It's time, isn't it. Time to go. Time for France. For the wedding. Time to go, and get over her.
Time to go, and see her for the last time. To say goodbye. To them.
Why is it so hard? Isn't it actually really easy? It really is, isn't it. Think it. Will it. This is it. It's over. Go. Go. End it.
Go.
"Hey buddy, why aren't you answering? Mon – ow – we're worried about about you. Remember that Christine girl? She's down for a date, man. Well, she was. That was like, two months ago. Can't keep girls waiting that long, man. Hey, I know you're there. Pick up, alright? Seriously, we're worried about you. You wanna say something, Mon? – Ross, pick up the god damn phone right now! I swear to God, if you don't answer, I will drive down there and bust down your door! Ross? Ro–"
The flight was fine. Long, but fine. Got some much needed sleep, surprisingly. I haven't slept like that in...since then. I adjust my suit, tighten my tie, crack my neck, shake out the kinks. I'm ready. Let's go, Ross. You can do this.
You're alright.
Obnoxious. The decorations, the people, the music, the venue, the food – obnoxious. If this was how our wedding was gonna go, I'm glad it never happened. What is this tacky crap? Is that...purple? Adele, seriously? Lame. Super lame. And they call me lame? Psh.
There she is.
Rachel.
Laughing, talking, socializing, happy.
Here I am. At the bar. Three gin and tonics deep.
Nursing a fourth.
Isn't she so goddamn happy. Trampling all over my heart. Spitting it out. Sneering in my face as she does it. Taking it all. How can someone love...that? Pure evil. Living, walking, strutting horror. The chump who marries that. The base idiot.
Lucky bastard.
Emma.
There she is.
Oh, there she is.
Can I go over to her? I'm drunk, aren't I. That's bad parenting, isn't it. I'm not a bad parent.
I'm a good dad. Aren't I, Emma?
How could you even know.
I promise you, I am. I could be. I would be. I still want to be. But how?
Can I not?
"Emma."
She turns. Her pretty little head, her pretty little eyes, her pretty little nose. All towards me. Her pretty little smile. Her confused look. Her blonde pigtails, from the back.
Her small retreating form.
My Emma.
"Another?"
"Please."
Nursing a fifth.
"Ross?"
Rachel.
"That's you, right? Ross?"
Yes, it's me.
"...Hello? Earth to Ross?"
"...Hey."
She sits beside me, puts a hand on my shoulder.
"You okay?"
She looks at me. And there it is. Concern, pity. Relief, that she's no longer with me. With this broken mess. Broken, drunken mess.
I give her a smile. My best smile.
"I'm okay. Yeah. I'm okay. I'm always...been okay."
I look away. I look down. I look back up. And now she's frowning. And now she's mad.
"Are you drunk?"
Uh oh.
"I'm...no?" I laugh. "Who cares?" I put my hand on her lap. "Do you care?"
Disgust, as she slaps away my hand. "Are you kidding me right now, Ross? I don't even remember inviting you. How'd you get in here?"
I laugh again. A bark, really. "How? I was invited. By your boyfriend."
She cusses.
I smirk. Looks like marital problems are gonna start early. "Whoops?" I hope she hears it, the undertone of gloat.
Oh, that dirty look. She heard it.
"I want you to leave. Right now. You are not gonna ruin my wedding. You hear me?"
Wow, she's furious.
"It's not funny, Ross."
"I'm sorry," I lie. I can't stop laughing.
I stand up and stretch. I'm feeling good.
I walk towards the crowd. Rachel's voice drowns out in the background.
"Kyle? Kyle!" I yell out into the crowd.
"Hey, ho! Here!" a voice answers back. Probably Kyle's.
I head towards it.
So that's him. Looks strong. Nice jawline.
"Did you call for me?" he asks. Deep voice, too. She sure knows hows to pick 'em.
I give him my best smile, since it's still plastered on my face anyways. "Kyle." I stick out my hand, and he gives it a firm shake, emulating a smile of his own. A good smile, albeit confused. "Ross." I point to myself.
"Oh, Ross! Man, it's nice to finally meet you! I've heard so many...things about you."
I like the hesitation before things. Like he can't lie and say they were good.
"I'm sure you have. Nice party you got here. Your wife's beautiful."
"Uh, thanks – not my wife yet!" He laughs. A painful, awkward laugh.
"Right, 'course not. You taking care of my daughter?" That's it, go for the jugular, Ross.
"I, uh, yes, I think I'm, we're, doing just fine? Are you okay, bud?" Oh, he calls people bud. He's that kinda guy.
"I'm fine, bud. Are you okay, bud?" Get 'em, Ross. You show him.
"Do we have a problem here?" Oh, the show of hands. The universal 'I'm the adult here' sign.
I shake my head and laugh. "No, no problem. No problem at all."
I wanna punch him. Should I? I shouldn't, right?
"Dad?"
Emma.
"Emma."
"Emma, sweetie, you shouldn't be –" My fist connects with his face.
"She was talking to me!" I yell. I pull my fist back, ready to hit him again. Voices cry out.
"Stop!"
"Oh my god!"
A scream.
Emma.
"Ross, you son of a bitch!"
Rachel.
My gut gets pushed inward, I puke and fall to the ground.
More screams.
"Kyle, stop!"
"You little shit."
I'm sorry, Emma. You shouldn't see your dad like this.
Don't look at me like that, Emma.
My beautiful daughter.
Don't look at me like you don't know who I am.
Don't look at me like I'm a monster.
I guess that's it.
It's over.
I look into the Seine, watching the water ripple from the rain.
The steady pitter-patter of Paris rain. A beautiful city, perhaps more so at night than at day. Perhaps more so in rain than in good weather.
Rachel's gone. Forever.
Emma's gone. Forever.
I guess that's it.
It's over.
I look into the Seine, parting the water's ripples as it rains.