Best friend's wedding

I stand by the window, my back to them, and hear the rustling of silk and the clinking of thin glass behind me. Down below, the hotel bar is still buzzing with guests, someone shouting a toast, someone crying into a vest. But here, on the twenty-third floor, there are only three people and an entire night that will never be anyone else's. I know why I'm here. I know why she called me. I know he's silent not because he's against it. I turn around. She's sitting on the edge of the huge bed, still wearing her dress—white, heavy, with the corset I laced for her this morning at the hotel, before the ceremony. I remember my fingers sliding along the laces, her laughing and saying, "Don't overdo it, I need to breathe when I say 'I do.'" It was a joke then. Now I look at her, and it seems as if I'm still holding those laces in my hands. He's standing by the minibar. He's wearing a shirt, no longer a jacket, his bow tie untied and hanging around his neck like a black rag. He looks at her, then at me. And there's no question in that look. Only anticipation. She stands up. She approaches me. Slowly, as if we were still on that dance floor where, two hours ago, the guests were clapping and shouting "bitter," and we stood in the center and didn't kiss because she said, "Later. Everything—later." She takes my hand. Her fingers are cold, as they always are when she's nervous. I've known this since I was fourteen—the way she bites her nails before exams, the way she squeezes my hand when she's scared, the way she breathes quickly, the way she lies to her parents about spending the night at my place when she's really at his. She brings my hand to her face. She runs my fingers over her cheek. I feel the warmth, the blush, the hairspray on my fingers. I want to say something, but she doesn’t let me. She presses her finger to my lips. And I remain silent. I hear footsteps behind me. He approaches. He stands behind her. He puts his hands on her shoulders. And I suddenly realize that all this time we were both his. Both she and I. Only in different ways. "Did you know?" she asks quietly. Almost a whisper. I nod. I knew. From the very day she introduced us in that bar on Pokrovka, when she said, "This is him. And this is my Anya." And we shook hands, and I felt his palm linger on mine for a second longer than necessary. And how she saw it. And how she smiled. He unzips her dress. Slowly, vertebra by vertebra, as if he were reading a book by touch. The dress falls. She stands there in lingerie—thin, creamy, lacy. I remember how we chose it together. How she tried it on in the fitting room and asked, "How does it feel?"—and I said, "He'll die." And she laughed. He's not dying. He's looking. And that look makes my insides clench. She turns to him. Unbuttons his shirt. The buttons are small, and her fingers tremble. He doesn't help. He just stands there, looking down at her, like she's something he won in the lottery. And I don't know what to do. Stand there? Watch? Leave? I take a step back. Towards the door. But she turns around. “No,” she says. “You’ll stay.” This is not a request. It is an order. And I obey. I sit in the chair by the window. I look out. He grabs her by the hair. Not roughly, but possessively. He pulls her back so that her neck arches. And he kisses her—long, deep, like it’s not the first time. She moans. I hear that moan. I know it. I’ve heard it hundreds of times—when she spent the night at my place, when we watched movies, when she told me about him, about their first night, about how he hurt her and how much she liked it. She told me everything. And I listened. He unhooks her bra. In one motion. Her breasts are small, neat. I know her breasts. We went to the sauna together, changed clothes at the gym together, swam in the sea together, and sunbathed topless on an empty beach. But this is different. Now I look at her through his eyes. And I feel ashamed. And I feel good. He lowers her onto the bed. Lies down on top of her. I hear the mattress creak. I hear her breathing. I hear him whisper something in her ear. She closes her eyes. She smiles. I get up. I can't sit any longer. I go up to them. I sit on the edge of the bed. She opens her eyes and looks at me. And in that look is everything. Our whole life. All our secrets. All our fights and reconciliations. Everything we did with each other and for each other. She holds out her hand. I take it. And he looks at us both. And I see something change in his face. As if he just now realized what he's gotten himself into. As