clearly don't give a shit

about anything--"

"Now that's not true," he interjected. "Contrary to popular belief, I do have a few beloved things

in this world."

"Oh?"


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"For example, I take great care of my hair. Don't tell me you haven't noticed?"

"Jesus Christ, Leyton." He clearly was not even attempting to take this seriously. "Why are you

even getting married?"

She thought about Morgan's and Leyton's different maturity levels. For example, Leyton had the

mature level of a thirteen-year-old. It was completely mismatched. She told him all of this, too, in

an attempt to make him see some sense before he went and sabotaged her friend's life.

"Do me a favor," he told her, "and warn me before you go off on your awfully long spiels that

don't ever let me get a word in. I'd like to walk away before you do that again."

She didn't get it. No matter how many times she mulled it over in her head, or tried on Morgan's

tiny little shoes and looked at it from her view she just didn't get it. Leyton from any view was

still Leyton. Repulsive. Arrogant. Insufferable. Even with the insults deeply muted between them(and this was all for the sake of Morgan), and the fact that she had opted to ignore his presence

altogether instead of give into her childhood grudge, there was still tension. Not that she expected

that to ever go away. With the way things were going, if Morgan were to actually go through with

marrying him, Breanna had already made peace with the idea of seeing her sparingly.

"If you hate me so much, Breanna," he said, lowly, and she stiffened, "then why don't you tell

Morgan not to marry me? I'm sure Ward and Pettigrew weren't too thrilled to hear the news,either. You wouldn't be alone, if that's what you're afraid of."

"She loves you. I don't know why, but that fact remains unchanged. Who am I to tell her who she

can't marry?" She should already know, she thought to herself, seething. She shouldn't be so


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quick to forget, like the rest of us.

He smirked triumphantly. "That she does." He looked around. A couple passed by, giving them

strange looks. "Still, it shocks me you haven't even tried."

"Why? Are you just doing this to piss us off, Leyton? Because if you are," she said, hissing at just

the thought, "that's a new low, even for you."

He leaned in, his breath grazing her face. "I," he whispered tauntingly, "am pure of intention.

Maybe you hate it, maybe you refuse to see it, but I am going to marry her."

- - -

That night she couldn't help but think about the unlovable people out there who were being loved

and all of the perfectly lovable people who weren't being loved, and thinking about that, she

couldn't help but feel a sense of cruel injustice and frustration. Not only because it hit close to

home (in this equation, she would be one of those perfectly lovable people who weren't being

loved), but because she was seeing it play out right before her eyes (Leyton was completely

unlovable, yet there he was, choosing his damn vintage plates and planning his wedding). That

was when she came upon her choices, like she did, every night, and every time she came home to

find a note on her table vouching for a missing Gregory.

She could get out of this. She could break things off and that way she wouldn't have to be caught

in a dead-end like this--because, after all, it was a dead-end. A few months ago she had a little

torch of hope for the day that Gregory would wake up and be free from wanton feelings for

Morgan and be able to love her, only her--but now, no matter how she tried to revive the embers,

that little flame was gone. It was cold and gone and just completely, absolutely dead.

Which brought her back to this: she could end this. She could tell Gregory that she wasn't stupid,

and that she had eyes, and yes, she knew that he loved Morgan and not, in fact, her. In the


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moments she felt completely selfish and fed up and scorned and angry, she thought about the

cruelest way she could expose him. But then, a few minutes later after she'd had a few glasses of

wine and a few minutes to compose herself, she realized that that was something she wouldn't be

able to do. She didn't hate Gregory. That was the worst part. She loved him, and thus couldn't

hate him--she could only sit there, pathetically, and think about how much she hated what he was

doing.

- - -

"Breanna," he said to her once he'd seen her in the kitchen, with a glass of wine in her hand. He

was fresh-faced from his evening walk and had a wild look in his eyes. "Let's get married."

She stared at him. Then she blinked, looking at her glass in front of her. Exactly how much wine

had she drunk in the past hour?

"I want," he said, sitting down next to her, "to marry you. Let's get married. Tomorrow."

"Gregory," she said, having a hard time believing this sudden turn of events, "what? Get married?

Did you happen to trip and hit your head on some extremely hard surface?"

He shook his head. "I want to marry you, Breanna. Say yes."

"Say yes to--Gregory, you didn't even ask me--"

"Fine," he said. Then he got down on one knee. "Breanna Jane Madison, will you"

That was when she knew she had to stop this, whatever this was, maybe a lapse into hysteria or


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mere insanity. She stood up and walked to the other side of the table, her arms folded across her

chest. She took a deep breath. This truly had to be an odd day when Gregory Ward, the man she

loved to the point she had been willing to bear his blatant love for someone else, strode in here

and asked her to marry him and she would refuse him.

