Do you believe?

"Could you imagine yourself standing up there?"

"Ha, not really" I smirk.

"This isn't my scene either" she adds, "but I like the concept."

Wendy and I stand just inside the Chapel's atrium during this standing-room affair. Saint Patrick is the oldest and most prestigious church in the state. It's the place where the Who's Who congregate, mourn and celebrate. Just this past year, there was a Presidential speech, a previous 4-term Senator's funeral, several baptisms for the Elites, and a series of high-profile weddings.

Wendy and I are not among the Who's Who. We are merely the "who?" who have some relationship to the party of matrimony. Regardless, I find myself standing against dark oak walls with this girl named Wendy, and we scan an ocean of well-dressed observers.

The audience's engagement withers as they drift further from the altar.

In the front rows, the immediate families affix to the soon-to-be newlyweds, Susan and Harold. Most family members seem stoic, while others cry or fight back tears. Those with vested interests occupy the next rows, hoping to expand influence or scheme towards future vacation opportunities. Either way, these co-conspirators' eyes flitter between themselves and the impending newlyweds. Distracted eyes, appreciative for the invitation, occupy those rows further back. These are those with peripheral entanglement, perhaps lovers of love or pomp, or simply interested in the free food. Nevertheless, they will speak of this occasion as a memorable event that came and passed. In the furthest rows sit those whose discouragements failed, and they are mere witnesses to two more victims of love.

And here, the forgotten wallflowers, stand together, alone. At one point, Wendy and I were destined for front row seats, if not the altar. Yet, fate is fickle, unpredictable and maybe a little cruel. But this is Susan and Harold's day, not ours.

*

Susan and I grew up in the suburbs of Long Island. She was my first love; both spoken and unspoken. We dated for a while but as is my nature, I jumped too soon and leapt too late.

In elementary school, she was my buddy before I knew there was more than one gender. Susan taught me how to curve a wiffleball, and I showed her how to put on a sock-puppet play (I wasn't the most typical kid). In middle school, she became my girlfriend; for whatever that's worth. We played tag behind Saint Anthony's church, and then sat outside the deli eating boxes of Twinkies.

Perhaps not according to her design, Susan and I enrolled in the same college. After her marketing and my art classes, we would meet at Bits-and-Bytes, the college eatery, as it was. Each afternoon, I reserved an hour to catch-up on the day's events. I sat with a full meal on the tray, resisting any sampling until Susan took her first bite, which was often a health bar. Susan gobbled the bar with three bites, chugged down a juice, then raced off to one club or another.

We weren't dating, per se, at this point. She wanted to see the world. "So do I" I pretended. She wanted the door open for any and all opportunities. "We are still so young," she argued. "How do we know that what we want today will be what we want tomorrow?" "I understand" I lied.

Susan and I exchanged letters for several years. She wrote about these new experiences and opportunities. Susan sent a Pokeman keychain from Tokyo, described passing the Eiffel Tower on the way to a seminar, and shared a photo of her beside the Grand Canyon during a Team-Building retreat.

My heart sank a little when she mentioned meeting a man in Rome or someplace. While Susan and I were not necessarily dating, she assured me that this man presented a wonderful opportunity for advancement and, regardless, he had a girlfriend. "But you never know," she added. "No, you never do," I thought. Our correspondence became more infrequent. Weekly handwritten letters, to monthly emails, to the occasional text. About three months ago I received an invitation to Susan and Harold's wedding. 

*

I learn that Wendy met Harold on a blind date. Her friends fixed them up with nothing other than a will to conspire. Wendy admits she fell in love or had feelings that others named 'love.' She was young enough to find no fault in being called his arm-candy as Harold pulled her from one engagement to another. She loved his stories of adventure. Meeting diplomats on different continents. He learned how to use chopsticks in China, rode an elephant in India, and built a well in Kenya.

Eventually, Harold would take Wendy along on these extravagant travels across the globe. Most days, she wandered the cities alone, seeing the sites. She watched a couple eating noodles with chopsticks but couldn't get the knack of it. When Harold returned from his conferences, he would take Wendy out for drinks with potential business partners. Often, she sat with the other wives and girlfriends while the men talked business or engaged in locker room boasts. There were some businesswomen, too, but she imagined their 'significant others' weren't interested in being window-dressing. Nor was Wendy.

Wendy says that she doesn't want to sound unappreciative. She loves new experiences. But these particular adventures felt empty, she felt alone. One night, in Italy, she expressed this to Harold. "Don't you know these conferences are opportunities?" Harold shouted. "You saw that Leaning Tower, didn't you? All the while I was working my ass off. If I get this associate position, then I could make VP in three years. You're getting a free ride, and what do I get? You never see the big picture. It's always about you!" Wendy shares with some admitted shame that she apologized, hugged Harold, and dropped the matter.

A little over a year ago, Wendy continues, she was with Harold in Paris when she spied him with another woman in the lobby of their hotel. Harold made introductions. "Susan is an up-and-coming sales associate. I think she might have a future" Harold began with a smile. "And this is Wendy, she's with me today." "She's with me today," Wendy repeated aloud, softly. I am not sure whether this echo was for me or for herself.

Harold became busier in the next few weeks and months. The invitations for accompaniment all but ended. "This will be a chance for you to finish your painting" or "It's just a boring meeting" or "You've been to Rome already, right? You aren't missing anything." Wendy explains, "Sometimes 'ghosting' has a visage."

About three months ago, Wendy received an invitation. Likely, Harold's secretary sent invitations to everyone once listed in the "important persons" section of his rolodex. She says that she thought about avoiding today, but "free ride, free food and a great experience, right?" she smiles sadly.

*

"So" I say, "we're the throw-aways."

Wendy nods pitifully.

"I didn't see this day coming," she adds.

"Nope, my 8-ball malfunctioned a long time ago too. Do you have regrets?"

Wendy contemplates. "I suppose I have enough regrets but today, for this, not really."

We continue while the priest begins talking about sanctity and obligation.

*

"For what it's worth" I say, "Harold didn't see what he had."

I couldn't tell if there was doubt or gratitude behind Wendy's eyes.

"Well, Susan couldn’t see the forest through the trees," she replies.

Ah. I see. A little bit of both doubt and gratitude.

"If I had a conference in Spain, I'd skip it to hang out a little longer with you" I say.

"And I wouldn't mind nursing a coffee and staring out the window with you," Wendy returns.

We share an embarrassed smile as our wrists accidentally brush against each other.

*

The priest begins the I do's.

Wendy turns to me, anxiously, unexpectedly. "I do have hopes for the future," she protests. "I see a world with a husband, children, and a white picket fence. Or maybe none of this or some of this. I mean, I do see 'a' future, even if through a glass darkly. But I want to live, truly live, in each of these moments before that time. I want these moments, now, to be the seed. Nurture that seed, water it, watch it grow with the expectation… the hope… that how we live 'now' will naturally grow."

Wendy takes a deep breath; her cheeks blush as she examines her shoes.

"No, I get it" I sigh, sharing the fascination with our feet. "I would say Destiny is cruel, but I don't think we know Destiny well enough. Maybe we have been planting seeds all along but got lost in our investment with one particular seed planted right at our feet. If we turned our heads, perhaps, we would find ourselves in a field of flowers, growing wildly; beautifully."

I turn to Wendy who has been looking at me all this while. She seems appreciative, and I cannot do anything but smile. 

*

Harold kisses Susan to applause. Wendy turns to me.

"I wonder sometimes if there is such a thing as love and, if so, will I ever find it. Do you think it's possible? Is there love? Is it out there? Do you believe?"

My eyes stay with Wendy, and I say what I have longed to say, "I do."