When You Must Stop a Wedding

His phone pings; the morning sun glares. Kyle staggers to the bathroom mirror amidst empty bottles for inducing oblivion. Red-eyed and dishevelled, with stubble masking gray complexion and black hair in matted clumps; he checks his phone. Today’s date snipes him between the eyes: one hour till Lisa and Dan’s wedding. After jolting into action, he fumbles for keys, searches for the invitation and trips on the doormat. He sprints out, although still frowsy, and squints at bright sun as tyres screech for the highway.

He knew, he knew Dan was cheating on Lisa. He knew but said nothing. Dan had been sneaking around with Maria Smyth for months. No better than Kyle’s father. At 14, he discovered his father’s affair; hushed phone calls, not now, later, you know I do, clock glancing, phone checking. It festered for a year inside Kyle. Hey bud, let’s keep this between us. It’s not what you think. I’ve bought that new game you wanted; let’s play it together. Then his mother realised. She was frenzied with anger when Kyle found her, arms flailing in his father’s wardrobe, frantic snipping, fabric shreds cascading, hangers clattering, sleeves falling, curled threads tossed, dust motes swarming. Mum, stop, stop. With his father, flared nostrils, cold eyes, shaking fists, I told you to keep your mouth shut. Now look what you’ve done.

Kyle runs a hand across his cracked lips. Changes gear; traffic slows. His jaw tight, clock ticking. Congestion reaches gridlock. A snake of car lights.  A labrador sticks its head out, affronted eyes, tongue an abrasive ribbon. Kyle thuds his head on the steering wheel as his mind’s voice drones on and on. It’s for the best. You would have bailed out. The steering wheel heats up; he tightens his grip, squinting at sun punishing tarmac.

Kyle’s pool nights with Dan had been festering for a while, like the way he flipped when Kyle beat him; Dan hated losing. Then, six months ago, Maria Smyth was draped over the bar counter with a friend. After saving her car from the scrap heap, bringing it back to life, Dan spent their pool games watching her, buying drinks, leaning close, talking facing her, touching her hair. Kyle suggested they play pool in a different bar; he couldn’t define why. Maybe he wanted to delay the inevitable; maybe he wanted their friendship from schooldays, uncomplicated and carefree; maybe he knew if Dan crossed a line, nothing would be the same again. Instead, they continued at that bar; Kyle became the cover story, nursing his beer night after night like a warm grievance while Dan was in the parking lot shadows with Maria.

The wedding invitation has Lisa and Dan’s embossed names, interlocked rings, elegant and polished. Lisa. Lisa. Lisa. Kyle runs a hand through his hair. This had nothing to do with Lisa and how she laughed at the same weird stuff as Kyle that Dan didn’t think was funny and how her smile was contagious and showed the two dimples on her cheeks and how her hair was a deeper shade of auburn in the evening light and how it lightened in the sun and how, when her dog died, all the mischief went out of her eyes and sadness washed over them and Kyle wanted to take her pain away, and how there’s a parallel universe where they are together but Kyle doesn’t go there, no, no, he always stops himself, this was not about that at all.

As traffic speeds up, Kyle slams his foot down, swerves towards the highway exit, through back roads to the guest parking, slams the brakes. Music drifts from the chapel, and he darts there, crashes through the entrance, stumble-runs up the aisle and roars. Lisa and Dan turn to him, wide stare, Dan’s hands curl into fists, but Lisa has the look in her eyes that Kyle had hoped for, that tells him he’s not too late.

Hallie Oakwood is an art teacher and writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Hotch Potch Literature and Art, Fairfield Scribes, 101 words, The Wise Owl, Micromance Magazine and others.