if he saw us—not two women, but one, divided into two. He sits up. Lets her go. Looks at me. “Are you sure?” he asks. And I don’t know who he’s saying this to. Her? Me? Himself? She is responsible for me. - Yes. And I nod. Because it's true. I'm sure. I was sure back then, at the bar, when she said, "This is the one." And I realized she wasn't just introducing me to a guy. She was asking permission. She was asking for my blessing. And I gave it. And now she's returning the favor. He stands up. Comes to me. Kneeles down. And begins to unbutton my bridesmaid dress, the long blue one I spent three months choosing, the one that cost half my salary. He takes it off me. Carefully, as if it were part of the ritual too. I'm left in my lingerie—black, simple, no lace. I wasn't prepared. But she knew. She always knew. She comes up behind me. Unhooks my bra. Runs her hands down my back, slowly, from my shoulder blades to my lower back. I shudder. Her palms are warm. And I remember how she used to do this as a child—when we'd lie in the same bed and she couldn't sleep, and I'd draw letters on her back, and she'd guess the words. Now we don't guess words. Now we just breathe. He kisses my stomach. Moves lower. I close my eyes. And I feel her lips on my neck. At the same time. From both sides. And I don’t know which is which. And this is the strangest and most right feeling in my life. She lies down on the bed. She pulls me by the hand. I lie down next to her. We are face to face. He is between us. He touches us both – simultaneously, one after the other, not distinguishing whose. And I stop understanding where I end and she begins. I kiss her. For the first time. On the lips. Softly, as if apologizing. She responds. And it's unlike anything else. It's like coming home after a long absence. Like finding something lost, something you'd forgotten you were looking for. He's looking. And I feel his gaze. And I'm not ashamed. I feel good. She rolls over onto her back. Pulls me with her. I find myself on top. She's underneath me—white, thin, with disheveled hair and smeared makeup. And I think I've never seen her so beautiful. He enters her. I feel it through her body. How it trembles. How she arches. How her hands squeeze my hips. I kiss her chest. Stomach. Lower. She moans. And I don’t know from what – from him or from me. Then he pulls out. And enters me. From behind. I didn't expect it. I scream. She looks at me. Smiles. And I realize that this is part of the plan too. That she thought it all out. That she always thinks everything through. He moves. Slowly, then faster. I close my eyes. She strokes my face. My hair. Wipes the sweat from my forehead. And I feel something inside me break. Something I've treasured for years. Something I called "friendship." And it doesn't hurt. It's like taking off tight shoes after a long day. He's coming. I can feel it. The way he stills. The way he exhales. The way his fingers dig into my hips. Then he pulls out. Falls onto the bed next to me. The three of us lie there. Silent. Breathing. I look at the ceiling. There's a chandelier there—huge, crystal, like in the movies. And I think I'll never forget that chandelier. Never. She turns to me. Rests her head on my shoulder. Just like she's done a thousand times before. Only now we're both naked. And between us is him. “You don’t regret it?” she asks. I'm silent. Because I don't know. Because all I feel is a strange calm. As if I'm finally where I'm supposed to be. Always. He gets up. He goes to the bathroom. I hear the water running. She looks at me. “I love you,” she says. And I know it's true. And I know it doesn't change anything. And that tomorrow we'll go to the airport. She'll be with him, on their honeymoon. I'll be alone, going home. And everything will be like before. Only now we have this night. He comes back. He lies down. The three of us fall asleep. And I dream that I'm standing by the window, my back to them. And I hear the rustling of silk and the clinking of thin glass behind me. And I don't turn around. Because I know that if I turn around, everything will disappear. I wake up from her shaking my shoulder. - Anya. Anya, wake up. We overslept. I open my eyes. The room. The chandelier. He's asleep. She's standing in her robe. Already dressed. Already his wife. Already not mine. I sit down. I look at her. “Are you okay?” she asks. “Yes,” I say. “I’m fine.” And it's true. I'm okay. Only now do I know what it's like to be okay when everything has changed. And when no one but the three of us will ever know.