The Best Friend's Guide to Surviving Matrimony (and All That Other Happy Shit)

I got a certain sense of strange nostalgia as I put my car in park in the wide driveway. The feeling trailed along behind me like a familiar ghost as I grabbed the cognac from the passenger seat and made my way up the walk. Everything was familiar: my heels clicking on the concrete, the trees casting swaying shadows on the lawn, even the peculiar smell of his empty recycling bin that sat in the corner of the quaint Victorian porch. The ring of the doorbell even seemed like deja vu. I felt like I’d done this one thousand times in some past life. Honestly, it felt like it had been an entire lifetime since I’d done this.

The large front door creaked open after a few moments, a little cherub blond head poking out that brought an automatic smile to my face.

“I don't remember ordering a stripper!”

“Shut up,” I quipped, giving him a blithe punch in the arm. “Let me in.”

“Sheesh. Six months apart and this is how you greet me?”

“I brought you liquor,” I protested.

Brightening, he peeled back the door more. “You did?”

I raised the bottle to eye level as proof.

“Well, come right on in then!”

I sidled past him and entered the house, laughing. Michael swung the door shut behind me, sealing us in his dark foyer. “How's life been treatin' ya, Jo?”

“Pretty damn good, actually.” I collapsed into his arms with a suspire, squeezing his rotund midsection. “And you? You're still chunky,” I noted.

“Not as chunky as Vince Neil,” he retorted as always, not missing a beat. “I've been good. Glad to be back.”

“It's good to have you back, big man. Not much hell to raise when you guys are gone.”

He chuckled. “So I've heard.” Releasing me, he made a grand gesture toward the living room with his arm. “Shall we?”

We migrated to the dimly-lit den. Despite it being mid-April and pleasantly warm outside, his deep red curtains were drawn shut, blocking out the daylight. He had something slow and reminiscent of Zeppelin playing low on his stereo. A halo of vanilla-scented candles adorning the mantle completed the vampire lair. He kept it like this all year long, rain or shine. He thought it was sexy – he called it his “Bachelor Pad.”

Michael flopped down into one of the big, winged armchairs, suspiring. I followed suit, plopping onto the couch.

“So,” he drawled in his 'seductive party host' voice, “What's the occasion, madame?”

“Satchel.” I paused, and he didn't say anything, so I continued. “Getting married.”

His face soured slightly in that pretentious-but-loveable Michael Starr kind of way. “I was expecting something more along the lines of 'I missed you terribly,' but I suppose if you'd rather talk about his boring ass...”

“I did miss you, you dork,” I giggled, an easy smile that I hadn't felt in months warming my face. “I'm just concerned, is all.”

“About what?”

“Carrie.”

He was silent. I could see him pondering it, could see the tiny gears working diligently in his head like they usually had to when decoding simple equations. Then his mouth fell into a little “o” as it dawned on him. “Oh, fuck...”

“See what I mean?”

“Jesus,” he said, starting to look almost mortified. “That isn't good.”

“Tell me about it.”

I shook my head. Ever since I introduced them nine years ago, Carrie had had an undying infatuation for Satchel. They'd have a brief five-month tryst during which they did nothing but roll in the sheets all day, but once the thrill wore out, he dropped her like a bad habit. They went their separate ways, and that was that. Satchel quickly got wrapped up in the band (and the many groupies that accompanied it), while Carrie resumed her sleep-party-shop-repeat routine like nothing ever happened. Things seemed cool. In fact, they were cool enough to put their differences aside and carry on civilly. These days, you could even call them close friends – closer than even I was with him. It was as if their little run-around didn't even exist.

But that didn't mean she didn't still care for him. She didn't skip a beat when it came to beating down accusations of carrying feelings for him, but I knew her better than anyone, and I knew that what came off as platonic appreciation was really long-restrained affection. With feelings like that running nine years deep, the news of his engagement had to be the last thing she could have ever wanted to hear.

Being the one that introduced the two, however, knowing all this made me feel like the world's biggest dick. The fact that there wasn't any way for me to stop it made it all the worse.

“She can't possibly be taking it well,” I murmured to myself, feeling slightly shitty.

“Who told her?” Michael asked.

“Lex said that Satchel would take care of it.”

He slapped a hand to his face. “Oh, no. That dumb ass probably called her.”

“That's what I'm afraid of. God, I feel terrible...I mean, I'm glad for Satch and everything; I've known him my whole life and haven't even seen him do more than scoff at the idea of marriage. This girl must really make him happy. God knows he deserves it. But still...”

I sighed, shaking my head again, knowing that there wasn't any way to fix this. I was usually Carrie's source of logic, the rational friend who always found a way to get her out of every bad situation she fandangled her way into. The girl was a mess - someone had to help her get her shit together. This, however, was out of my spectrum of power. I hadn't seen something like this coming. Now that it was happening, I felt angry with myself for not preparing some sort escape route. It was bound to happen eventually, wasn't it?

At least Michael seemed to understand my ill feelings toward the situation. “She probably feels like shit right now,” he said. It only succeeded in making me feel a tiny bit worse.

“I know.” I closed my eyes, rubbing my temples. “Fuck, Michael. How do I fix this?”

“It's not your problem to fix, babe. Satchel's the one who needs to solve this one.”

“Are you kidding me? Satchel doesn't even know which shoe to put on which foot in the morning, let alone realize that Carrie has been waiting to fall at his feet for the past nine years. He probably thinks she's happy for him.”

“True, but that doesn't mean it's your job to clean up for him when he fucks up.”

I just shrugged and continued to stare at the floor, the well of shittiness still sitting in my chest.

“Look, Jo.” Michael leaned forward and took my hand, catching my gaze. “You can't always be the mom. Some things you just can't make better. But you can serve your duty as a friend and be there for her when she needs you, and right now, she needs you.”

I gazed into his eyes, his words making the back of my neck prickle despite the ever-present aloofness sitting in his brown orbs. He probably didn't really have any clue what was coming out of his mouth, but his words did hold a damn lot of wisdom.

“So, what do you say we take that bottle of cognac and pay our friend a visit?”

I smiled. “I think, for once, you might have the right idea.”