The last time I saw her she was dressed in white. She was so beautiful, it hurt to even be in the same room with her.  Her hair was down, just like she had shown Kelly that day in the office.  Her dress showed an appropriate amount of skin, but it still drove me crazy.  Her cheeks were flushed because the reception hall’s air conditioner was slowly dying. 

 I had to cancel a plane ticket, get completely drunk and call a taxi before I could make it to the reception.  I was on my first flute of champagne (of the dinner; three shots, two beers and one glass of the bubbly stuff of the day) when she brushed her hand against my shoulder.  She said in that saccharine voice of hers, 

"You came." 

"I'm glad." 

I tried to smile, but all the muscles in my face were frozen.  I looked like an idiot, playing with my tie as she loosened her grip.  Her brand new husband was acting drunker than I was, out on the dance floor with some of her friends dancing to a Bon Jovi song.  I broke the awkward silence with, 

"I wanted to talk to you." 

She replies, 

"Again?  I think you told me everything." 

It's an awkward joke, and I couldn't help but think she's adorable.  I fought my hardest not to kiss her right then and there. 

"I was talking to Jan...that night..." 

I can't even combine the words casino and night together.  That's how bad it hurts to think about it. 

"I'm transferring to Stamford." 

I finished speaking, and she had this look of shock on her face.  Her mouth made that O shape it does whenever she's shocked, or sad, or confused. 

"When?" 

Her eyes flood with tears.  I answered, 

"Monday." 

She pursed her lips together, and nodded slowly.  I remember that look vividly--she gave the exact same one when she warned me this wedding was coming. 

"You’re leaving me?  Especially now?" 

She looks down at her tightly-wound bodice. I nod slowly, and one tear falls down her face.  Her flawless makeup was ruined in that moment.  

“You married him.” 

I retorted, refusing to be bested.  She widens her gaze at me, and began to tremble. 

“You’re my best friend.   Who else am I going to talk to?” 

I chuckled in that bitter way.  Like I’m doing it to keep from bursting out into tears. 

“How about your husband?” 

“If you’re going to be like this, why did you come?” 

This question genuinely stumps me. 

“I wanted to see you one last time.” 

She shook her head and scoffed at me.  Friends for six years, and she never once scoffed at me. 

“Have a wonderful life in Stamford.” 

She said apathetically, and turned towards the dance floor.  I didn't try to stop her.  After that glass of champagne, I called a taxi and went home to finish packing.  

My cell phone rang twenty minutes later.  I didn’t bother to answer it; I was knee deep in boxes. 

I listened to the voice mail the second after it came in.  It was her, bawling at first. 

“Jim, I’m so sorry I said those things...”  She sniffled again, speaking between sobs.  “I was just angry that you’re leaving, so... please call me before you go.  I’m so sorry.” 

She hung up, and I put my phone in my pocket.  I returned to my packing, and halted when I got to the bookshelf.  I flipped through the yearbook, and for the first time ever, actually laughed at my picture.  Not just my picture, the way she sounded as she laughed. 

“You were so dorky!” 

I could still hear her voice, even though it had been months since she’d been in my room, on my bed.  I could almost see the wrinkle she left in the bed sheet.  I didn’t want it to go away.  I wanted to preserve that feeling, that moment forever. 

Then it dawned on me that she married him.  She actually married him. 

I made sure the blankets on my bed were straight and flat. 

I threw the yearbook in a box labeled “Junk”. 

I never did return that voice mail.  I deleted it the first chance I could.