My Big Out

Today, I will end a marriage before it starts. I've envisioned this moment since I decided upon the invitation from my girlfriend. Truth be told, it is something one only hears in dramatic tales or seen in a Hallmark film; however, with my dramatic disposition, regretful conscience, and in accordance with my horoscope, I have already submitted to destiny. The witness bearers filed into the foldable wooden chairs, unaware of the preordained bombshell I intended to release.

My girlfriend Angie is the younger sibling to Logan, a bridesmaid and a good friend of the bride, Kylie Fischer, who is primed to wed her longtime beau, Joshua Breton. This beachside spectacle, woven with a white floral aisle, petals bestrewn upon its powdery sand, headed by an archway laced with lilies and roses, endeared with sweet whispers of a violin and flute trailing from the quartet, laid before the backdrop of a sleepy California sun. The power of a graceful zephyr assailing the crowd from the exhales of the yonder shore eased their fizzing sensibilities.

"Are you with the bride?" asked a gleeful middle-aged man beside me. We sat within the matrices of seats congruent with such, so I assumed this was a forced attempt at small talk.

"My girlfriend's sister is a friend of the bride," I replied. "I'm a plus-one. So, I guess I'm with the bride." My hand quivered as I took out my pocket handkerchief and dabbed my brow.

"She's my niece," he said. "Did your girlfriend's sister go to Yale?"

Angie, who was half-listening while the other half was enthralled with rapid Instagram scrolling, perked up.

"Yes. Logan met Kylie during her clerkship at med school."

The man nodded with an approving grin. "I met my wife during mine—Class of '82. We even got married at St. Mary's down the street."

"Oh!" Angie exclaimed. "I'm graduating next spring from Yale Law!"

"Well, congratulations," he said, extending his hand. "Dr. Breton, Dr. Mark T. Breton."

"Angie, or Angela, Soon-To-Be Esquire," she giggled, receiving it.

"Your family must be very proud of you both."

"My father graduated from Yale in '87 and has, like, his own practice up in Springfield where I'll work for the time, but I guess, like, my sister wanted to go into medicine. So Yale is like a big deal in our family, but like, we aren't one of those families that basically tell everyone that, like, we all went to Yale."

"Certainly, certainly. I know what you mean."

Dr. Mark T. Breton gazed upon Angie with a wry grin of approval. I could have swallowed my tongue and been all right with choking on it if it meant this greasy conversation would end. From my casual investigation into the wedding party on the "#BretonOnAPrayer" wedding website, the inescapable amount of photos in college bars and stone-laden quads with subjects dawning navy blue Bulldogs apparel ensured these insufferable conversations guised with pertinent humility would ensue.

"And you," pursued Dr. Mark T. Breton to me, "Are you also one of our tribe?"

My mouth was slow to open.

"No. Unfortunately, Todd is a Fighting Owl," Angie said with a playful grimace.

"Ah!" he replied. It was the kind of interjection that wanted to express interest, but its note fell flat and resounded with pity. "What did you study at So Conn?"

"Nursing," I replied.

"Ah," again, off-key. "How did you meet your better half?"

"We met at Gryphon's," said Angie.

"Hey!" A perfect chord. "That's where I met my wife, too!"

"Oh my God, that's, like, so great!"

"Do I also hear wedding bells?" he asked. His sight passed between Angie and me.

"We'll see, we'll see!" she said.

Poor Angie, I thought to myself. Besides my ultimate plot to tear this wedding asunder, we had grown distant. If not for the two months left in our rent and shared parental obligations to our Brussels Griffon rescue, Beasty, this dissipating relationship would have ended months ago. No matter, today's antics will truncate the time to an inevitable breakup. I will be happy for her, I know that. Nonetheless, I must speak my piece.

The quartet changed their tune to a soft and splendid melody cover of a modish pop song. On cue, the crowd turned towards the center aisle and looked back. Descending from the hotel's boardwalk over the dunes stood a line of the bride and groom's family. I joined with the gawking as the procession neared our stations. First, a flabby pastor in a gray two-piece suit strode alongside Joshua. Joshua's brown quiff bounced smoothly as he entered between the chairs, his dimple chin protruded past his confident lips, and his focus on the altar seemed immutable. Next were the grandparents. Joshua's paternal grandfather and maternal grandmother lost their spouses; thus, the surviving escorted each other, causing the onlookers to express warm admiration. Behind them shuffled both pairs of Kylie's grandparents; her leading grandfather moved with a walker, extending their planned arrival to the front row seats. Then came Joshua's parents, Mr. & Mrs. Breton; Mr. Breton was a proud man, rigid in the back with a similar chin to that of his son's, and his sightly wife modeled a midnight blue dress with a golden linked necklace and earrings to boot. Next came Kylie's brother, accompanying her mother. She wore a deep violet satin dress with feathery blonde locks on the shoulders. The wedding party came forth with snickers and sheepish grins alike, which—primarily the boys—bore evidence of modern young people's predisposition to gallant pageantry. As Logan passed our row, Angie showed both rows of jestful smiling teeth at her sister. Logan returned it in kind. Behind the wedding party came two cherub-faced children: a wide-eyed boy fixed in a small pale-blue suit and pink tie, carrying a pillow with the wedding rings laced upon it; close behind was a shy little girl dressed in a flouncy floral dress, wicker basket in hand, devoting her entirety to the littering of white petals. She must have been instructed to shower them, particularly where earlier footsteps had displaced original petals, for she stopped several times to ensure no two flowers were more than a few feet apart. The crowd melted and chuckled as the boy proceeded forward, looking back in confusion to his devoted counterpart.

