Peter

The love of my life got married two weeks ago.

It was nothing fancy, I was told. A small courtroom ceremony with only immediate family and close friends.

He wore a tweed suit jacket, just like he once said he would. She wore an off-white dress — symbolic of an imperfectly perfect love — just like he once said I would.

In his vows, I was told, he spoke of loyalty and perseverance. Of braving life side-by-side, bearing nothing but honesty and a fierce loyalty to one another.

He vowed to be everything for her, I thought, that I could never be for him.

I imagined him standing there at that government-funded altar, that same curly head of hair now slicked back (save for that one stubborn strand that always falls right above his left eyebrow) and that same crooked smile he could never afford to fix.

Does he still try to speak like Hemingway when he’s being serious?, I wondered. And when he inevitably fails, does he still stutter and throw his head back in laughter?

He had arranged her bouquet to match her eyes, I was told, and wow, of course his romantic ass actually did it, I thought. I’m sure green bouquets were much easier to arrange than brown ones.

I imagined the two sharing their first dance as man and wife, his arms around her waist, reciting the same waltz we’d come up with, many moons ago. I never could quite listen to “Hannah Hunt” the same again.

He is happy now, I’m told. Smiling brighter and laughing full-bellied, the same person he was five years ago, before the incident.

Before I abandoned him, abruptly and without explanation, leaving him on his own to pick up the pieces.

Peter was the new kid in our music class, a rarity for one’s senior year of high school.

The first time I saw him, he struck me as an underdog from one of those indie films— worn bookbag slung over his shoulder, corduroy jacket to match, notebook and pencil in his hand, soft bags under his eyes. He had a reserved quality to him that would repel most people, but to me, felt like an invitation. From one quiet soul to another.

I loved him from the start.

We were just children then. A pair of angsty 17-year-old high schoolers, reciting classic American poetry, smoking tobacco out of pipes, pretending to be grown-ups. Oh, how badly we so wanted to grow up.

And when he came to see me perform in the school musical, when he spent the final five dollars to his name and trudged those two miles through the frigid winter air to keep his promise, I knew then that he loved me, too.

But soon the time came to finally grow up, and Peter and I were forced apart —between us, a distance of two hundred miles and a love left unspoken.

Nearly two years had passed by the time we’d both mustered enough courage (and consumed enough alcohol) to say what we never could, to finally let each other in.

The following weeks felt like paradise — we spent our days in his new oceanside home rediscovering between us what time and distance had eroded, getting to know one another once more, and spinning daydreams of future plans.

But when he first told me he loved me — in a letter written a thousand times over, the one crumpled, then uncrumpled, then tucked hastily into an envelope — when I read that final line, I panicked.

It felt too good to be true.

Because it was.

Because by that time, it was already too late. I’d long been living in the throes of an abusive relationship I didn’t know how to get out of, a fact I didn’t know how to tell Peter. Couldn’t bring myself to tell him.

And how could I? How could I tell him that I was at the mercy of a man who had left bruises on my arms and cuts on my cheek when he discovered the messages? That when that man found out I’d made the two-hundred mile trip to see Peter, he made sure I needed a visit to the hospital and no longer had my car to take me there?

I was an animal ensnared in a vicious trap, one set by time and circumstance, from which there was no escape. And so I surrendered. I surrendered to what felt like fate — my fate, cruel and unusual.

My final night with Peter was spent on the beach. He had no idea, and I think at the time, neither did I. We were huddled in a large blanket on the shore, staring up at the stars, music blaring through shitty phone speakers.

“I’m so happy I could die,” I remember him saying. And I remember wishing in that moment that I would, too.

When we said goodnight for what would be the last time, I felt a fiery hatred swelling in my core — a fierce resentment for the Universe and the pain it was inflicting on me.

But above all, it was hatred for myself, and the pain I was about to inflict on the person I loved most.

I left Peter behind. And it remains the cross I will bear for the rest of my life.

She is absolutely lovely, his wife. The love of his life.

This, he told me himself.

She was just what I needed, at just the right time, he’d said. (No elaboration was necessary. We had both known what he meant.)

I’m happy for you, I’d told him, and meant it.

The glare of the phone screen cast more distance between us than miles ever had. Five years of radio silence and utter confusion had wedged a divide between us beyond repair.

I stared as those three dots blinked, stopped, blinked again, then stopped again. The wedding was scheduled for the following month, and I had no doubt that his fiance was sat by his side, dictating every word he typed.

After long years of absence, the truth was out. And as always, it was too little, too late.

I knew Peter and I would never see each other again.

I sat in a daze of disbelief and apathy as I watched the dust from a long-forgotten, once-beautiful story — our story — settle into nothing but a few final, meager sentences,

I’m sorry you had to go through that and I forgive you. Actually, if you hadn’t convinced me to move back home, I never would have met Sarah. So I guess I should thank you. But we can’t continue to be friends, and I think you understand why.

and then finally, to one last nail on the coffin.

Goodbye, old friend.

The love of my life got married two weeks ago.

It was nothing fancy, I was told. It was the quaint, intimate wedding he’d always wanted, to the lover he had always deserved.

I was told the glow in his face had reappeared, and his dry, witty sense of humor resurfaced after years spent in a deep depression.

I imagined him at the altar in that tweed suit jacket, that same goofy grin spread across his face, same head of brown curls that now another runs her fingers through.

I imagined him happy at long last, finally free to share the love he always had so much of to give.

I imagined this, and from somewhere deep within, I felt something like peace.

Like the final chapters of those classic novels we once shared, I knew our story had come to a close. And like every story ever finished, Peter and I’s story leaves in its wake only memories, ghosts of emotions past — and above all, crucial lessons, should we choose to learn them.

Goodbye, old friend.