"Gregory, get up. Don't do this. You don't want to marry me."

"Yes, yes, I do, Breanna," he said. He sounded desperate. This was what hurt the most. Of course,

she'd known quickly after the shock had drained from her system that he wasn't doing this

because he'd miraculously realized he loved her--he'd done this because he needed a way, some

way, to potentially distract him from what was going on. Which was Morgan's wedding. "I want

to marry you."

"Gregory, think about this. Think about what you're asking. Marriage, Gregory."

"I have been thinking about it, Breanna. I've been thinking about it for a long time."

"A long time?" she scoffed. "How long were you out for your walk--an hour? Maybe two? Two

hours is not a long time, and two hours is certainly not enough time to realize you want to marry

someone." She walked back around and gripped his arms, helping him up. He silently complied.

She didn't want to look at his face, but she did, anyway.

"So," he told her, point-blank, "you don't want to marry me."

She sighed, feeling a slight and painful pinging in her heart. "No, Gregory, not right now. I'm not

ready to get married, and neither are you. Think about it."


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However, in the meantime, she tried her best not to think about it. It was ironic, finally deciding

to turn her Love switch off, and he'd come walking in here, asking her to marry him. She realized

this made him seem like a bad person. Not so a bad person, but. . . confused. Desperate. All of

which he was. But now that he'd done what he did, it threw her completely off guard.

"Morgan and Leyton are getting married." Surprisingly, he said this was a straight face no

flicker of hurt whatsoever in his face. But she knew him better than what his face managed to

give out. His voice was dull and straight and emotionless. "When do you know you're ready for

something like that, Breanna? They're just as young as we are. And we've known each other

longer."

She swallowed, trying to moisten up the insides of her throat, which had gone excruciatingly dry.

"Maybe," she said, "they're just lucky."

- - -

"I don't understand," Morgan said over the phone, "why you're doing this, Breanna. Why are you

backing out? The wedding is halfway planned, and I need you. You know I need you--"

"Leyton seems like he can plan your wedding just fine."

The voice on the other line went silent. "Oh, God. This isn't about him, is it? What did he do

now?"

"Nothing," Breanna said, even though she begged to differ. "It's just that things have gotten

incredibly busy for me, and I--"


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"I'm not letting you do this, Breanna! And I'm certainly not going to let you back out of this

because of Thierry! I'm scheduling a make-up lunch. Be there. We're going to get this all squared

out and things will be fine, you'll see."

For one, Morgan was right to assume that something was Leyton's fault. But the thing was that he

wasn't exactly the reason she'd called up Morgan and left her a message, telling her that she quit.

He was partially the reason, but sadly, not even Leyton could get her to quit planning her friend's

wedding. It just made her see how much her planning the wedding was making things worse

between her and Gregory--not that she would ever tell her that. Though sometimes, she did

wonder how Morgan would react if she'd found out Gregory's feelings for her. Would she be

happy? Would she realize she loved him back, too? Would she cancel the wedding?

Or perhaps this was just a strange way of revenge. Breanna knew that Morgan had pined after

Gregory for a very long time before he even took a second out of his day to notice her. And then

afterwards, his affection waned fast. Maybe Raymond was right: maybe life was funny, and it

played by its own rules, and didn't give a rat's ass who was laughing or not.

Like now, for example. She'd come walking into the fancy little restaurant Morgan had scheduled

their "make-up lunch" at, and the redheaded soon-to-be-bride she expected to meet actually

turned out to be a snarky and booze-drinking blond asshole. Of course, beforehand, she'd

considered not going at all, but she knew that the repercussions of doing so would be hefty and

brutal. The infamous Pettigrew temper was infamous for a reason.

"You're late. You're always late. Why is that?" Leyton said to her.

"It's twelve thirty-two. It's two mere minutes, calm down. Besides, I wasn't aware I'd be meeting

with you," she snapped. "If I'd known--"


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"You wouldn't have come at all, I know the story, Madison, it's been told millions of times by

those before you. But see, element of surprise. It works every time." He stared at her, scowling.

"Sit down, will you? Unless you plan to eat that way."

"I'm not eating. I've lost my appetite."

"Of course you have. Now sit your ass down."

She did, eventually. But not because he asked her to.

"Now, we're supposed to make up," he said to her, after ordering for the both of them, even

though she repeatedly told him that she wasn't going to be eating with him. "In all honesty, it

surprised me to hear that you backed out. I know you hate me, but you always rose to the

challenge before. What with trying to prove you're better than me and everything."

