Not to Be a Pick-Me, But Are You Jilting Me at the Altar?

I hate to sound clingy, but I couldn’t help noticing that when Father Carmichael asked if you’d take my hand in marriage, you cried out “I can’t do this!” and fled the church as gasps reverberated through the pews.

I won’t read into that, though.

Sure, we cohabitate, share finances, and earnestly declared our love daily for the past ten years, but I’m not one of those girls who centers herself around male validation—not even from my boyfriend turned allegedly committed fiancé. I’m cool. I’m like Rosamund Pike in the first act of Gone Girl, when she was still a brunette.

My loyal bridesmaids are fashioning thorns from their rose bouquets into shivs, forming an attack circle around your bewildered family. I begin to cry—those bouquets were rented, and now a refund will be impossible. My mother rushes to console me, embarrassed at what is becoming increasingly evident as a jilting. You’re lucky she wasn’t jilted by my father—I’d never have been born and you’d be jilting a woman who wouldn’t take this nearly as well as I am, like Stacey from my jogging group.

Stacey’s the one who called Taylor Swift “basic” during our 5K and literally deemed herself “not like other girls.” Ugh. I would never put other women down to make myself look better. Imagine how she’d drone on: “What about our honeymoon?” “My grandparents flew out for this!” “Don’t you respect me at all?” She’s so desperate.

The groomsmen’s search party has set course, and I won’t be joining. What’s next, I demand to read your texts and go on dates? I don’t chase, I attract—even in chapels, standing before our loved ones in white tulle and my great-aunt’s tiara.

I’m sure you had a good reason to bolt, like irreconcilable differences or a full bladder. Still, I can’t help but feel puzzled. There were no warning signs. Even last night, during our private vows, you performed that dramatic reading of 10cc’s “I’m Not in Love” to affirm that you were, in fact, in love. Everyone knows the singer is in denial.

Maybe you left to meet one of your mistresses, although it would be uncharacteristically poor time management for you to schedule a hook-up at the same time as your wedding. You’re a lot of things, but I never thought disorganized was one of them. Now I’m beginning to wonder if I dodged a bullet and my dear bridesmaids, who are raining blows upon your father, were right. They protested this marriage from the beginning—apparently our relationship is “not normal” and I have no “self respect.” Those were just words, surely borne of jealousy. But I can’t be with a man who doesn’t know how to use a planner.

My father offers to walk me back up the aisle, which feels on the nose. The organist plays Ave Maria in reverse and I wipe my tears, head held high.

Now that I think about it, this is far from the first time you’ve skipped a major milestone. Prom, graduation, my Olympic javelin throw debut. I didn’t make mountains out of molehills any of those times—I even dedicated my gold medal to you.

Wait, is this our thing? Are you doing a bit? Referencing our inside joke? Is this my wedding gift? That’s so sweet. I can’t wait to marry you for real. Unless you don’t feel like it anymore-you know me, I’m honestly down for whatever. Just let me know!