J.D. Kotzman Regarding Bethany
August 6, 1998 I hate weddings, Brian thought as he pressed harder on the accelerator of his run-down black Audi. He sped along a dark country road, U2 blasting from the speakers, the way ahead abandoned. God, I hate them. He glanced at the invitation on the passenger seat, wondering whether his cousin Jack and his cousin’s lovely bride-to-be Kelly really did request the honor of his presence, or whether they sent the invite as a mere social courtesy. He hadn’t spoken with anyone from that branch of the family tree in more than two years. And regarding Bethany, Kelly’s sister and maid of honor, given the power, he would have eradicated every trace of her from his memory. I should have just sent a gift, he thought, his face contorting into a sneer as he peered into the onrushing blackness. He
cranked the volume on the stereo. … You don’t know how you got here You just know you want out Believing in yourself Almost as much as you doubt … Later, as his disgust ebbed and his angst rose, Brian’s hands started jittering—rhythmically at first, then frantically—against the wheel. He popped open the glove box and retrieved the hastily rolled joint stashed inside. Therapy, no? He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, letting the salubrious fumes fill his lungs. After a time, he felt himself unwinding, receding from awareness, drifting into unconsciousness. He fought to hold open his eyes, a battle he might have won on a level field, but the vodka and pills in his stomach had marched him too deep into enemy territory, a