"Things are different. And," she added, "we're not teenagers anymore."

"The only thing that's different," he said, taking out his flask and refilling his glass, "is that I'm

getting married and you're with Ward instead of pining after Pettigrew. Unless you are still pining

after Pettigrew, then in which case the only difference is that I'm getting married."

"Look, why don't you just make up a story about our little 'make up' lunch to Morgan? I don't care

if you make me show up in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers and have me throw tea sandwiches at

you. I'm leaving."

"Now, wait a minute," he said quickly. "Don't make a scene, will you? Just sit down."


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"What could it possibly matter to you what the difference is?" she hissed at him. "Last time I

heard, you cared about nothing and nobody else but yourself."

"Now you're lying. I thought we already talked about this. I happen to care about many other

things besides myself. But what good does it do to talk about it? Or show it, as a matter of fact?"

She sat back down.

"Like I was saying," he said, smirking a little from the success of his attempt, "isn't this one of

those things they always talk about? You can say you don't care anything at all but if you don't act

that way, people don't believe you. Now why can't it be the contrary?"

"Because people need proof."

"Why? People believe in a God that they can't see, or hear, or touch. In fact, billions of people do.

So why is that so hard to apply somewhere else?"

"That's different," she said, shaking her head.

"Tell me how it's different."

She couldn't. And when that fact became clear, his little smirk of victory became a triumphant

one.


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"Hold on a second," she said, not wanting him to win this one. "It's different because some people

are exactly what you think they are and their entire life has proved as the ultimate testament to

that. And after that any speck of evidence proving the contrary is void."

He leaned back in his chair, just looking at her. She couldn't read the look in his eyes, and deep

down in her subconscious, that flustered her a little. Or maybe flustered wasn't the word.

Uncomfortable was more the word. She realized it was all too weird that he would look at her

with something other than contempt or sarcasm, just as it would be if she started looking at him

like that, too.

"Has anyone ever told you that you believe the worst in people?" he asked her. "I don't think it'd

be the most pleasant conversation starter, but it's true. What you need is a little bit more faith in

humankind. Not everyone out there set out to hurt you. Keep that in mind."

"You cannot," she told him, incredulously, "be lecturing me on having a little bit more faith in

humankind. You, who seeks to point out every little flaw in every person you meet."

"Why not? I'm getting married, aren't I? To me, that serves as the biggest possible step in having

faith in people. Besides, of course, going to war. But I figure that's the same thing, in some

ways."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, there's a winner and a loser. And on a good day, there'll be a draw, meaning you'll both

be winners or losers. Either way, at the end of the day, you're both on the same page. Together, in

a more conclusive word."


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Part 3

What she was doing now was considered as swimming/sinking. As in she was still swimming, but

was also simultaneously sinking. She felt this every time she went to her coffee maker to make

coffee, and every time she looked at herself in the mirror, and also every time she broke out the

wine after Gregory went on another one of his walks. It was how else could she explain it? A

heaviness. In her gut. And a very severe discontentment that she could feel in her joints and in her

neck. For a long time she'd convinced herself that she just needed to get another mattress, but

now that she could no longer hide from it, she knew her mattress was just fine and that it was just

her. Just her.

It reminded her of her first crush. She was six and was in her first year of actual school and, of

course, she was preoccupied with getting her spelling and math down and winning all of the gold

stars to put beside her name. Every time she watched her teacher peel off that shiny gold star

from the sticker packet and smooth it right in the row she had designated all to herself, she felt a

little glow inside her and couldn't help but smile as big as she possibly could. It was a reflex: she

was six, and she was eager for academic validation as much as she was those gold stars. Anyway,

that was when she noticed the boy sitting across from her. He seemed to always be looking her

way when it came her turn to have her star. She would smile and then he would smile back at her.

And it went on this way for a few weeks.

One day, while they were playing, she noticed him by the toy kitchen and pretended to be just as

interested in frying a plastic sunny-side up egg in a plastic pan. That was when he looked up at

her and smiled, just like he always did when she smiled. So she smiled, too. And she felt her heart

do its little flip-flops, all the way down to her stomach.

"You," he said, smiling, "have big teeth." And then he couldn't hold in his laughter anymore. He

just exploded. That was, of course, when she ran away crying. Later on their teacher forced him

to apologize, but that hadn't done much for her wounded pride. It's a fairly difficult time trying to

explain exactly why her swimming/sinking feeling related to her first crush travesty, but in a


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nutshell, it was this: it was all her. In the end, she realized, that it was all her. The misconception

was all entirely her fault. Granted, she didn't know any better, but incidents like these carried on

for the rest of her life. Now she learned to analyze all of the possible causations, but that didn't

mean it saved her from still ending up the same way.

