Constant Companions

::|Betty|::

I'm going to be fucking late.

I'm frantically searching for my clothes in a stranger's apartment, trying to be as quiet as possible so I don't wake him. My head is pounding from the excess alcohol from last night.

It was a mistake, but most everything in my life could be perceived that way. I pull on my shirt. I suppose there are so many different justifications for what I did last night, but only one of them would be true. Or at least that's what my therapist would say and in my opinion he's generally wrong.

Once I'm dressed, I take whatever money is in his wallet. I see no reason why he shouldn't pay for my cab fare home. Asshole didn't even buy me one drink. I'm not sure why I went home with him.

The cab pulls up as soon as I step outside, perfect timing. I resist the urge to place my forehead on the cool glass of the cab. I know it will feel great against my throbbing head but the rumbling of the road will only further my pain. I settle for leaning back and praying that the driver isn't talkative.

The five minute drive gives me plenty of time for guilt. I'm thirty-fucking-two and I'm still acting like I'm twenty-two. What the fuck was I doing? People in their 30's shouldn't be getting wasted every night and occasionally waking up in stranger's beds. They should be getting married and having kids, like everyone else I knew. I don't want that future for myself. So I choose the alternative of wasting away.

When I get home I take a quick shower, trying to make myself as presentable as possible, as quickly as possible. I'm grateful that I'm not one of those people that takes forever to get ready. My black hair is easily put up in a messy bun that's neither too dressy not too casual. Even in the throws of a hangover my olive skin doesn't need an foundation. Some eyeliner smeared around my bright blue and bloodshot eyes and I'm good to go.

I had realized too late that I only own one dress. There wasn't enough time to buy a new one; I wouldn't have spent money on one anyway. The dress that I own is thin strapped crimson satin, that Justin bought for me when we were dating. It was for one of his films, another failed attempt at David Lynch or whatever noir bullshit he was into. So the fact that I'm going to his wedding in, what is essentially his dress, is probably going to kick up some drama. And I'm okay with that. Truth be told, I'm amazed I still fit into it. Then again, my diet hadn't really changed much in 10 years.

I do a line of coke and swallow some pills to offset my hangover. I throw on some leather boots and a pair of over-sized sunglasses to hide my bloodshot eyes. Truth be told I didn't really care if anyone knew what a mess I was, but showing up to your now sober ex-boyfriend's wedding showing off your hangover and what some would call gratuitous drug use seemed like a bad idea.

Jesus Christ, I'm going to my ex-boyfriend's wedding. There are all kinds of things fucked up with that.

It doesn't take me too long to drive to the church. The only way I could describe it was quaint. A tiny little church dressed to nines for some stupid ceremony that will last 20 minutes tops. It looks like something straight out of an overproduced Hollywood love story. It's enough to make any sane person puke. But I supposed I shouldn't have expected anything less from Mr. I'm going to be some hot shot director someday. I'm sorry, I know everybody hates a cynic. At least I'm not as late as I thought I would be.

I stand awkwardly in the back of the room, unsure of what side to sit on. I can never remember which side is which.

"Bride or groom?" A guy asks taking pity on me. His beard and friendly face look familiar to me, but I can quite remember from where. He's looking at my sunglasses, probably wondering why I'm wearing them indoors.

"Groom," I mutter. "Pretty fucking pointless though as I haven't seen him in about 10 years."

"Relative?" I want to tell him to shut up with all the stupid questions. Was there a fucking screening process people had to go through?

"Ex."

He chuckles. "Man, there's like five of you running around."

"Really?"

"Well, maybe not five. I just know Justin's ex-wife is also here because their daughter is the flower girl."

So not only does Justin have a daughter, but this is also the second time he's gotten married? That's interesting. I glance around at the other people entering the church. "Fuck." I dash around to the other side of the guy and duck down.

"What are you doing?" he asks, looking amused.

"Hiding." I had just seen Josh entering the room talking to some girl, I assume his wife or girlfriend. The last time I saw Josh he was screaming at me outside of a hospital, blaming me for Justin's condition. I wouldn't put it past him to still be mad at me.

"Josh have a beef with you?"

"Something like that, I'm a bad influence." Once Josh passes us, I straighten up.

"You can't be that bad." The ceremony is about to start, and neither of us has seats.

"Wanna bet?" I smirk and turn to find somewhere to sit. Unfortunately my drugged body isn't quite coordinated at the moment and I trip and stumble. Fortunately the guy I've been talking to grabs me before I completely fall.

"Careful," he says, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. "Let's get you to a seat before you hurt yourself." I try to push him off. I don't need help. He let's go of me, but still stays close in case I need him again. "I'm Tony by the way."

I suddenly remember where I know this guy from; he's the drummer in Justin's band. I had only met him once or twice, that's why I didn't recognize him at first.

"Bethany." I can feel him tense up behind me and I know he knows who I am. It doesn't really take much to put the pieces together.

"I guess you are a bad influence," he mutters.

"Told ya," I reply as I slump down in a seat. "See you around Tony, thanks for the help."

Now time to get this stupid thing over with.