Do you remember?

Do you see? That bee, hovering by the flowers on the table. Just a little to your right… Yeah, right there. Do you see? I’ve been staring at him for a while. He reminds me of the moment we first met. I was eight, and new, and kinda weird. During recess, I’d play in the fields, braid flowers into my hair. That day, a bee must’ve thought I was a bouquet or something. It flew into my face, and I screamed. You ran over with a stick.

“Show me the enemy!” you shouted.

“Hit it!” I screamed.

You swung the stick.

Yeah, you hit something, all right.

We sat outside the principal’s office. You were wringing your hands, and I was holding an ice pack to my face.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

“It’s ‘kay.”

I smiled at you through swollen lips. You smiled sheepishly back at me.

We’ve had this talk before — about soulmates, and destiny, and whether such things exist. I know you disbelieve — you’ve always been such a scientist; but I wish you’d see that the proof is there, that it exists. Because how else can you explain our friendship? Whatever’s there between us?

Our friendship moved quickly, didn’t it? Best friends in grade school and nothing changed in junior high. Teenage politics were a joke, and we navigated like seasoned pros; because who cared that you were science club president, that I was varsity volleyball? Why did it matter, that you played in jazz band, and I organized the fashion show? In the end, armies and galaxies or maybe just teenagers could stand between us, but we’d always find our way back to each other.

I remember it vividly: a park, a breezy Saturday morning, a missed movie-date, a skipped weekend band practice. We’d chosen instead to study together under the shade of our favorite elm tree. You had flopped onto your back. Your chemistry book was splayed over your face.

“She’s right,” you’d declared. “I’m going to die a virgin.”

“Don’t listen to her. She‘s kind of a bitch.”

“But she’s your friend… ”

“Which is why I know she’s a bitch. Which is also why you should listen to me, when I say not to listen to her.”

“But she has a point! If nothing changes, I’M NEVER GONNA GET LAID.”

“You’re right. You’re weird, and geeky, and hopeless, and — ”

“I get it,” he groaned.

“I’m kidding.” I laughed. “Have patience, young padawan — your time will come.”

Your textbook flew off your face. When you sat up, your glasses were as crooked as your smile. “You’ve been watching?”

“I’ve been embracing my inner nerd. I guess you and I are both dying virgins. Low-five?”

I held out my hand but was left hanging. You just fell back against the grass, an uttered a strange noise — kinda like a frog croak, or maybe something between a groan and a laugh.

I lost my virginity before you lost yours. You remember my first boyfriend, don’t you? That jackass on the football team? You disliked him, said he looked like steroid-Ken. I chastised you for being mean, but secretly I agreed. He had disgusting veins. They were gnarly and grotesque, like tree roots under his skin.

My relationship lasted one year. Remember the night it ended? The rain was incessant, the moon yellow and bulbous. I showed up at your door, soaked to my skin. My heels were in my hands; my feet dirty from grass and mud. I was a mess, but you didn’t say a thing. You led me to a shower and handed me a towel. The door clicked gently behind me.

After I’d cleaned up, you sat me down on your futon. I told you what had happened, and you were properly indignant. The moon streamed through your windows, casting you in this ethereal white light; and it was on this bedroom stage that you delivered your epic soliloquy. You said Meathead Ken deserved bitchy Barbie, and seriously, good riddance, because they were both plastic anyway — but still, I didn’t smile. So you pulled out your sax. You played sad Coltrane, and I cried for hours. Then we ordered pizza. We raided your parents’ wine cellar and spent the rest of the night eating, getting drunk, and binge-watching Star Wars. PS. Thanks for lending me your PJ’s. I don’t know how I could’ve survived the night in that god-awful homecoming dress.

In college, things changed. I majored in business, and you did computer science. You were still a huge nerd, as you were in high school — but you got nice glasses, and started hitting the gym, and overnight, you became this big man on campus. They called you Clark Kent; you were embarrassed. You thought it was some big joke, but it really wasn’t. You really did look like Superman. My classmate thought so, too. She made me introduce her to you. She flirted, and you called her cute. You two started dating.

I’ve never told you how much I missed you in college. It wasn’t like I had nobody — I had friends and boyfriends — but somehow, for years, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was alone. The things I missed were small, inconsequential, really — like how you’d push your glasses up as we talked; or how you’d sigh exasperatedly when I dragged you out to another one of my pizza-escapades; or how you’d play your sax loudly, obnoxiously, when we studied late into the night. I missed you accompanying me to those stupid keggers. You were always cutting off my alcohol. Without you there, I just drank more.

I was in a bad place. You noticed, too. Near the end of second year, you came over. It was a Tuesday morning and I was hungover.

You handed me a coffee. “You okay?” you asked.

I took a swig.

“Absolutely fantastic,” I lied.

The call came at 2 a.m. It was the day before winter break, and some guy was using your cell. He said he didn’t know you, but you were stupid drunk downtown, and I was the first number on your speed-dial.

