It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (31 page)

Lesson learned:
A single bandage can’t fix a broken heart, but a lot of stitches can.

C
an’t sleep. Again. Nikki arrived in town a few hours ago to celebrate Kelly’s engagement party. She’s staying here, in my bed (of course). In fact, she’s snoring as I write this. Well, not snoring, but sweetly purring, I should say. A few other girls from our season are all arriving tomorrow to join in the celebration, which should make for one hell of a weekend. However, I find myself slightly nervous because I haven’t seen any of them since the announcement of our breakup. I wonder if they will ask me any questions. It’s not as if they don’t know about my breakup—hell, the whole world knows—but isn’t it funny that no matter how long it’s been, there are still people you haven’t personally told? It’s the one instance where having a lot of friends feels like a disadvantage.

But the impending arrival of my friends and questions isn’t what’s keeping me up tonight. Instead, it’s this weird sensation I feel. And it’s all because tonight, for the first time ever, I actually watched my entire proposal.

What started off as a casual night in for Nikki, Kelly, and myself, complete with Thai food and red wine (of course) turned rather eventful sometime between finishing off the chicken pad thai and my second glass. My phone chimed, notifying me that I’d been tagged in a Facebook video. Curious, I click it. What I see is the last thing I am expecting . . . my proposal video. It’s so random that I can’t help but be intrigued.

Nikki catches a glimpse of my phone, glares at me, and asks in a motherly tone, “Umm, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’ve never seen my entire proposal,” I reply.

Despite it being filmed and viewed by millions, I have never seen the happiest day of my life. I’d seen bits and pieces, but never all of it. Sure, I witnessed it firsthand, but with all the nerves, I only remember parts of it.

“Uh, okay, but I don’t think now is the time to see it for the first time.”

“Why not? I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine, but I don’t think you should.”

“I agree,” chimes in Kelly. “It’s pointless.”

“Seriously, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. I want to see it.”

“Totally unhealthy,” warns Nikki.

“I’ll open another bottle. I have a feeling you’re going to need it,” says Kelly, who always seems to know the right thing to do.

They both know I’m going to be stubborn and watch the damn thing. But being good friends, they are trying to protect me from the turmoil it is likely to cause. That, and their warning will allow them to say “I told you so” afterward.

And so I click the link and watch myself take that stroll down the stone pathway in my floor-length cream gown. There I am, standing nervously surrounded by flowers, waiting for Number Twenty-Six. It is exactly how I remembered it.

“How are you watching this right now?” asks Nikki.

“I’m fine. Really.”

I continue watching.

His hands are gripping mine as he begins his speech, which seems memorized. It starts off with baseball and love, blah blah blah. And I have to admit, his tone is rather preachy, making the speech sound borderline cheesy. Not that it mattered. I was in love and no cheesy speech was going to change that.

When it’s my turn to speak, I begin by regurgitating my own memorized speech. It starts off as rehearsed, expressing my gratitude followed by my concerns and fears when it came to him. My plan to make him sweat it out one last time works and I can see his grip on my hands slowly loosen. This was supposed to be the part where I threw a curveball and told him how much I loved him, at least according to the plan, but I’ve clearly forgotten the rest of my speech, so I just repeat over and over how I knew this was too good to be true. His hands begin to pull away more, and panic radiates from his eyes.
Shit, screw the speech
, I remember thinking and instead professed my undying love for him.

Life makes its way back into his eyes at the sound of those three words he had been waiting for weeks to hear me say. He drops to one knee and opens a little black box, revealing the most beautiful, round, haloed diamond ring I had ever laid eyes on, and utters the four magical words every woman dreams of hearing: “Will you marry me?”

I look so happy. I’ve never seen myself smile like that. I am literally watching myself be in love. Moments later the clip ends, and I put the phone down.

“Are you okay?” Nikki asks.

“Yeah . . . surprisingly, I am.”

And I really am. As I watched our proposal, it was as if I was watching a stranger. I don’t recognize the man who had professed his love for me as he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I don’t recognize the smile on his face. I don’t recognize the smile on mine either. It’s like I don’t know those two people. Instead, I’m watching the proposal of two strangers who would never have a wedding.

Ugh, that damn wedding. It was all the rage for a hot minute. Within hours of the public announcement celebrating our official engagement, people started asking about our wedding plans.
When are you going to get married? Where? Have you picked out a dress yet?
Though we had been secretly engaged for two months at that point, it had been only a hot second before everyone wanted to know the details. Part of me wanted to tell people to settle down and remind them that we had dated for only eight weeks before getting engaged, but the polite part of me smiled and said, “Hopefully soon, maybe even next spring,” which was the short-lived truth.

The moment we got engaged, we started thinking about when and where we would get married. It was so obvious to us that we were going to live happily ever after that the chance of
not
making it down the aisle never crossed our minds. We had gotten engaged on May 9, which happened to fall on a Saturday the following year, and decided what better way to celebrate our love story than to get married on our anniversary.

I had been in the early giddy phases of planning our wedding between the time the show ended and our engagement was announced. I spent hours each day scouring Pinterest and various bridal websites. I was fixated on the wedding gown the most, but flowers, venues, bridesmaid dresses, and even the cake were also priorities. I remember one particular day, we were both sitting on the couch. He of course was watching sports, I of course was scrolling through wedding photos on my Pinterest app.

“What are you looking at over there?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I replied with the type of giggle that was a dead giveaway that I was up to something mischievous.

