The wedding is in three days. You have your tux. You hate the damn thing, but you rented it anyway, because it was what Pammie wanted and this is her wedding and, you know, big deal. Who cares. Because now you’re not going to have to wear it.

            Darryl comes to pick you up so you can crash at his place for a few days. All you have is your uniform, which smells because she didn’t have time to wash it, but you’re not going back to work for a couple of weeks anyway. So yeah, big deal. It’s cool.

Later, when you’re drinking your seventh or eighth beer—it gets hard to keep track—Darryl slaps you on the shoulder and says, “Dude, it’s for the best. You weren’t meant to be tied down.”

And you nod, and you try to laugh, and you think that maybe it won’t be so bad, being single again. But all night, no matter how much you drink and how many hot girls shake their asses in your face, all you can think is, I don't want to be by myself. I can’t.