I was pissed. Half-asleep and in my pajamas, I drove around the city for hours looking for you. I eventually found you in a back alley, slumped against a dumpster, shit-faced and passed out. I was about to slap you silly when you mumbled her name.

That’s when I knew.

It took a ridiculous amount of work picking you up. You’d put on fifty pounds since you’d started hitting the gym, and it took some careful maneuvering to get you upright. I dragged you to my car and you fell into my back seat. Then you threw up.

“Give me your house keys,” I said.

“Lost’em,” you replied.

I drove you back to my place. I dumped you into my bed, and then I took the couch. The next morning, I made bacon and eggs. You came out to the dining table, sat down, and smiled up at me like nothing had ever happened.

I held your plate hostage over my head. “Don’t ever do that again,” I said.

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me, too. Can I have my food now?”

I handed you your plate. You dug in like you hadn’t eaten in a week. I sat down beside you with my coffee. I watched you eat. Suddenly, in my peripheral, a flurry of movement commandeered my attention. Beyond my rusted balcony, a flock of birds ascended into a clear, cerulean sky. I smiled — it was Sunday, and we were lazy, and everything was perfect.

All those years, all those memories. Can you believe how fast time flies? It’s strange to think that we’re thirty (thirty!), and here right now.

I see you by the altar. The last time you were this fancy, it was at our high school prom. We went together, got bored, left halfway through. Half an hour later, we found ourselves at Denny’s. Rockin’ our suit and dress, we ordered the most expensive items on the menu. Then we gossiped about school and played card games ’til dawn. You remember, don’t you?

A lot has changed since then. You’ve traded in your suit for a tux. Your glasses are gone; you’re wearing contacts. And you’re older, so much older — we both are. A five o’clock shadow dusts your chin; your tuxedo’s fitted across your broad chest; you’re wearing a bow-tie for the first time. You hate that bow-tie. I remember our conversation at your fitting: Hello, James Bond, I’d said. You’d grinned wryly, told me to enjoy it — I’d never see you in a monkey suit again.

I’m standing at the end of the aisle. Around us, people are twittering in eager anticipation. The good father is behind you, clutching his bible to his chest. The pianist is our high school friend. His fingers are like magic, because the Wedding March he’s playing makes everything seem so much more somehow. And you’re staring at me too. Your eyes are warm, suffused with a brightness that shames the sun.

My heart falters.

It comes alive with a thundering roar.

I’m walking now, each step taking me closer to my destination, until I’m finally there — in front of you, standing under those flower arches where hydrangeas and roses and hyacinths embrace above billowing white linen. In my peripheral, the ocean mirrors the cloudless sky, stretching into the horizon…

I burst into tears. You start laughing.

“Shut up,” I say, still crying.

“Why’re you crying?” you say, still laughing. “This is planned to perfection. The flowers, the music, the proceedings…”

“I know! Tell me something I don’t know!”

“Okay! Then why are you crying?”

“I’m happy, you jerk. Just let me be happy, okay?”

“Okay! I’m glad you’re happy!”

Suddenly, your arms are around me, and I’m spiraling through history. Your smile is the same as it was when we first met; your cologne is the first one I bought you in high school; your arms are tight as they lift me off my feet, and they are strong and firm, just as they were in college…

“The bride’s coming!” someone hollers.

And then you are gone. Gravity has slammed me to my feet. “I should sit down,” I mumble, and you nod absently. I step past you, and as I pass the pianist, he smiles at me.

“Great job, George,” I say. “Don’t screw up the real thing.”

“Have I ever let you down?”

“Never.”

“You know it.” He winks.

I started my wedding planning business five years ago. George and I have done at least a hundred weddings to date, but this one is special. This one is my best work to date. It will be my best for years to come. And it’s almost uncanny, how perfect everything is. Even mother nature’s playing her part: just listen to the waves lapping gently against the white sand; look at these flower arches, not a single blossom out of place; feel the sun — not too high, not too low — in the perfect place to drench us all in brilliant, golden light.

I return to my seat. I squeeze in beside your aunt and a stranger whom I’ve never met. I spread my hands against my lilac dress and look up at you. You’re smiling, but your eyes… They’re not on me.

I follow your gaze to see her walking toward you now. Her hair is the color of honey wheat; her eyes are amber and kind. Her dress is white and pure; it drapes demurely to her feet. I helped her choose that dress. You used to say your favorite thing about her was her smile — that smile’s what everyone’s looking at now.

She’s in front of you now. She’s standing where I was, not a minute earlier. The priest is clutching his bible to his chest. George is grinning like a fool. You are smiling, and she is smiling, and the two of you say your I do’s. You dip her in a kiss straight out of a Hollywood movie. I look away. I turn to the flowers on the table. There’s the bee, still hovering by the petals. It flies close, so close, that it looks like it will land. It never does. A missed moment, I think, that’s all it is — as it turns and flies toward the sunset.