Elena noticed it, but not before she noticed that Leyton actually had a point in his little theory.

"He hit something," she told her, after Breanna had reiterated the strange parts of their

conversation. "I don't know what it is, but he hit something." Then she went on to address the

issues he'd brought up. "It's true, though, when I think about it. You're nice enough, but you're

uptight. Did you know that? You're uptight. You hold onto things long after you're supposed to.

And not just for sentimentality, either."

She had a reason for this. She'd been thinking about it for a long time, and had come up with a

reason, and it was this: it's nice to think that things are familiar. Good or bad, familiar is familiar.

Maybe that's what she was holding onto. Familiarity, whatever last shards she had left of it--after

all, Morgan was getting married, Gregory was unrecognizable with misery, and she was bearing

the brunt of it all. Things had changed and were changing and she felt pressured to keep up with

the pace--it was killing her--and maybe that explained why she was still here, holding onto

Gregory--or the empty shell of him, anyway. She needed something that told her that things

would be changing, but they would still be familiar. And that was where Leyton came in. At least

he was still a bit familiar. Sure, he had random moments of insightfulness that scared her at times,

but at least the asshole side of him was still there. She just tried not to think about how grateful

she was sometimes that he was still an asshole and that she could still legitimately hate him.

Still, it didn't help the fact that after Breanna had turned down Gregory's spur-of-the-moment

marriage proposal, things only got worse. Gregory had now shut himself down. He put up an

appearance, of course (for Raymond's sake) of normalness (though what that actually was, it was

foreign to her now), but when they were home they barely spoke a word to each other. As in,

words that counted and actually meant something. Now their days consisted of talking about the


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weather and the news and their jobs. Which meant that their relationship had officially hit rock

bottom.

One night she'd tried to strike up a soul-opening conversation.

"Gregory," she said quietly, staring up at the dark ceiling. He was lying on his side, turned away

from her. "Gregory, what's going on with us?"

At first she thought he was asleep. But then he answered. "I don't know."

"I can't sleep," she sighed. "I haven't slept in three months, Gregory."

"Well," he told her, groggily, "maybe you shouldn't watch the news before you go to bed."

And that was it. That was all. Maybe you shouldn't watch the news before you go to bed. She felt

frustration, hot and violent, gurgling up her throat. She wanted to hit him. Wanted to shove him

off the bed and scream at him. Why can't we make things work? Why can't you just stop loving

her? She wanted to tell him her little theory about love switches and unreciprocated love, and

about what Leyton had said about the similarities between marriage and war. And that was how

she discovered that you can really miss someone even if they're there, right beside you.

She wasn't one for sailing metaphors, but this was the only one she had, anyway: it was like

Gregory was a wayward boat, drifting farther from the shore. In the beginning she'd had her little

rope but now it was getting harder to hold on. The tide was working against her.

So this was her time to give one last tug, even if it meant she would immediately have to let go


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right after.

"Gregory? I know. About you, andMorgan."

She didn't yell this, of course. She kind of whispered it, but loud enough that she knew he would

hear. She waited for him to say something back. Waited for him to budge and sit up and want to

talk about it. But while she waited, mentally playing out all of the different ways this could end

up, nothing came. Nothing. She looked over to see if he was awake. He wasn't.

She got out of bed and went into the living room to watch the news.

- - -

The next day, at a scheduled meeting with Leyton to talk over the reception, she knew she wasn't

looking like anyone's ideal cup of tea. In fact, Leyton--if anything--only validated what she

already knew, by greeting her with the words: "Jesus, Madison, how'd you survive that car

crash?"

"Please don't start," she said tiredly.

"I wasn't going to," he said briskly, his eyes raking over her horrible disposition and appearance.

"You need some drinks. And I do mean plural."

They moved their meeting from the fancy-schmancy restaurant they regularly met in to a less

fancy-schmancy bar, which she appreciated. She was a little weirded out by his subtle kindness

(if there was any other word for it, she would've used it), but she was too tired to care. And too

miserable. And a little too depressed.


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They ordered their drinks, and for a long time, said nothing. She figured he was waiting for her to

say something, so she did. She felt a little bit better now that she had the alcohol to balance out

the lack of happiness she had in her system.

