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The first time I ran into Dennis after the infamous nonwedding, I was wearing a coffee-stained tank top, no makeup, and baggy red track pants that made my ass look as big as Montana. I ordered a double espresso, collected my change, turned around to grab a napkin, and lo and behold, there was the man who'd "needed to talk" after our rehearsal dinner six months before.

I should have known this day was coming. UCLA is a big campus, but the medical plaza is a small world.

It was not good. We gaped at each other, both of us mute and rooted to the sun-bleached concrete. His gaze slid away from mine, so I focused on the small blue name tag pinned to his white coat: DR. D. SCHELL. We were standing, fittingly, in The Bomb Shelter, which is the café adjacent to the med school.

The silence between us stretched into eons. Stars flared up and extinguished in the heavens. Species evolved and died out. It became tragically apparent that the Big One was not going to hit right now, swallow me up into the San Andreas Fault, and save me from the raw humiliation of this moment. I had to say something. Anything.

"How's Lisa?" Those are the words that actually came out of my mouth.

He startled when I said her name. "She's good. She's… you know."

I nodded at his left hand, which, although tan and sprinkled with thin dark hair, remained ringless. "Still not married?"

"No." He scuffed at the ground.

"Good to know. And actually, as long as we're on the subject, I still have a few bills I could use some help with. As you know." I smiled at him, sweetly. The expression on his face suggested that I had sprouted pointy, glistening fangs. "The photographer, mostly. The engagement ring paid for the jazz band and the catering, and I sold the bridesmaids' gowns on eBay, but I took a loss, so…"

He flinched. Couldn't bear to think of my platinum-set Tiffany diamond ring sparkling away in some second-rate North Hollywood jewelry shop. Poor baby.

He cleared his throat, pulled his Palm Pilot out of his pocket, and commenced poking at it with the plastic stylus. One of his nervous little tics. That and pulling on his earlobe. "I want to help out with that stuff. I kept meaning to call you, but…"

"Lisa." I nodded briskly. "I know."

"Listen." He finally raised his gaze, up to about my chin, as he gestured to the café counter. "Can I buy you something?"

"Like what?" I planted my hands on my drawstring pant waist. "Chai? Latte? No thanks. You've done enough. Just pony up ten thousand bucks, and we'll call it even."

His big brown eyes were those of a puppy cowering in the face of a rolled-up newspaper. "I deserve that. I know. Listen, Gwen, I never meant to—"

But I was already walking away. Strutting my stuff in red track pants and a messy ponytail, trying to make an imperious Miss Thang exit before I burst into tears. Which I did, approximately four minutes later, when I reached the campus botanical gardens and caught sight of the quaint little mission-style chapel across the street. A bride and groom were posing for photographs on the church lawn.

Late Friday afternoon was an odd time for a wedding, but sometimes the church and reception site are cheaper if you're willing to book a Sunday or a Friday. Just another fun fact I'd amassed on my long, meandering, and ultimately aborted trip down the aisle.

The bride was tiny, disappearing in swaths of white lace that I recognized from the Modern Bride special issue on Vera Wang. The groom was tall, lanky, a little goofy. Both of them looked stunned in the afternoon sunlight filtering through green leaves. Shocked by the final fruition of all those months of strategizing and bickering over centerpiece ideas. They were married, for better or for worse. Off with the wedding gown and on with the rest of their lives.

I sat down right there on the sidewalk and rummaged through my bag until I unearthed my cell phone, then speed dialed my roommate (and would-be maid of honor) Cesca. At times like this, a girl needed to hear someone say things like "When he asked about the ring, what you should have said was, 'Pawned it. Went to Hawaii and slept with a cabana boy.'"

What a girl did not need was to discover that she had forgotten to recharge her cell phone last night, and consequently had no battery power left.

Copyright © 2005 by Beth Macias