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I hate you. Right now, I hate you so much for leaving me. No. That isn't true. I think I hate myself more. I hate myself for not telling you how much I loved you before you left. I let you leave thinking I was angry with you. I was angry. So angry over something so stupid. I should have wrapped my arms around you, kissed you, told you that I loved you. Instead, I yelled. I told you that you were selfish. I pouted like a child because you had left me to decide where the hell we were suppose to seat your mother's bridge club.

The van was white. There was nothing on the side facing the house to tell who it belonged to. She knew. The woman standing in front of the large picture window, sipping glass after glass of champagne knew. Another delivery from the florist. The center pieces. They had forgotten them yesterday.

Yesterday. Had it really been just yesterday since she had run out to meet that very van, eyes sparkling with excitement? It seemed more like a lifetime ago. Today it was the maid meeting the florist. The moment the news was delivered was clear. The florists face went pale, his lips moved in a silent 'I'm sorry.' Even from inside she wanted to scream at him that he wasn't sorry. He didn't know Denny. How could he be sorry?

I hate the way they all keep telling me their sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Like the words are suppose to mean something. Like by saying it they fix the hole in my heart. I know most of them only say it because they don't know what else to say.

"I'm so sorry Isobel."

Another murmured apology. In another setting she would have forced a smile. There was no point today. The only expectation of her was to look the part of the grieving fiancé. Not exceptionally difficult, as that was exactly what she was. From bride to be to grieving fiancé. Looking at her hand, she twists the princess cut solitaire on her left ring finger. It had been in the Duquette family for seven generations.

My feet hurt. I wore the black pointy Jimmy Choo's. You know the one's. You use to call them Witch shoes. I don't even know why I wore them. Except they look so good with my black Vera Wang dress. It's the same one I wore to that cocktail party last month. When I told you I wanted a reason to wear the outfit again, I didn't mean something like this.

More apologies. Relatives this time. A seventy something aunt with a bird like appearance sobbing and dabbing at her eyes. A well meaning cousin offering to buy the honeymoon from her. Glancing across the crowded foyer, her eyes meet Mrs. Duquette's. The older woman had aged by twenty years over night. Had there been that much gray in her hair yesterday?

Another relative. This one the sort to touch. She tries to back up a bit. The man crowded closer. Joined by more well meaning people who issued more I'm sorry's.

You left me! I still can't believe you left me. Two days before our wedding and you have to die. You have to die and leave me to deal with your Uncle Richard. You know how I feel about him. He's always touching me. Like now. He keeps rubbing my arms. He even tried to kiss my cheek once.

Breaking free, she hurries across the foyer. Her heels click against the hardwood floor as she rushes up the curving stair case. Grabbing the handle of the closest door she yanks it open, stumbling inside. She closes the door, then leans against it. The guest bathroom. Pure whit with the exception of the black and white patterned tile on the floor. Shoving away from the door, she walks toward the large bathtub. The silk shower curtain felt like liquid as she pulls it back. She steps into the tub, pulling the curtain back. Sliding down the tiled wall, she silently sobs.

I've become the pathetic girl who hides. I don't know what else to do. I couldn't take anymore. I hate funerals. You know how much I hate funerals. You had some nerve, Denny. Forget the fact that we were suppose to be getting married, you knew how much I hate funerals, yet you die anyways.

The bathroom door opens. She sits up, uncertainty written across her face. Did she tell them she was here? No. They would only tell her they were sorry. Better to let them go about their business and leave. Better that nobody know where she was.

"You are so cute," a woman giggled.

The sound of clothing rustling brings a flush to her face. Her mouth poises to make her presence known before things progress much further. Another giggle followed by a moan has her leaning back, a hand covering her mouth. Son of a bitch. Who had sex at a funeral?

I blame you for this! I'm already going to have to go to therapy because you had the nerve to die right before our wedding. But this? This is going to scar me for life!

"You are just….wow…amazing…and so cute!" The woman was gushing.

Another little giggly moan. The curtain swishes a bit as something hits it. An arm or a foot. It didn't matter. She raises a hand up to still it. Her hand falls back as there is more rustling around. Another giggle. The woman had to hold some record for giggling.

"Wow. We'll so have to do this again sometime!" The woman giggled. Again. It really was irritating. "Call me sometime! Here, gimme your hand. I'll give you my number."

A moment later the door opened, then shut. Finally! Standing, her hand grips the edge of the curtain, pulling back as the sound of water fills the room. What little blood was left in her face drained as the startled hazel eyes of her dead fiance's best friend meet her angry brown one's.

"Izzie…"

Ignoring him, she steps out of the tub. Chin raised, tears burning her eyes, she walks out of the bathroom.

I will never understand how you could be friends with someone like Alex Karev!