Marcus was easy, and I appreciated that about him. When I told him the wedding had been canceled, he'd been sweet and uncomfortable, yielding half of our "non-refundable" retainer within minutes and offering me our somewhat-edited engagement photoshoot. I told him it was fine. I couldn't stand to see another hundred photos of Sam and I, anyways.

 

I wondered if Sam had ever thought to ask for the photos, or return anything. With his shiny new IB job, he had the finances to leave it; he could have covered another three of these weddings, in any case. I offered to pay for half the wedding as a matter of principle, but I'd also never expected him to strand me in this bleak, unyielding ocean of debt. It's funny. Of all the things I questioned about Sam over the years, it was never his loyalty to me.

 

Things change, of course. Men leave their fiancées for the Himalayas and for their coworkers. The latter accusation was unproven, but the brunette did meal-prep sweet potato and avocado wraps for the both of them. I forbade Sam from eating them when he'd texted me the story, laughing. He was a single bite away from seeing a future with Kate from HR, with little children with dirty-blond hair and bruises on their elbows, one with a chipped tooth. 

 

But all of this was fine. Frankly, I didn't think of it much anymore. After all, I was the one saddled with a beautiful, lacy gown and a thousand wedding debts in a microscopic East Village apartment, perpetually on the phone with a mildly disgruntled vendor. I'd taken time off to, quote, process a significant life change that will not affect my long-term performance, and I was with these calls.

 

Initially, I thought I'd do what conventional wisdom prescribed, calling the few friends I had from college to go out and live life. After schedules seemed to clash for three weeks, we decided to meet at Sharon's for the Bachelor and rosé (tasteless, I thought). Overall, it was a depressing experience; we'd drifted more than I suspected throughout the years, and confessing that our engagement had fallen through because Sam wanted to find himself was so cliché it veered into self-degradation. 

 

As a result, I'd become a serial homebody. It was for the best: I had boxes to unpack, returns to make. Each morning at around 4 AM, I'd make some instant coffee; I didn't sleep much anymore. After a session of online yoga, I'd settle down at the kitchen table to create an agenda for the day, crawling through my planning binders, listening to a podcast. It was methodical and structured in a way Sam might have called sociopathic if he was around. Luckily, he wasn't.

 

Between refolding the sage green napkins and printing a shipping label for the tea lights, my mother called. She'd never called much before the ordeal had occurred, but, after Sam, she'd become disconcertingly invested in me. Emails with confirmations for wellness classes. Think pieces on post-relationship recovery. I laughed at a book she'd mailed me entitled A Women's Guide to Getting Back on Her Feet, boasting a pink, millennial cover. If anything, I was adjusting better than her.

"Have you left the house yet?" she asked me the same things each time. 

"No. It's fine. I returned the centerpieces for the rehearsal dinner, though." I was proud of that return, specifically. One of them was slightly broken in the move of the boxes from Sam's apartment to here; nevertheless, the woman who managed the store promptly initiated the return.

"Come home for a week, Laura. We can talk about this here."

"Plane tickets are expensive, Amma. Plus, I have to go back to work soon. I'll go out, okay?" It was difficult for her to understand that there was nothing to discuss, which was understandable. It had been 26 years since she'd endured a breakup.

 

I returned to the binders with a name in mind. Two summers ago, Sam and I had gone to a bar in Brooklyn, a speakeasy with crooning jazz and flushed, wine-drunk guests. Sam was entranced by the band that was playing that night, his eyes widening as if he was witnessing an eclipse. His hands traced circles on the backs of mine, proclaiming that when we get married, this is it. I was overjoyed and procured the band's contact information immediately.

"Laura! Sorry to hear about the wedding, but listen, I'm busy until the end of the week, at least." Bobby had a charming accent, but that couldn't stop me from pinning him down. "You know, we're getting a lot of good gigs these days. We have a new manager, Bonnie, and—"

"No worries! This is just regarding the money we—I—put down for the night." With the phone tucked under my ear, I flipped through the binder until I found the contract we'd signed. "I know we can't get the cancellation fee back and I canceled the flight tickets, but is there anything we can do about the rest of the money? I mean, this is around thirty days notice, so—" 

"I'm a bit busy right now—". An understatement—his name was being chanted, faintly in the background. "—but tonight, after our show, we should have a second. I'll text you the information."

The thought of walking into a bar made me nauseous. "I'm not sure—" 

The phone hung up. Briefly, I considered asking Marcus to come with me, before I remembered that all we'd ever discussed was the wedding. I rubbed my eyes until they were so blurry that it took a moment to focus on the source of the buzzing beneath my elbow.

 

Later, on the subway, my chest tightened. A couple nestled into one another across from me, and I felt a pang of loss, accompanied by the almost overwhelming need to ask them to separate. This, in turn, made me feel like a prude. As I walked through the streets, I began to recite my tasks to calm myself. Return the silver lamp my mother had sworn would look perfect near the guest book. Cancel on the florist I'd been messaging for months. Examine the small, dainty boxes on my dresser, perfumed with Sam's cologne and the perfectly incensed air of the jeweler's. There was a slogan on the back of one of them, something about unconditional love.

 

Slipping into the bar, between the stream of stumbling couples, I thought I felt a hand nearing mine—Sam's. It was the carefree riffs, the gentle smell of cigarette smoke and Moscow mules, each dissonant chord ringing and resolving. I didn't sit; I couldn't without him. 

 

During a lull, Bobby noticed me, stiff and paled, leaping off the stage. "Sorry about making you come all this way." His voice was gentle in the precise way that let my shoulders slump. "Bonnie's happy. She'll probably let up on you." 

Bonnie was, funnily enough. She agreed to return enough of my deposit and asked if I'd stay a bit longer, maybe grab a drink. I declined, but Bonnie insisted. I reluctantly settled at a table near the outskirts of the crowd. Bobby was taking a dance interlude; for a relatively burly man, he was surprisingly nimble. 

 

I didn't remember the last time I'd been alone at a bar. In fact, there was no time I'd been at a bar before "Investment Banking Sam", before "Santa Monica Sam", before "High School Sweetheart Sam". For once, I noticed everyone else: the young man with a leather jacket. The tired bartender. The older woman who rested her chin on her hands, sighing, a breath of joy escaping her mouth at every bout of applause. It was enough to be alone with the world. Just this once.