“Haha, what are you looking at?”

“I may or may not be looking at wedding ideas.”

I didn’t know what his response would be. Would he think I was getting ahead of myself? Would he freak out that I was already in planning mode despite having known each other for a total of two months?

“Awwww, I love that,” he said.

“You do?”

“Yeah, I love that you are so excited to marry me that you’re already planning. I think it’s cute. What kind of dress are you thinking?”

Wow, definitely not the answer I was expecting! From what I hear from all my married friends, the grooms never give a rat’s ass about things such as flowers and dresses. But not my man, he was ecstatic. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been all that surprised—turns out he was ecstatic not because I was planning our wedding, but because I was “excited to marry
him.
”

About four months into our engagement, we actually went and looked at a wedding venue together. It was a fancy hotel that sat along a beautiful lake an hour outside of Atlanta. Posh, with sprawling green lawns, a golf course, and an infinity pool, the place was extravagant but also cozy and charming. The hotel’s event planner took us on a tour of the property and showed us different options for the reception and ceremony, including a beautiful barn—which I despised. Don’t get me wrong, it was gorgeous and the Southern girl in me had no qualms about getting married in a barn, but it just didn’t feel right. Something was off. Our families weren’t there, the excitement wasn’t there, and for the first time, I feared that my heart wasn’t there. Things had already begun to change, and the strain on our relationship was making me question if I was ready to spend forever with him. The excitement I once felt about getting married was fading in the harsh light of reality. That would be the only wedding venue we ever looked at.

As the days and months passed, my searches on Pinterest became scarce. Talk of our wedding was practically nonexistent by the time we hit the five-month mark. It wasn’t that we deliberately avoided the topic; we just weren’t ready to be married, and we knew it. By November, it was clear that the only way we were getting married was if I got knocked up (a prospect that mortified me but enthused him beyond words). Eventually, the wedding wasn’t even on our radar. Our families wanted updates because even they noticed the planning had stalled. I remember telling my mom over lunch one day that I didn’t think we were ready to get married yet.

“Good. I think you need to take plenty of time and make sure this is right for you,” she said.

This statement kind of caught me off guard, and though I know she meant it kindly, concern was plastered across her entire face like a bad spray tan. She wasn’t the only one concerned. I was too. The fact that we had gone from ecstatic about planning a wedding to completely ignoring that a wedding was even supposed to happen was another indication that our relationship was on the rocks—as if the constant arguments weren’t enough. But despite the pit of instinct buried in my stomach, still I remained engaged.

But that was long ago. Now, having watched my actual proposal, I’m able to see who we were in that moment compared to who we are now. It makes me understand not just how wrong my intuition would end up being but, more important, how wrong we were as a couple. And though it brings a sense of sadness, it also, oddly, brings a sense of relief.

In all honesty, I made a mistake when I trusted my heart. I fell in love with the wrong guy for me. It’s not the first time my picker was off, and probably won’t be the last. When it comes to life, and especially love, none of us do it perfectly. We go with what we feel, we make a choice, and sometimes we realize we were wrong. There’s no debating it, it’s not subjective. We just flat-out got it wrong. It’s kind of like missing a few questions on a multiple-choice test, but getting enough right that you still get a passing grade. One wrong answer doesn’t amount to complete failure. Relationships are the same; we can look back and see all the wrong answers we gave, but don’t forget the one you got right—the decision to get out; to swallow your pride and accept that you were wrong, and by getting that answer right, you get your passing grade and the class is over. You’ve passed, and now you move on to the next course, the next part of your life . . .

Lesson learned:
Mess up, fess up, and move on.

W
ith the realization that I am no longer the person I was when I got engaged, I realized that the time to figure out who I am is now or never. I don’t know what I want in life, or who I want to be. I don’t think any of us truly ever know, but most people have a better sense of it than I do, that’s for sure. One thing I do know is that I don’t want to be the damaged girl who never amounted to anything because of a broken heart. I don’t want to be the girl who let a man hold her back, who let a failed relationship keep her from loving again. I don’t want to be the girl who forces herself to stay in one place because she’s afraid to see greener grass.

And so, I decided since I don’t want to be that girl, I’m not going to be. Remember how I wanted to run away from this place and all the harsh memories it holds and move somewhere different? Well, I fucking did it! Kind of. In the past few days, I’ve made great use of my copious spare time by getting serious about moving and even researching my dwindling list of likely cities. Taking everything into account, I decided to cross Austin and Chicago off my list. I know absolutely no one in Austin and though I love the vibe, I fear the slow pace might cause me to feel unsettled. I need distractions, lots of them. When it came to Chicago I realized two things. One, I would never survive the brutal cold. I’m just not that tough. And two, I would never survive the torture of having to scan every restaurant and bar to make sure Twenty-Five wasn’t around.

So it all boiled down to Los Angeles and New York City. Both were strong contenders. On the plus side, Los Angeles has the appealing weather, and despite being clueless as to my next career move, there are endless possibilities there. It’s not called the City of Dreams for nothing. But I’ve been in L.A. for the better part of a year and I have bittersweet feelings toward it, considering it’s where this shitshow started in the first place. And it’s awfully far from home. It’s one thing to want to get away, but to move cross-country, be in a different time zone and so far from the comforts of home had me worried. When it came to New York City, I realized that it too offers a bounty of opportunities, yet comes with a clean slate. Those same bittersweet memories won’t haunt me there. But you know what will? The damn cold.