The trip should have been easy to look forward to. My best friend Lauren had planned most of it, with help from Priya, Hannah, and my cousin Jess. There would be wine, a spa appointment I had not wanted to pay for but secretly needed, a ridiculous bride sash, one hike everyone would complain about, and a dinner where people said emotional things after two drinks and then pretended not to remember in the morning.
I almost canceled twice.
Not because I did not love them. I did. Those women had held me through layoffs, bad hair decisions, my father’s surgery, a year of panic attacks I called “being busy,” and the early Marcus days when he brought me flowers and made me feel chosen in a way I had been hungry for without admitting it.
But something about leaving Marcus alone that weekend sat wrong in my chest.
He had decided not to have a bachelor party, which sounded mature on paper. Responsible. Above nonsense. His explanation was that he needed the weekend to work and make up for the time he would take off during the wedding week.
“I’m not twenty-five anymore,” he told me, standing in the kitchen with his coffee. “I don’t need some dumb night out with guys acting like fools. I’d rather use the weekend to get ahead so I can actually be present for the wedding.”
Very adult.
Very responsible.
Very fake.
The weirdness had started in small ways. He stopped answering video calls unless I texted first. When I asked what he had eaten for lunch, he gave vague answers.
“Just grabbed something.”
“Nothing exciting.”
“I’m slammed.”
Marcus used to complain about overpriced sandwiches, send me pictures of weird coffee shop wall art, or call me from the car just to talk for five minutes. Suddenly, his days became foggy. If I asked a follow-up, he would sound affectionate but slightly rushed, like I was adorable for caring and inconvenient for noticing.
He also kept bringing up the resort.
“You have to go, Claire.”
“Your friends worked hard on this.”
“Don’t cancel just because wedding stuff is stressful.”
“You deserve to enjoy yourself.”
Then, one night, he said the line that lodged in me like a splinter.
“Don’t make it weird by staying home.”
Don’t make it weird.
Why would it be weird for a bride to stay home the week before her wedding unless someone really needed her gone?
On Thursday night, the evening before I was supposed to leave, I stood in our bedroom trying to zip a duffel bag that did not need to be as heavy as it was. I had packed three outfits for two days because bachelorette weekends require women to prepare for several emotional climates: cute brunch, casual hike, fake-relaxed dinner, emergency crying in the bathroom, and one backup dress in case everybody else looked hotter than expected.
Marcus came up behind me while I was kneeling on the floor, sat on the edge of the bed, and watched me fight with the zipper.
“You’re bringing half the closet.”
“I’m preparing for weather, photos, and regret.”
He laughed, but the laugh was a touch too loud.
Then he leaned forward, wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, and rested his chin on my shoulder.
The gesture should have comforted me. Instead, my whole body stiffened before I could stop it.
“I want you to have fun,” he said. “Stop worrying about me.”
It would have been cute if it did not sound exactly like a man auditioning for a jury.
I forced a laugh. “I’m not worrying.”