"So, about the reception," she said, after a long drink, "you two make your entrance, then--"

"You should know this already, but I guess you don't--but we seriously cannot talk about the

reception when you look like this. It's disrespectful to my wedding." He was closely looking at

her. "Now what was the license plate number and did you get a good look at the guy? Was it a hit

and run?"

"I'd rather talk about the reception, Leyton." And she meant it, too.

"You're delusional, you've obviously hit your head. Look at you. You haven't slept in weeks, have

you?"

"Three months, actually," she answered.

"Really?" He seemed impressed. "Now how on earth did you manage to cover that up?"

"Really good concealer."

He made an appreciative expression as they lapsed into silence, and she took another drink. She

wondered if it'd be too weird if she told Leyton about what was happening. Once she got her

answer--a vicious "Too weird!" from the back part of her brain--she couldn't help but feel very,

sadly, and miserably alone. Was it worth this? Though she never could answer questions like


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those. Everybody had a different scale, had different interpretations. Either something was worth

nothing or it was worth everything--but not everything, just a little bit of everything. That was

always what it seemed like to her, confusing as hell.

"Three months is a while," he finally commented. "It's approximately ninety days."

"Yeah. I need to stop watching the news before going to bed," she repeated dully.

"Sure, if that'll make a difference," he scoffed, "but I don't think it will. It takes a lot to rob

someone of sleep, you know. Trauma does it. Or seeing Ward naked. Maybe that's it. Have you

been seeing Ward naked lately?"

She answered before she thought about it. "No."

"Oh." Leyton smirked. "So it's the sex then, isn't it?"

"Look," she snapped, "I'm not discussing this with you, okay? Either we talk about the reception

or you sit there quietly or you leave. Got it?"

Notice that the choice of leaving was kept for the end--the end of the question was always left for

the least desirable choice (for example, "Do you love me or not?"). This was because she didn't

really want to be left alone in a bar with lots of booze all around her. And sort of because she did

want to talk about it, just not while she was fully conscious. She wondered about whether it

would be safe to enclose this sort of private information to him. It probably wouldn't be. So, fine.

Maybe she'd tell him just very vaguely. Not one mention about Morgan.


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He sat there quietly, drinking his drink, staring ahead. They probably sat there for a very long ten

minutes, not saying a word to each other, just drinking and sighing and breathing. She was

thinking and sinking/swimming all at the same time. And he was probably just waiting. It

probably would've been even more awkward if they hadn't been drinking. Thank God they were.

"Marriage and war," she finally ended up saying. "Tell me more about that."

He looked at her for a little bit, as if trying to read her. He spoke slowly, as if working out his

words as he said them. "Well, you both have something to lose, and you both have something

you're fighting for. And war is passionate. Have you ever realized that? War is as passionate as

love. But you're either struggling to keep fighting near the end, or that's where you find your

groove, the easiness where your body just seems to go on automatic, where you start gliding. The

downward slope.

"See, in war--and marriage--it doesn't matter how things start out in the beginning, just how they

end." He looked at her. "But most of the time, in something like marriage, you're not fighting for

the end. In fact, you're fighting against it."

She'd only heard the analogies of fighting in a war together--on the same team. But she had a

feeling he wasn't talking about this same analogy. So she asked him.

"You're fighting," he clarified, "against each other in the way that you're always trying to get their

best. Always challenging them. If you think about it, opposite sides of the same war are always

still the same. It's just like battling a mirror. You both care enough to fight--and to die--for it. The

only difference is one gives up. That's when they realize it isn't worth it. They can't win."

During his explanation, he had pushed their two empty glasses against each other. Opponents, yet

completely identical. Mirrored.


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She realized, all of a sudden, that she couldn't win. Of course, she'd known this the entire time,

but she kept fighting anyway, kept holding her post. She had been fighting against the end

herself, fighting to keep it from ending, even though the outcome had already been set in stone

from the beginning. Right from the moment Morgan had walked in with Leyton with that ring on

her hand.

And she knew exactly why, too. Why she had been keeping her post for so unnecessarily long.

It's because people have this determined belief that things will always work themselves out in the

end. That if you tough out the rough shit, the pieces will always fall where you want them to; it

was just a matter of patience. As if all life is doing is testing how bad you really want it. You

endure the brutal winter for a bountiful spring, right? But see where that line of thinking had

gotten her? Sometimes patience has nothing to do with it. And sometimes, no matter how much

you tough it out you're not supposed to, and the pieces will absolutely not fall where you fucking

want them to.

"I've been fighting in a war that's been finished a long time ago. What does that make me?"

