Meant to Marry Me

Leaving Monica to fend for herself amongst the crowd of people who were beginning to understand that something wasn't right didn't seem like the best idea to Trent, but he found himself headed for the door ten or fifteen minutes after his friends--or should he say former friends?--ducked out.

He had no idea where they'd gone, but he figured he'd find them. When he finally caught up to Hank, he was alone. "Hey, where's Bree?" he asked his best man, who was carrying his shoes, and a half-empty bottle of whisky. "Hell if I know," he said with a shrug. "Maybe she went for a swim."

"Don't joke about that. Is she okay?"

"Hell no, she isn't okay. She's pissed as hell at you. What are you doing, man? How can you marry Monica after the way she's treated you when you know Bree loves you?"

Hank's words cut right through him, and if he'd been in a better mood, he might've actually listened to him. Instead, he said, "Are you actually telling me what you think I should do about my love life, Hank? With your track record?" "I know, man. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything." He took a swig out of the bottle, and the brown liquid rolled down the corner of his mouth. He wiped his chin on the back of his hand. "I'm a shitty friend if the world ever knew one."

"In this case, I'm going to have to agree with you. I wish you would've said something, Hank. If you would've told me you still had feelings for her, maybe it would've changed things."

"Changed things how? You would've broken up with her? For me?"

"Maybe. Especially if you would've told me before I started dating her. I had no idea the two of you had slept together before Monica and I started going out."

"I know. I know. I should've told you. But... I screwed the whole thing up. Listen, though. You can't be a dumbass like me. You need to go talk to Bree. She's the one for you. She always has been."

Trent ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "I don't know, Hank. Things never work out between the two of us. Maybe it's just not meant to be."

"What the hell did you just say?" Hank gave him a shove, probably a little harder than he meant to, since he was clearly drunk, and Trent went flying backward. "Sorry--again. But listen, that's not true. The two of you have never given it a chance. You have got to give Bree an opportunity before you just decide it's over."

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"I can't do that and also go through with my wedding to Monica, Hank."

"So you're still considering that then?" Hank asked, disappointment in his voice.

"I have to. She apologized a million times, gave me a bunch of reasons, some of which are my fault."

"Bullshit. None of this is your fault. She screwed me because she wanted to, because it's fun. Because I'm hot. Anything else she told you wasn't true."

Trent knew what he was saying was likely accurate, but it was a lot to think about and he didn't have a lot of time to go through it. He certainly wasn't going to gain any clarity standing out here talking to his friend who was drunk off his ass. "I'm gonna go. Be careful, man. Don't fall in the ocean."

"I won't. I'm headed back to my room. Soon as I can remember what number it is."

"It's 542." Trent wasn't sure why he remembered that, but it was the right room. "See you tomorrow."

Trent patted him on the shoulder and then headed back toward the rooms. He knew Bree's number, too. He did need to talk to her, but he didn't want to wake her. The curtains were pulled tight, and it looked like the lights were out. He tried calling her, but she didn't answer. With a deep breath, he knocked lightly on her door. She didn't answer that either.

Deciding it was just as well since he had no idea what he wanted to say to her, he walked away. Maybe by the next day, he'd have had enough time to think it over and come to some sort of a logical decision. It was just too much all at once, and he hated it.

Trent saw Monica walking toward him down the walkway, and even from a distance, he could see that she was crying. As she approached, he couldn't help but take her in his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder, sobbing, "I'm so sorry, Trent, baby. I love you so much. I'm so, so sorry."

He wanted to believe her, to tell her it was okay, that she was forgiven. But he couldn't say that either, so he said nothing, only held her, praying for some clarity, some sort of a sign to let him know what he should do. But at the moment, he was as lost as a bottle floating along on the waves far from shore with no direction and nothing to do but wait.