A completely hypothetical scenario.

You love your BFF, sometimes more than life itself. You’ve been friends a long time, best friends since 10th grade. You’re both 22 now.

Your BFF, lets call her Stacey*, used to have a boyfriend named Steve*. They met through a mutual friend, and at eighteen years old Stacey thought she was in love.

Their relationship ended. The How’s and Why’s aren’t so relevant for this story. She started dating some guy named Chuck*. You moved to Phoenix.

You fly back over Christmas break. You and Stacey go to see the latest Harry Potter movie, it’s your tradition to see them together. You arrive early, grab the best seats, and chat amiably in the near-empty theatre.

It’s there that Stacey talks to you about her last encounter with Steve. Steve had forced himself on Stacey. The word “rape” is never used, and in truth, you’ve been abused most of your life and there’s a bad man waiting for you back in Phoenix. You say “That’s horrible. I’m sorry.” Your expression says ‘disgusted’. But inside you’ve already numbed it. It doesn’t matter because they’re not together anymore. Like every other collapse that has ever occurred, you forget it. (“These are the things we have learned to do who live in troubled regions.” ) You crawl back to Phoenix where the weather in your desert and in your heart are both unpleasant.

You move back home. Chuck is out of the picture. Steve is back in. Something about him makes you edgy, but its always been that way, hasn’t it? It’s probably his jokes that involve you and him and sex. Or his joke about killing Stacey if she should ever leave him. Or that time he pulled into your drive while she was staying the night… It’s really just you being weird. You’re too mistrustful. This is why you don’t have more friends.

Stacey and Steve get engaged. You’re asked to be the maid of honor. You’re asked to make a toast at the reception. Stacey bought you a special necklace to wear. She made you a small bouquet. She shows off her scrapbook of designs for the invitations and decorations and you bask in her happiness and the surrealness of getting married.

Stacey and Steve’s engagement is marred by arguments and pregnancy scares (which make Steve happy, a child is a salve for the sting of ”Lets take a break”). The word “cheating” gets tossed around. Stacey thinks of breaking it off. Her parents tell her it’d be a mistake. She tells you she probably couldn’t do better anyway. She doesn’t want to be alone.

You console her, promise you’ll always be around to do that. You tell her what you’d do in her situation, but you can’t make decisions for her.

They quarrel on a daily basis. She cries a lot. You tell her to throw his shit out the door. By this time something in your dam of numbness is cracking. It’s probably all those books you’ve been reading on victims and traumatic stress disorder or those stupid Lifetime Original Movies. But it doesn’t matter, you don’t have to think, the wedding is canceled. Relief.

But Steve likes fast cars. He drives too fast. He races on city streets and highways. He’s always sinking money into his car and not into the have-a-wedding or get-a-house fund, that’s one of Stacey’s complaints. Steve gets into an accident. His injuries are minimal, nothing is broken. Except his car, which is totalled. The side your best friend would have been on had she been with him that day took the most damage. Smashed in. Ruined.

But none of this matters anymore to Stacey. The accident has shown her the way. They argue still, she cries sometimes still, but she doesn’t care. She gets a prescription for some pills to help her not care. She’s so in love. He’s so perfect. So right. The wedding is back on. She’s seen the light.

But so have you. You know. Your best friend is marrying a man who raped her.

If it’s okay with her, shouldn’t it be okay with you? Is leading them down aisle, smiling for their wedding photos, taking home your little bath salt or candle or match book with their names emblazoned on it the same as saying, “Yes, what he’s done to you is fine.” or swearing “Maybe it was a little bit bad, but he’ll certainly never hurt you again!”?

But what I really want to know is, what kind of toast do you write? And would this shirt make an appropriate gift, or should you just buy them a blender?

 

 

* All names have been changed to protect the innocent. If there are any. There are not. Because this all hypothetical, remember? I mean, something this fucked up has to be, right?