At last came the bride, and, my, she looked marvelous. Kylie's father had her delicate hand tucked in the crook of his arm. He bore a charming smile beneath a freshly trimmed, peppery mustache and moved awkwardly from a dysfunctional left knee. Kylie kept in step with him, bearing her beguiling pert complexion of rosey, luscious lips, high cheekbones, and sultry eyes. She had trailing blonde hair beneath an extended veil dotted with flowery motifs cascading down its edges. Her ivory crepe dress accented her tan, supple shoulders.

She was as beautiful as the day I met her. Logan introduced us at a mixer two years ago. She had been with Josh for eight months by then but seemed at odds with no one or unmoved by flirtatious advances by those watchful when Josh was nowhere in sight. That's why I think we got along better than the rest, for my bearing with her was unassuming and tactful. On frequent occasions, we crossed paths. Whether at a bar in New Haven or some function, it always seemed inevitable that we would indeed see each other and find ourselves chatting for hours. Neither of us liked the bouncing and verve of parties, but we certainly, and I do mean so, enjoyed the mingling. Josh liked it; I know the feeling of having to spare attention for your escort, especially in the company of Yalies. With all the pomp and circumstance, a bit of propriety and due diligence is necessary when encountering some dynasty family's son or a future success story annotated thusly by nepotism. Josh, although well within both categories, never carried himself as such. He was calm, garrulous, and maintained himself as one imagines a refined stalwart Ivy League student—a gentleman if I ever saw one.

I started seeing Kylie outside the usual places a little over a year ago. I knew her class schedule, her favorite coffee shop, the hairdresser and nail salons she patronized, and the shows she and Josh watched together. She really was someone you could lose yourself in conversation with, and I understood why Josh didn't mind living happily ever after with her in interlocutor bliss. Nonetheless, my actions since are now an unavoidable reality that I can no longer bear. I've sinned in the way no man should, and certainly not one who is already promised to another. It is this weight, this conscious bearing weight, that I am here to break my silence before the handsome couple speeds off into post-nuptial ignorance of my deceit.

"Dearly beloved," started the pastor, "we have come together before God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony." He stood at a rostrum between Kylie and Josh, with bridesmaids and groomsmen standing respectively behind them on the three-step makeshift stage. My time had come. I listened intently to the pastor prattle through the introductory prayer. I reached into my pocket once more and gripped my handkerchief, scraping the beads of sweat off my brow with it.

"Todd, are you alright?" Angie whispered. "Your hands are all clammy."

"I'm fine," I said. "And I'm sorry."

Angie winced at me with her mouth agape.

The pastor continued. "Into this union, Kylie Fisher and Joshua Breton now come to be joined. If any of you can show just cause why they may not be lawfully wed, speak now, or else forever hold your peace."

I raised from my seat, lifted my hand, and said, "I can!"

The pastor looked up from his specs to see who had scuttled the script. There was a collective state of bewilderment and murmurs with what felt like thousands of eyes upon me, particularly those of Mark T. Breton. Angie had taken to violently tugging my blazer.

"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed.

I had not thought this part through and wondered if I should continue or if the pastor had the wherewithal to follow unwritten protocol in the unlikely event a wedding had such an interruption. Kylie's face looked at me with vexing confusion. Seeing such beauty dispirited on a day that belonged to her gave rise to a thought within me to retreat back into my seat had I not looked at Josh. His face had darkened and seemed aloof to my outburst. I considered this an insult; his lack of consternation had reinvigorated my predetermination. Considering what we had done and shared, the assassination of my all but spotless character warranted some level of regard from him.

"Umm ..." uttered the pastor. That was my cue, I figured.

"Hi, yes, hi. I'm Todd." Angie tugged even harder. "And, I'm, uh. Well, I've—I've been sleeping with the groom."

A rain of gasps and shrieks followed. The bridesmaids' chins fell between their heels, and the groomsmen darted looks at one another with the last one in the queue squealing, "I knew it! I frickin' knew it!" Someone was crying, and I no longer felt the pull of Angie yanking. Kylie looked at me, then to Josh, then back to me in a rapid succession. Josh glared at me. His face grew pale.