"This is all wrong," Beca whispers in Stacie's ear as they each add gifts to the growing pile of presents. Beca's is the only one wrapped in a tie-dye shawl.
"I don't think you can say that. It's her wedding. This is what she chose."
Beca shakes her head. "No. Where are the magnolias? The classic wrought-iron arbor? Guests in fun summer colours? She wanted a small wedding. Where's the single cellist?"
The distress in Beca's voice is palpable. "Stace, it's all wrong."
Stacie takes Beca's arm and runs a hand over her back. "Relax, Becs, maybe Chloe changed her mind. She definitely chose all of this, she was telling people last night at the rehearsal."
Beca shrugs Stacie off and wanders to the side of the enclosure. She pretends to admire a tree as she sips from her stash of scotch.
When she turns back to face the spectacle, to once again marvel at the incorrectness of it all, Beca's mind is filled with the worst thoughts.
I could try to find her.
I could get this off of my chest.
I could tell her.
I could play it off like it could be a joke, just not a funny one.
No.
I can't mess it up.
Beca wanders back over to Stacie, actively pushing down on the dumbass thoughts flitting through her head.
The ceremony should start any minute. They tried to time it so Beca wouldn't have to spend any more time than strictly necessary watching the love of her life get hitched.
It's fine. Well, it's going okay. Until they are ushered into their seats and the recorded music plays.
Chloe walks in, positively beaming, looking so amazing, so beautiful, so heavenly in her white dress with a purple orchid in her hair.
When Chloe passes the row that Beca's in, Beca smiles as widely as she can, forces her eyes to crinkle at the corners. Chloe grins a little wider, showing more teeth, and does a little finger waggle as a wave before she's moving farther up the aisle. When did she decide to put a flower in her hair?
Beca takes a sip of scotch, trying to blur out everything but Chloe's face as the bride stops in front of the podium and lets her dad take his seat in the front row. She takes another when Chloe turns to face her fiancé. Another when Grandpa Beale welcomes them all and thanks everyone for being here to share this milestone with Chloe and Chicago.
She lasts all the way through Grandpa Beale's rendition of 1 Corinthians 13, even though tears collect in the corners of her eyes.
Beca knows what's coming. She watched enough romance movies with Chloe in her teens and double checked the Internet before coming here today. She squeezes Stacie's hand, mouths I'm sorry when Stacie looks at her in concern.
While all the attention is still focused up front, Beca decides it's her time to make a move. Her resolve can only bear so much and she doesn't trust herself to keep quiet when objections are called for. After all, it's not a real question, just a technicality to be included.
"Good luck, Chloe," Beca murmurs. She gets up while Chloe's grandpa is still talking and quietly lets herself out the back entrance, making herself as stealthy as possible.
It's not rocket science to know that she should not in any way be allowed to drive, but she does drop off her empty flask on her way past the car.
God, why did she think coming to this was a good idea?
Oh right. She didn't. Fuck her goddamn awful sense of duty. She should have claimed an unavoidable work event and gotten drunk at home. At least then she wouldn't feel the ridiculous, stupid urge to walk three miles to the other side of town, chasing memories of when she could pretend Chloe was hers.
She takes a swallow.
But of course she's going to do it. Of fucking course. Because the wedding festivities will last at least another couple of hours and if she can't be close to perfect, funny, loving, present Chloe, she'll settle for being drunk in their place and hope past Chloe comes to haunt her.
She knows it's possible. It's happened before, when she's really drunk and really sad, and if that criteria isn't filled today of all days, then Beca's at a loss.
So she walks. She walks and she thinks of Chloe and when it starts to hurt too much in her chest, she tips back her flask.
Even in her current state, it feels like it takes way longer to reach the playground than it should.
With almost half her liquor left, Beca slumps into a swing, toes barely scraping the wood mulch. She sways in the seat, and tucks her drink away. She's nicely buzzed, at least for the moment. Her eyes flit over to the monkey bars and her eyes fill with tears.