In my head, TWD is well on his way to happily-ever-after with someone new. I actually have two prospects in mind, and if he knew who I was thinking about, he’d tell me I was crazy and deny ever liking either of them “in that way” but I know better. Women always know better when it comes to such things.
Not that I ever doubted his loyalty when we were together, but these women in particular never really cared for me, and I can’t say as that I blamed them. They always had his best interests at heart, and I, oftentimes, did not.
But like I was saying: in my head, he is going to be very happy with one of them. There will be a fair amount of drama, and some uncomfortable logistics to work out (especially seeing as one of my prospects is already married), but in the end, everything will resolve itself and he will have a lovely wife who likes the things he likes and wants to do the things he wants to do.
And I, being a kind and selfless individual, will be happy for him.
In fact, I’m going to go to their wedding.
And I will tell anyone who is interested (or not) how I always knew they would end up together. Maybe I’ll even do a reading. “Love is patient, love is kind…” I am awfully good at wedding readings.
I will, of course, be wearing a fantastic dress (I’m thinking teal) and because I will be married to a gorgeous photojournalist/venture capitalist at that point, it will be a fantastic maternity dress. A designer maternity dress, even.
Also, I will be the sort of expectant mother who hasn’t gained any weight whatsoever.
TWDs own mother won’t even realize I’m pregnant until I turn sideways, and his kids (who will be all grown up by this point) will congratulate me and ask me to email them my chili recipe. We’ll laugh about the time we played “Chicken” at the beach in Florida and they’ll introduce me to their dates and I will give them a discreet but enthusiastic “thumbs up” when their significant others aren’t looking because I am cool like that.
We won’t actually talk all that much, TWD and I; he’ll just give me a huge hug when we meet in the receiving line and tell me I look great and thank me for coming. I’ll introduce my photojournalist/venture capitalist husband and TWD will clap him on the back in a very manly fashion and make a little joke to put us all at ease, such as, “I knew Kat would go for someone with hair after me!”
I’ll tell his new wife that she looks stunning, and she’ll realize that I never actually disliked her—not that much anyway—and we’ll make well-intended plans for a double date that none of us actually expects to keep.
They won’t play our song during the reception. (Out of respect, TWD will have asked the DJ to take it off the playlist). TWD will, however, ask me to dance for half a song towards the end of the night (nothing sexy, nothing Latin, just a nice slow jitterbug on account of me being pregnant, or a hustle). People will sigh and say, “They always looked so good together on the dance floor. What ever happened with the two of them?”
Dancing, of course, will cause my water to break, but because I am such a kind and selfless individual and won’t want to steal the bride’s spotlight on her special day, I will be discreet about it. In fact, it won’t happen until I am in the privacy of a bathroom stall, from which I will text the photojournalist/venture capitalist and say, “Darling, can you bring the car around?”
He’ll text back that he’s had our private jet on call all this time, then he’ll come crashing through the doors of the women’s room in very gallant fashion to make sure I’m alright. The old ladies washing their hands will cry out in protest but once they realize it’s me (the groom’s ex-girlfriend who was, up until his new wife, the best thing that had ever happened to him), they’ll forgive the photojournalist/venture capitalist for barging into the restroom. In fact, they’ll still be shouting their blessings in Spanish as he escorts me out to the jet, which will be waiting in the parking lot, and I will give birth to boy and girl twins en route to the hospital in exactly twelve minutes without even breaking a sweat.
The photojournalist and I will be very Mary-and-Matthew about it, all lovey-dovey and drunk with joy, except (Downton spoiler alert) he won’t die in a car crash twenty minutes later. Instead, he’ll use the duration of the flight to respond to the bevy of concerned text messages that have been rapidly accumulating on my cell phone: TWD, his sister-in-law, his mom, his oldest kid, his youngest kid, the wife of his former co-worker who always made fabulous chocolate chip cookies, etc.
He and TWD will have a slightly mysterious man-to-man exchange and when I ask him what it was all about he’ll just kiss me in a way that says, “You are the most brilliant woman on the planet and I will love you forever.”
A few weeks later, we’ll get a package from China (where TWD and his new wife will be honeymooning). It will contain matching, unisex baby slippers made from Chinese silk along with a handwritten note of thanks for our extremely thoughtful wedding gift (luggage and an annotated guidebook, seeing as the photojournalist/venture capitalist and I would have already been to China about seven times by then, and would have probably even conceived the twins just a stone’s throw from the Great Wall).