Page 71 of One Last Thing
‘She’s a wonder woman, juggling all that.’
‘Yeah.’ I finish off the last of my drink.
‘It’s very exciting.’ She hesitates, asking gently. ‘And how’s your dad doing?’
‘He’s okay, thanks,’ I say as convincingly as possible. ‘He’s doing good.’
She smiles politely and the conversation, as it always does, falters there. Her phone vibrates on the table and she looks relieved to check who it is, while I glance over my shoulder to see how Dominic is getting on at the bar.
It is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment.
I see him standing next to Carey, side by side. Her back is to me and she is smiling up at him. He is smiling down at her. I watch as their little fingers entwine for just a split second. But a purposeful one. And that feeling I’ve been fighting for a while now swirls inside me: unease. Distrust. Agonising despair. A gut feeling that’s been scrambling for my attention since I noticed a couple of months ago that he was growing distant with me. He’s working a lot more, going out a lot more. When I’ve tried to talk about the wedding, he’s been reluctant to give opinions, almost dismissive. He doesn’t message when he goes out. He never leaves his phone unattended with me in the room. Something is different about him.
I’ve been trying to convince myself I’m making it up in my head.
As their little fingers link and then drop, their eyes locked and shining, the two of them sharing a moment –secretive, exciting, wicked – I turn away, my face flushing, my heart sinking, wondering how we go from here. I will need him to confirm it.
But I know.
I’m too numb to do anything at first. They bring back the drinks and chat as normal, while I nod along, but internallydisappearing into what this means. The heartbreaking consequences. Losing everything we’ve built together. All that time and energy we put into this relationship, our home, our future plans. God, what a waste. What a fuckingwaste. I can’t bear the idea of him touching me, but losing him is worse. When Carey launches into an anecdote, I can’t look at her or listen to her voice anymore. I stand up so suddenly, I almost knock over the drinks on the table. Carey stops talking abruptly.
‘Dominic, we have to go,’ I say, grabbing my bag.
‘What? Megan, we—’
But I don’t wait for him to finish his sentence, I turn and walk out of the bar, getting out my phone and ordering an Uber. Dominic follows me out, bewildered.
‘Megan, we can’t leave like this! What’s going on? What’s happened?’
I spin round to face him. ‘Don’t lie to me, okay, Dominic? Please don’t lie.’
He looks stunned, amused even. ‘Okaaay?’
‘You and Carey. How long has it been going on?’ I ask bluntly.
His half-smile vanishes. His eyes tell me everything. They’re panicked. Not confused at such an outrageous accusation.Panicked. He opens his mouth to say something.
‘Don’t. Lie.’ I remind him in a low, clipped voice. ‘It will only be worse for you. I know, Dominic. Please don’t humiliate me any further by pretending.’
He closes his mouth. He swallows. His eyes drop to the floor.
I tell him to get in the Uber if he doesn’t want to make a scene in front of all his friends. He tries to take my hand inthe backseat but I pull it away. When we get home, he tells me some of the truth, I find out most of it later. He feels embarrassed, ashamed, angry at himself. He’s so sorry.He’s so, so sorry.
That night, in the haze of pain and betrayal, a bizarrely cold and detached part of my brain considers that it makes sense for him and Carey to be together. Dominic is handsome, successful and charming. Carey is also successful, charming and beautiful with her glossy blonde hair, fresh skin and smattering of freckles, and she has a designer-boho sense of style that screams she comes from that posh, old-money, aristocratic kind of wealth that Dominic acts like he came from, too. The two of themmake sense. I don’t make sense in this equation.
Comically, I also think,Now no one will see those centrepieces,and feel irrationally upset about that, as well as all my other beautiful, wasted wedding plans.
I don’t tell many people the real reason why the engagement is over. Dominic is pathetically grateful for that, telling me that him and Carey were a big mistake, and he appreciates me being so classy about the delicate situation.
I don’t tell him that I’m nottryingto be classy or win his gratitude, I’m trying to protect myself from everyone knowing exactly what I feared all along: that I was never good enough for Dominic. That I tried and failed. That I wasn’t smart or funny or beautiful or successful enough to keep someone like him interested and happy. That, like in every other aspect of my life, no matter how hard I worked or how well I carried myself, I couldn’t fake it. I was, ultimately, not enough.
***
Two weeks before my father dies, I’m scrolling through Instagram when I see Carey has uploaded a photo. It’s a picture of her kissing Dominic’s cheek while he takes a selfie and the caption reads: ‘Blissful weekend in the Cotswolds with this one.’
Putting my phone down after staring at the picture for a good long while, I realise I only ever come away from Instagram feeling like I’ll never compare. I cannot delete the agonising despair Dominic is putting me through, but I can delete all my social media.
It helps.