"Severely clingy," he answered, though it sounded more like a suggestion. "Or one of those silly

war re-enactors." He asked for another glass and refilled it, leaving their two glasses standing

together, in between them, like an art display. "Now what war are you talking about?"

"Does it even matter? A war's a war."

"Of course it matters. You could be fighting for religion or land or freedom or just for the sake of

fighting. You could be fighting because you're bored and your ass got numb from sitting in your

seat. What kind of war matters, Madison, because people are always going to look at you and

wonder if it was worth it." He took a slight pause. The jukebox in the corner changed records and


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began to play an old love song. Breanna remembered this song--her parents danced to it all the

time when they thought she was asleep. "Is it worth it?"

There it was--a question she could not answer. How could she possibly determine whether it was

worth it? What would she add (maybe their good months or the times he said that he loved her

and meant it), and what would she subtract (the bad months, or maybe the total number of walks

he's taken)? It was too much work, and she was just too tired. Or maybe it wasn't an equation.

Maybe it was just a conclusion, a thought, a simple statement. A summation. That's what it was.

Just a summation.

"I don't know," she honestly admitted.

"Yes you do," he pressed on. "You do. Everybody does. It's the last thing they think about before

they go to bed, and it's the first thing they think of when they wake up. I, in fact, know you

know."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Look at you," he said, motioning towards her. "You look awful. You look exactly like a person

that knows. Maybe you're just repressing it. It's likely you're in denial."

"I'm not in denial," she snapped. She was closer to accepting things than she was to being in

denial. "I'm not."

"Well, then. Out with it. Tell me."


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"What do you care?" She knew that sometimes people only wanted to know your business so that

they could compare it to their own and feel good about the grotesque comparison. They said to

find the lighter side of a situation, you should compare yourself to someone who is homeless,

hungry, and very poor with very possibly no family and friends. That's for the extreme cases of

people standing on the ledge of a sixty-story building after the phrases "I love you! I need you!

Don't die!" don't work.

"I wouldn't, normally. But you're our wedding planner and things won't go right at all if you're

getting run over cars all the time."

"For the last time, I didn't get run over by a car, okay?" She sighed. She felt tears prick her eyes,

but she was stubborn--she wasn't going to cry. Not in a bar. Not in front of Leyton. Crying meant

she was vulnerable. Crying meant that she was openly defeated and feeling wretched about it--

which she was, but crying was one thing she did in private. So she spent a little while trying to

convince herself she wasn't going to cry, and Leyton just watched her. He stopped drinking in the

duration of her mental pep talk.

"Well, if you're not going to talk, I am," he finally said, a little annoyed. "I know. I know about

you and Ward."

Silence.

"What?"

"Are you kidding?" he asked her, and there was a shocking amount of passion in this question.

"I'm not blind, you know. Look at you. I know it can't be your job, and I know it can't be anything

else. You're a very put together girl. And I've seen Ward, that pathetic excuse of a man. Sulking

around, going out for walks, disappearing. And," he said, "you picked up smoking. If that's not a


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sign things have gone sour, then the next clear sign would've been you slitting your wrists with

his razor."

Once she promptly got over her shock of him knowing, she discovered just how blatant it would

be for people who knew how to look for the signs. But that was just it--how did Leyton know

how to look for the signs? Maybe it was all he did. Maybe he was just one of those people who

looked for rotting relationships everywhere he went.

"Breathe. You're turning blue. Relax, I appear to be the only one with clear vision around here,"

he muttered. "Nobody else has noticed."

They lapsed into another stretch of silence. Breanna ordered another drink. So did he. And then

they drank together, silently, not saying a word. She didn't know what to say. No, that was a lie.

She had a perfect idea of what to say--they were all cramming inside her skull now in a frenzy to

be the first one out--but she didn't really know how.

So she asked the most obvious one first.

"When?"

"When Morgan announced our engagement at the party. I saw Ward make a quick beeline for the

exit and then I saw you stalk off towards the backyard to smoke your sorrows away. You're quite

transparent, you know." He took a breath, though he didn't seem even a little burdened with his

knowledge. Maybe it was because he figured she was burdened enough for the both of them.

"And besides, only a fool could think I wouldn't notice the way he looked at Morgan."

"Are you going to tell her?"


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His answer was quick and precise. "No." Then he explained. "It gets tempting at times, you know,

especially when we have those long periods of silence at dinner. But why should I out him? He'll

do it for himself soon enough. If he has enough self-respect, anyway. Now, my question is," he

said, leaning a bit towards her, his voice smelling like whiskey, "why do you let him do this to

you?"

