Disgusting
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Glee
Copyright: Ryan Murphy Productions
"I can't do this, Emma," said the voice on the phone.
She was fairly sure that relief was not the emotion a bride was supposed to feel after hearing those words from her bridegroom, but the loud breath she let out could not be taken back. Clutching her cell phone in one white-gloved hand, standing in the doorway of the rented hall with its ice sculpture and garlands and "Congratulations" banner, Emma Pillsbury was positively dizzy with relief. None of the guests had arrived yet; fastidious in her timing as she was in everything else, she was half an hour early. With any luck, none of them would have to go out of their way now; they wouldn't need to attend this wedding if it wasn't going to happen.
Thank God, she thought, I don't have to do this.
The second thing she felt was shame.
"W-why not?" she asked, hating the way her high-pitched voice rose to a squeak. "We've had weeks to think about this – everything's ready, the dress, the dance number, I thought - "
"Forget about the dance number," growled Ken, making her jump. "Look. Marrying you would be the worst mistake of our lives, and we both know it. I'm calling this off before it's too late."
Emma's knees went weak. She sat down in the nearest chair, not even bothering to adjust her dress or make sure the place settings on the table were symmetrical. She could feel his anger and bitterness through the phone as a physical force, burning in her ear, scorching her.
"Please don't say that," she said. "I – I like you, Ken, I do. I really think we have a shot at making this work - "
He cut her off with a snorting laugh. "You like me. Sure. Is that why you won't let me hold your hand without using a wet wipe first?"
"My OCD - "
"Your OCD's got nothing to do with it!"
She clamped her hand over her mouth. Whatever happened, Ken must not hear her cry.
"Let's face facts, Emma." An exasperated sigh travelled along the satellite connection. "You still have feelings for Will Schuester. And even if you didn't, you'd still find me disgusting. I know I'm too fat, I'm not good-looking and I got a dirty job … but I never felt disgusting until I met you."
That was when she recognized the raspy, congested sound in his voice that had frightened her so much. It was more than anger. It was tears.
Ken Tanaka, the man who could reduce a bunch of cocky teenagers to toddlers by bellowing across a football field, was crying.
And it was all her fault.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I … you must know I never wanted to hurt you."
That was the only reason she had agreed to this in the first place – the dates, the dancing, even this sham of a wedding. To spare a good, honest man the pain she herself had felt; the pain of being rejected by the one she loved.
"You did anyway," said Ken, and ended the call.
Emma dropped her phone onto the table, buried her face in her gloved hands, began to cry – and then cried all the more at having stained her gloves. She snatched up the little white clutch bag on the table, where she kept her wet wipes and a pack f kleenexes, blew her nose, and ran from the room in search of her mirror. Her nose must be redder than her hair by now, she could feel mascara streaking down her cheeks, there was snot collecting on her upper lip, oh God, she looked disgusting –
I never felt disgusting until I met you.
She had done this to him. Emma Pillsbury, guidance counsellor, who was afraid to swat a fly, had broken a man's heart. She was a disgrace to every value she had ever tried to teach her students, and she did not deserve to be Will Schuester's friend.
You could never be that cruel, he had told her once, after confiding in her about his wife's betrayal.
He had thought she was innocent, that she could never lie or mislead the man who loved her. He had thought she was better than Terri, purer, more deserving of the love she so desperately wanted. He had thought that she was perfect.
He was wrong.