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The first time you see him kissing her they're standing in the street, faintly lit, his knees bent sharply to level his lips with hers. He towers like a giant, all angles and sweaty forehead, and she's smiling so wide her eyes scrunch up. You turn around and run until you can’t and then you take ragged breaths until that aching in your throat pushes itself into ugly sobs that make you sick for hearing them. You drop by the side of the road somewhere you don’t recognize in the dark, far away from people who might hear you, fingernails digging into your scalp. (It’s the better part of an hour until you get back up.)
It makes it worse when other people talk about it. The first time you overhear Margaret say they make a sweet couple, you nearly drop a plate.
On their wedding day you don’t know what to wear and Granny knocks on your door after she hears your boot hitting the wall. You must have thrown it pretty hard because she looks worried. You tell her that you fell.
They’re at the altar and someone in the benches is crying loudly. Probably Porcoline, though you saw a lot of shining eyes in the crowd when you were taking your seat. Anyway, you prepared yourself for this. Just pretend it’s a regular day at work and you’ll probably sleep through the ceremony.
She’s looking up at him and nearly glowing. She is elegant and lively in her gown; somehow with all its folds and ruffles and that stupid droopy veil, she still looks as if she might break into song at any moment. She is beautiful. He towers over her uncomfortably.
They say their vows and kiss, him shy and reluctant and her laughing. Everyone cheers.
When they get down the line to you, you make the corners of your mouth go up into a smile and clap him on the back. He looks like he’s expecting you to congratulate him. The words that come out your mouth are all wrong and you want to reach out and yank them right back down your throat. They move on down the line. Maybe later you'll scream until your voice gives out thinking about the look on his face.
You keep thinking about it.
Their kids are loud and not named after you, in spite of your joking, and drunken, suggestions. You let them help out in the store from time to time and lecture them on what an idiot their dad used to be (you use air quotations around used to and they’re delighted). Later the kids will gleefully tell him everything you said while you stand right there at the counter, and it will make them laugh and he’ll smile wryly and you’ll maybe share a word or two about the good old days and you'll mean it, now. He'll ruffle his kids' hair and they'll all leave together, and you'll smile as you watch them tugging on his sleeves and it'll even make you happy when they call you Uncle Doug. You'll gloat to them about all your adventures and you'll leave out what they aren't old enough to hear about until they're old enough to hear about it. That's how it's supposed to be, and you can do that much for them.
You think that he's happy and that's somehow enough.
(It's your own damn fault, anyway.)