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

”Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling, tell me baby, where did I go wrong?”

The phone rang for the third time that day. My home phone. I could just barely hear it above the music blasting on the stereo. When I first heard it, I chalked it up to my own mind playing sick tricks on me – the last thing I wanted was another call. And even when I recognized that someone truly was attempting to contact me, I still didn't move from my spot. When you're hunkered down on the couch after a bad day, stuffing your face with spoon loads of Twix ice cream while sobbing out the lyrics to slimy love songs, there isn't much motivation to do anything, let alone answer the phone. Besides, with the day's track record, I never wanted to answer the damn thing again.

”I could put my arms around every boy I see, but they'd only remind me of you...”

I let the phone ring on. I didn't want to answer it, didn't care if the office was on fire, didn't care if Jeremy the Hot Desk Boy needed to be rushed to the hospital to get his pretty little face reconstructed after some kind of freak accident. Nothing seemed important anymore. In fact, I’d be happy if something tragic happened – it'd give me even better reason to blubber all day. (Especially if Jeremy did break his face.)

Whoever the callers was, they tried reaching me three times. I let it run to machine every time. Upon the third try, they seemingly gave up and decided upon leaving a message.

“Carrie? It's Joanna.” Her voice echoed throughout the apartment.

“And Michael!”

“And Michael.” I could sense her rolling her eyes. “We wanna talk to you. Pick up.”

I groaned, tugging the blanket up over my face. “No.” Not now.

“C'mon, sweetie pie,” Michael tried, “Pick up for us. We just wanna help.”

Help? What the hell could they do to help? There was no helping. Unless they could find some way to knock some sense into Satchel's pea-brained noggin, there wasn't any way they could make this predicament better.

“I'm not home!” I yelled bitterly to no one in particular, kicking at the arm of the couch in protest.

There was a pause. Then, Jo muttered, “We're standing outside your door, Car.”

My eyes flew open.

“You're listening to Sinead O'Connor,” she affirmed.

Right on cue, Sinead's voice over the CD player shrieked, “'Cause nothing compares, nothing compares! No, nothing compares to you!”

Slowly drawing back the covers, I stared at the ceiling for a moment in numbed disappointment. Dammit. I couldn't just not come to the door now. Sighing, I kicked back the blanket and got up, dragging my weary body across the living room.

Sure enough, when I pried open the door, there were Jo and Michael, the former looking quite unimpressed while the latter merely grinned at me, eagerly clutching a bottle of wine.

I switched my eyes between the two, suddenly aware of the volume of my stereo. “Uh...hi, guys.” I cleared my throat awkwardly. “What's going on?”

Jo threw me a look. “Really?”

I stared at her blankly.

Michael cast her a sidelong glance, seemingly nervous. “Jo...”

“Shut up, Michael,” she snapped curtly. She turned back toward me. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Um...” Swallowing anxiously, I glanced upward as if the perfect excuse was written on the ceiling. “Just, y'know, some paperwork and stuff...”

She rolled her eyes and started sidling past me. “You're a mess. C'mon, kiddo; we brought spirits. We're here so you can vent.”

The two raided my living room. Before I could even turn around, they'd turned on the lights and shut down the stereo, and were in the process of tidying up the living room. I sorely missed Sinead O'Connor serenading me with her sad, whiny voice and almost had the urge to lash out at them when I saw them taking away my blankets and ice cream – but then realized how gay I was being and stopped. I was being a faggot. A true, big, fat fucking crybaby faggot, which was a huge insult to the homosexual community, because I was just being so goddamn stupid.

A few moments later, after my living room had been returned to its normal state, Jo plopped down onto the couch and looked at me. I stared back at her, her brown eyes hollowing straight into mine, and as if they'd been persuading me to do so, I suddenly broke down in the day's pent up tears and drifted across the room into her embrace.

I sunk down onto the couch, hands shielding my face, regardless that they already knew I was crying. Joanna enfolded me in her arms, cradling me in her lap, and I turned into her, face pressed into the crook of her neck. Her hair hid my face, and I was thankful for having something to mask my expression.

“Satchel's getting married,” I squeaked.

Undoubtedly, being Satchel's childhood companion and confidant, she already knew. Still, I felt the need to say it, to feel the pain again, regardless of how bad it hurt.

Joanna tightened her hold, sighing. “I know, hon. I'm so sorry. I wish I could help fix this.”

“It's n-not your fault.”

“I still don't like to see you in pain.” Her chin rested on my shoulder, her hair tickling my wet cheeks. “This must be so hard for you. You don't deserve to feel like this.”

I blinked a tear from my vision, eyelashes sticking together. “At least he's happy,” I whispered.

Suddenly, with just the thought of that sentence – of Satchel being happy when my life was ending right before my very eyes – made me hurt so bad that I squeezed my eyes shut tight and simply willed myself not to burst open as sobs wracked my body.

Yes, Satchel was happy. Satchel was ecstatic about this, and I was falling apart at the seams.

“Oh, baby,” Jo cooed, rocking me back and forth in a vice grip.

I tried to stop myself, trying to reign it all in, but it seemed impossible. I wiped beneath my eyes and sniffled. “I'm so sorry, guys. I – I – I can't s-stop...”

“You don't have to be strong for us, sweetheart,” I heard Michael say. A hand came to rest on my knee. “We know you're hurting. It's okay to cry about it. You need to talk about it sooner or later.”

“I-I've never talked about it...I don't even know why I'm upset.”

“Because you care about him.” Jo stroked my back. “I know you've never said it out loud, but you don't have to. I see it.”

For whatever reason, that statement hurt. Almost more than the last one. I started to shake my head back and forth, squeezing my eyes tighter, trying to prevent the second onslaught of sobs that I felt building up in my chest.

“And you don't have to deny it,” Michael said, “We've known forever. I know you don't want to admit it. But these next few months are going to be some of the hardest, and they won't get any easier if you try to bottle it up.”

“We're here for you, baby.”

Mike was right. I knew he was. But it didn't make it any less painful to admit, to even think about the fact that I cared about Satchel and he hadn't a single clue. The thought was almost suffocating. I’d never truly had the sort of feelings I had toward Satchel for anyone else but him, and for that, I hated him. Even that hurt. But marriage? That was the worst. He was finally leaving me. It finally felt like, after nine long years, I was actually losing him for good.

I sniffled and blinked again. “I hate being like this.”

“You can't help it, hon.”

“I want to.”

“But you can't.”

“Then what can I do?” Lifting my head, I met Jo's eyes, cheeks stinging and brain numbed. “How do I make this stop? It hurts, Jo. I don't want to feel like this for the rest of my life.”

She looked back at me, brown eyes searching, digging, as if she were just as lost as me. Then, soft but sure, she stated, “You show him what he's losing.”