Her first instinct was to tell him about her love switch theory. About how much easier life would

be if they all had a little switch inside them that they had perfect control of. But then she realized

that half-assed theories do close to no good when faced with a real question related to a real

situation.

She told him that she really didn't know.

"Yes, you do." Then he asked her again. "Why do you let him do this to you?"

This time she answered with froth, the foam--skimmed it right off the top--because she realized

how much he was insisting on a real answer this time. So it went like this: because she loved him.

Because she, like six billion other people in this world, had this belief that if she had a little

patience and waited things out things would end up the way she wanted them to. And if they

didn't, well, at least they'd end up close to what she wanted. And then, as she was telling him this,

she realized how stupid she sounded, how much of a victim she was. That's the problem when

they raise you up to be a good person with good person beliefs. You get really good at playing the

victim. Because, more often than not, that's all you really are.

"Why," she then said to herself, realizing the depth of what she was telling him--even though it

was just the froth--, "am I even telling you this?"


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"Because," he said. "Because I asked. You'd be surprised what people won't tell you unless you

ask. Real particularly, too. They think people won't appreciate it if they just bring it up. Or worse:

that they won't know what to do with it."

- - -

If you think it's hard to explain exactly what it is that makes you fall in love with someone, it's

even harder to explain why you fall out of love with them. Time. Change. Someone else. Which

exactly is most brutal explanation is up to the person, but to her there was no most brutal choice--

they were all equally most brutal. Because, in a nutshell, you fall out of love with someone

because what you first found in them no longer appeals to you. It got old. It became stale bread,

which you then had to throw away so you could get new bread.

It's hard to think of past happenings when all you can think about is how present happenings are

making you feel, but she manages to fit in the time every now and then. She does it to remind

herself that Gregory is not a bad person, that he does not intentionally do this to her, and that it is

not his fault that he is in love with someone else. If he could help if--she was assuming--he would

rather direct all of his love to her, Breanna Madison. Even though she knew that would rathers

don't count for most in life because it summed up some kind of failure to make things happen,

once upon a time, that would rather actually had been, well, did.

For example, take the day she, Gregory, Raymond and Lynn had stayed over at her parents'

summerhouse. She couldn't sleep due to the sticky summer heat, so she decided to bake

something. She didn't bake often, and when she did, it often came out inedible (it was either still

uncooked or too burnt), but she was feeling a little inspired. So she got out the dusty old

cookbooks from underneath the cabinet and started to prepare the ingredients. She was missing a

few of them (the summer house pantry was only ever so often stocked) so she decided she'd

substitute to the best of her ability.

She was just in the process of mixing everything when Gregory came down. He told her he

couldn't sleep either and sat down at the table, watching her and keeping her company. It always

made her feel a little better when she and Gregory had alone time together--maybe because she


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believed in solidarity when it came to friendships, and ever since Raymond had found Lynn, he

was eager on spending every living moment he had with her. So it was nicer being a two-thirds

instead of just a one-third, and definitely healthier for her mental health when she had someone to

talk to besides herself.

She'd baked chocolate cookies that night, and it hadn't looked like anything was wrong with it.

Gregory ate it all that she hadn't even gotten a taste, but he didn't look blue (from choking) or

green (from sickness)--in fact, there had been no telltale signs that anything had gone wrong this

time, and he'd looked all too happy to eat them. She did manage, however, to find one last piece

later on.

That same night, she came bursting into his room.

"Gregory, Gregory," she said, waking him up. "I just got a taste of what I made, and. . ." She

didn't have to say that it was horrible. That it had made her want to throw up everything that the

cookie had touched once it had entered her mouth.

But she got one good look at his face, serious and sweaty from the summer heat, and lapsed into

dead silence. There they were: two friends, a man and a woman, on a bed, near the sea. Only she

could see that it had started long before that. Before he'd decided to put himself at risk for food

poisoning and sickness just to prove a point. Before he'd even purposely left an extra piece out,

hidden somewhere that she would surely find it. Before he'd even known she would find it and

taste it and come running over to him. Before he'd even known that she would know once she got

a good look at his face.

"You're going to be sick in the morning," she whispered to him, but she didn't have the heart to

scold.


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"It's not morning yet," he told her. "I have some time."

"Gregory," she said, somewhat at a loss for words, "why. . . why didn't you tell me?"

He smiled. "I just told you now, didn't I?"

They were silent. She felt strange. As she looked at him, she felt only what you could feel when

you just realized that your best friend is no longer just that. And isn't it strange, she thought, that

you never picture these things happening. They just do. Like falling in love with your best friend.

