After Toby's party, she heads home and makes herself a Manhattan and flips through her latest Cosmo. She tries not to think about the day, tries not to imagine how alone and small she'll feel in the annex come tomorrow, tries not to imagine Angela in a big white dress, tries not to be disappointed about another wedding she'll never be in.

She drinks her Manhattan, throws the Cosmo in the trash (she'll be back for it in two hours) and goes to her bedroom. She doesn't want to feel pathetic tonight, but as she kicks off her shoes and opens the closet, she can't help it.

"Can I be a bridesmaid?"

"Can I be your bridesmaid?"

Really, truthfully, if she's being at all honest... she didn't really want to be in their weddings. Yeah, she likes Pam and it probably would've been totally cool (except that Jim is like nine times better than Roy, with the exception of muscles, so she's totally okay she didn't get a chance to go to Pam's wedding... yet, anyway). And she knows Angela pretty much hates her and everything she's done in her life, so that was just... desperation is probably the word for it. Yeah. Totally.

She pulls a photo album from the top shelf of the closet and sits down on the edge of the bed. It's an old family album with creases in the cover, bulging at the sides. She flips past all the pictures of childhood because she can't bear to look at herself during the years her mother was still styling her. She goes to the end of the album where the recent pictures are, the pictures that make her want to eat a whole tub of ice cream and sit on the bathroom floor and cry.

She stops at her sister's engagement photo. She runs her index finger over the smiling faces and hopes that this time it'll bring her back, but, just like every other time, it doesn't.

"I'm sorry you didn't get your wedding," she says and kisses the photo.

She closes the album and sets it down.

She flops back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, hoping that someone's looking down at her now. She doesn't like to think of people looking down at her when she's changing her clothes or doing something stupid, but when she's fully dressed and not dancing around in her underwear or singing into a hairbrush, she thinks it's okay.

She points to the ceiling, makes a fist, then releases it slowly. She stares at her hand and starts thinking out loud. In the moments like this, she's never sure if she's talking to herself or her sister, but she likes to think that, no matter what, her sister can hear her anyway.

"You never got to wear that gorgeous dress," she says. "You looked so beautiful in it, I swear. Like, I stood next to you in that bridesmaid dress and, yeah, I looked hot, but you... God, I was always so jealous. Always."

She lifts her other hand into the air, hopes that this will be the day her sister holds her hands and spins her in circles again, just like when they were little, but, just like every other time, nothing happens.

She still hates the drunk driver, the one that hit her sister three days before the wedding. Her mother says she should forgive because hate makes people ugly and she's pretty sure that her mother doesn't mean ugly in the way that she thinks about it most of the time. She feels like she's allowed to hate him, like she deserves to be able to, and like he deserves to be hated. Whenever she thinks a terrible thought about him, she always pictures her face cracking and peeling like dry desert earth during a drought.

She tries not to think about him. Instead, she likes to pretend that it never happened. She imagines the wedding, imagines all the smiling faces, and goes to sleep pretending that her sister is just away on her honeymoon and will be back by the end of the week.

She is never back by the end of the week, but for some reason the hope never dies.

She lets her hands fall to her sides and sits up. She just wants one chance. She just wants the chance to help with make-up, help with flowers, do something nice for someone else. She knows what people think of her. Selfish, stupid, and other mean S words that she won't repeat.

She thinks that maybe if she gets that chance, maybe that little space in her chest will finally sew shut. She can feel it there every day, hiding somewhere behind her lungs, and some days it hurts so bad she goes to the doctor (and they can never seem to find it on the x-ray even though she's so sure it's there).

She thinks that maybe if she gets the chance, she won't need to hide the photo album anymore and maybe she'll be able to put it on the shelf in the living room, next to the dictionary or some other important book (but not by the chick lit).

She thinks that maybe she'll never get that chance and she slides the photo album under the bed, the fifth hiding place it's had in two months.

She just misses her so much. All she wants is a chance.