August 2006, San Diego, California

By Dan Brozo

Three hours to go, and I still can’t sit still. I’ve paced this office back and forth countless times, and I still haven’t reached any satisfying solutions. I am going to look like such a fool if I don’t do this.

I mean, she’s the girl of my dreams. She’s smart, successful, driven. I’ve never seen anyone with such social grace. She’s got a flawless family. She’s got pretty much anything a guy like me should want. She sounds like the girl of everyone’s dreams.

Why is it, then, that I can’t stop fidgeting? Why is it that I’m sitting in air conditioning, sweating bullets?

Two and a half hours left until we tie the knot, but the knot in my stomach is the one I’m really worried about.

I’ll bet everyone is excited, getting ready for the big day. My parents are probably putting on their nicest attire, trying to convince my younger siblings to comb their hair or tie their shiny black shoes. I know I’m the only one involved in this whole wedding with any sort of panic or desperation.

Being tied to one person for eternity isn’t what bothers me. Having my whole life mapped out in front of me is actually kind of comforting. I know it’s nothing of that sort. What scares me is myself.

I’ve been dating this girl for more than two years, and we haven’t moved in together yet; we were waiting until we were married to appease the parents. If someone asked me if I loved her, I could look them straight in the eyes and truthfully tell them that I love her like no other. If they asked me why I loved her, I could go on for days.

I know I can’t blame this all on my subconscious, but I could never be the jerk that I sometimes am intentionally.

I have it in my nature to sometimes be self-destructive when things are going perfectly fine. I have no intention of ruining the things I love in life, but there are obvious trends of this pattern in my past.

My sensitivity and constant analysis of my surroundings sometimes cause me to reach false conclusions regarding the world around me. My reaction is to either shut down or to lash out.

The seriousness of marriage didn’t fully strike me until earlier this morning. I don’t think it’s fair to her to be with someone so unreliable. Unlike most people today, I don’t see divorce as an answer to marital problems. I don’t want to waste our time in an immature marriage just because it’s what is convenient.

I’m starting to feel sick.

Over my white tuxedo shirt, I put on the green hooded sweatshirt I wore here. I take off my newly shone dress shoes and put on the tennis shoes I wore over. I grab my keys and wallet from the desk where I placed them, deliberately leaving my cell phone behind.

I open the window of the study and quietly hop out near where I parked my car on the sidewalk.

I need to get out of here.

Stealthily traversing the lawn of my parents’ house, I duck behind the opposite side of my car. From the front yard, I could hear various family members in a torrent of preparation for my big day.

“I’m going to feel guilty for this no matter what,” I mutter to myself, turning the key in the lock.

As I began to open the door of my old sedan, I heard my cell phone go off through the window from which I recently escaped. “Too late,” I think, getting inside the car.

Before I start the engine though, I sit for a time, just listening to the faint guitar melody of “Sweet Child of Mine” coming from my ringing cell phone inside. I hate the feeling that cell phones give me. Like I’m missing something important if I don’t answer.

I leave the keys in the ignition and sprint back toward the house. I run in through the front door, surprising my mom.

“I thought you were in the study, getting ready?” she inquires, as I run past.

“Yeah.” I return in nonresponse, running past her down the hallway. Before I can open the office door, Slash’s overplayed guitar riff cuts out. The phone is sitting face down on the desktop, right where I left it.

“1 Missed Call,” reads the screen. “Jessica Moore, 12:18PM.”

I press the send button to call her back.

“Sweetie?” she answers.

“Yeah, you called?” my voice a little shaky.

“Yeah.” She sits silent for a few moments. “I don’t know what we’re doing.”

That’s all I needed to hear.

Dan Brozo is a young university student with blond hair and blue eyes. He and his girlfriend are still together.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, July 2nd, 2007 | Email This Post

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