Or getting up in the middle of the night to do something you're spectacularly horrible at. All of

these things that are uncharted, that you never once stop to consider--yet you consider everything

else. Like dying in a car crash. Or flying in a hot air balloon. Or even the grocery store running

out of your favorite fish. And that's what makes them even nicer, the fact that you can never see

these things coming at you, the element of surprise. You are simply left there, in that moment, to

soak everything in, the pleasantness, the softness, the sincerity, and a million other things that

nobody ever has the time to explain.

"Just so you know," he called out to her while kneeling against the toilet in the morning, "I am

not throwing up because we were kissing. I'm throwing up due to the events prior to the kissing.

But," he said, pausing to throw up a little bit more, "I don't regret it. Not a single bit. If I had to--"

he threw up some more "--I would do it all over again."

Part 4

It would be sick to tell you that she fantasized about the day Gregory would tell Morgan--wait a

second, no, fantasized wasn't the right word for it at all because that would mean that she had

invested some kind of enjoyment in it, which truly wasn't the case--but she did something close to

it. What she did was this: she played out the possible scenarios in her head. When he would do it.


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How he would do it. The one she imagined happening the most was a very dramatic declaration

in which Morgan had just reached the altar and the minister had just finished saying the phrase,

"Whoever objects to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace." And that was when

Gregory would decide he could not forever hold his peace. He would bolt out of his seat beside

her and do it. Declare his love for her, Morgan Pettigrew, in front of everyone they knew. She

tried to imagine the faces of everyone around her--shock, horror, or maybe even excitement and

thrill.

Elena, who was also often invited to the weddings of the people in their company, once confessed

to her exactly why it was she went to weddings. "Weddings are tantamount to watching the

sweaty pregnant women on airplanes," she'd told her as they sat in hard chairs waiting for the

ceremony to finally start. It had been an outside wedding, on grass, and people's allergies were

beginning to kick up. "The only reason I get my ass out of bed at nine in the morning on a

Saturday and then try to squeeze my overly large ass into a dress that's too small and wear heels

that are too high--armed with a gift that is too expensive, might I add--so I can watch two people I

don't even like sell their soul to the devil is that hope, that teensy tiny prayer, that something

exciting will happen."

"It's a wedding," said Breanna. "The most exciting thing you'd expect to happen is that people

will eat too much cake, get drunk, and cry."

"That," she'd whispered to her as the minister lapsed into a series of sneezes, "is not to which I am

referring to. What I am referring to is that little moment after the minister asks that little open-

ended question pertaining to whoever objects to the marriage. And then there's that pause and you

know, you just know, that everybody is holding their breath, waiting at the edge of their seats for

something to happen. It's an incredibly vain hope, I know, but a person's got to find light in these

morbid situations somehow."

The part she had the most difficult time imagining was the part afterwards. After Gregory

confessed his love and the whole frenzy of horror and shock happened. What would happen then?


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Would Morgan leave the altar? No matter how many times she tried to sort out the details, she

could never get past the part where Gregory told her, and it frustrated her because that meant that

she didn't know what to expect, and hence, pathetically attempt to prepare herself for it. It was a

blank page refusing to be written on, and if there was anything Breanna simply couldn't stand, it

was that.

Her most recent conversation with him, however, had been otherworldly. And she didn't even

know if it was otherworldly and strange in a good or bad way. She had a good feeling, though,

that it was a mix of both. Good in the way that finally, there was someone else out there who

knew--and bad in the way that it had to be Leyton. But she accepted this. Because she was quite

in touch with reality (despite her constant imaginings of her boyfriend confessing his love for

someone else), and she knew that sometimes, you just don't get the chance to choose. For

example, she'd once seen this documentary on a cruise liner that had been shipwrecked on some

deserted island and after weeks of waiting, they were finally rescued. By pirates. Obviously

they hadn't been that specific in their prayers, but rescue was rescue, and that, in itself, made it

slightly easier to digest that she'd found a sympathizing soul in his crude outer exterior. Even

though--and she could gladly recall this moment--he didn't seem to have any more of a clue what

to do in their circumstance than she did.

See, somebody had just put on "Everybody Loves Somebody Sometimes" and from the corner of

her eye she'd seen a couple get up from the bar to dance. And as she sat there, drinking her beer,

watching them and feeling the somewhat eerie music tingle through her; she realized that she had

never been that kind of person. The kind of person that would just get up and dance when nobody

else was--even if she was in love, and the song was good, and the moment was perfect. She

watched the couple dancing by the neon jukebox, completely unashamed, and found herself

wishing that things could be that simple, and easy.

"There," Leyton told her, taking a drink, "is no such thi

broken yolk

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