(i don't just want to be) a footnote in someone else's happiness
April 17, 2280. The worst day of Phoebe’s life. The day that she’d been dreading since before she even realized she was in love with Carla, her best friend.
Carla’s wedding.
It was hard enough to think about when Carla’s prospective husband had been imaginary, but now that he’s real, he’s NCR First Recon, and he’s named Craig, of all things, it's even harder.
Now that the day is here, Phoebe could do nothing about it but smile through it all. For Carla. Anything for Carla.
-
The ceremony itself was small, understated. A civil wedding in front of a bored NCR judge. A few witnesses; mostly Carla’s family and friends. Carla looked stunning in a simple dress — a more elaborate one would be worn at the reception at the Tops — and Craig dressed up, at least. He wore his stupid beret.
The judge asked if anyone objected to the union. Phoebe had a crazy thought of objecting, of confessing her lifelong love for Carla, but the moment passed. She stayed in her spot, smiling blandly instead.
Then, the worst part of it all. An exchange of rings, of vows: personal ones from Carla that Phoebe was the soundboard for. Fairly generic ones from Craig. Phoebe could barely hear over the ringing in her ears.
Craig, do you take this beautiful, clever woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part? “I do.”
Carla, do you take this fucking random guy you met at the bar you were tending to be your lawfully wedded husband, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part? “I do."
A kiss, to seal the deal. Phoebe clapped along, urging herself to smile wider when Carla caught her eye and beamed at her with a smile so bright it rivaled all the lights in The Strip. God, she needed a drink.
-
Phoebe took a gulp of her champagne; it was time for speeches. Carla’s parents each had a speech, then her two brothers did a little skit. Now, as maid of honor, it was her turn.
She had something prepared, because she always did, and she made sure her speech was fun and light and entertaining. Nothing too deep, nothing too secret. Nothing about how she really felt about either of the couple. Carla was smiling throughout, as Phoebe recounted their childhood in Vault 21, their adulthood living together in Freeside. Getting jobs at The Tops; Carla a bartender and Phoebe throwing knives with stunning accuracy on stage. How Carla met Craig, and how they had hit it off immediately. How good they are for a couple of barely a year. Blah, blah, blah.
Finally, her time was almost up. “Carla and Craig complement each other like this dinner. Carla is the brahmin steak: delicious, filling. Gives you energy to keep going. And Craig is the mashed potatoes. He’s there, beside her. Forever. Balancing her full-bodied flavors with his...” She had left this part of her speech blank, thinking she’d still have time to edit. Alas, she was caught up in the chaos of the day. Phoebe quickly searched for a word to describe Craig, and, finding none that were appropriate, she instead raised a toast to the couple, who were both smiling at her expectantly. “Congrats, guys. Truly. To the newlyweds!”
-
Somewhere before her sixth drink, but definitely after the newlyweds’ first dance together, Craig’s best man (Manuel? Mario? Phoebe can’t fully remember; she’d only spoken to him twice) approached her.
“Hey, you’re the maid of honor, right? Phoebe?”
“Yup, that’s me.” Phoebe can’t quite get the sardonic tone out of her voice. She was getting very close to being drunk. “Don’t feel very honored, though.”
To her surprise, he laughed. Ruefully. “I feel you, sister.”
For the first time, Phoebe looked at him. Really looked at him. Manny. His name was Manny. He also gave a best man speech, and it was… fine. It was mostly about Craig, and was lukewarm about Carla, but it was nice enough. The crowd received it well. Kind of like her speech. It dawned on Phoebe that they were probably in the same boat. She lightly raised her glass to him; he clinked his to hers.
“So, your speech…” he started as he sat next to her.
Phoebe put her face in her hands. “Oh god, don’t remind me.”
“Wasn’t that bad. It wasn't as boring as mine.”
“You were at least nice to Carla. Only thing I said about Craig was that he was mashed potatoes.”
“Eh. Craig’s heard worse.”
Phoebe took a sip of her cocktail, frowning. “Are you his spokesperson? What’s up with that guy anyway? Why are you both so interested in him? I truly don’t get it.”
Manny gave her a look. “He isn’t terrible, once you get to know him. You’re just biased.”
“And you’re not?”
Manny shrugged. “We’ve all got our own biases.”
“Yeah.” Phoebe leaned back in her chair. “Why did you come over here, again?”
“Oh, right.” Manny downed the last of his drink, placed the empty glass on the table, and stood in front of her, offering his hand.
“May I ask you to dance, instead of sulking in a corner?”
Phoebe raised an eyebrow. “You’d dance with a girl?”
Manny smiled, winked at her. “Only if you’d dance with a boy.”
She laughed. “What the hell. Sure.” She took his hand and stood. “Just this once.”
“Just this once,” Manny echoed, and they joined the crowd on the dance floor.
–
All things considered, Manny wasn’t a bad dancer. He spun her around until she was dizzy, then gave her hand a little squeeze when the song was over. He disappeared into the other side of the room, and Phoebe walked over to where Carla’s extended family was sitting, huddled over a table.
“What’s up?” she asked the group. Carla’s younger cousin, Gabbie, gave her a shit-eating grin.
“We’re betting on how long they’ll last,” she said, not bothering to keep her voice down. “I say six months.”
Ah, yes. You can take the people out of Vault 21, but you can’t take the generational gambling addiction out of the people.
“Ha! Months? I’d give them six weeks,” Carla’s father said. He had been against the wedding from the beginning, but couldn’t resist his only daughter. That makes two of us.
Gabbie rolled her eyes at her uncle, before turning to Phoebe. “What do you think? Six months? Six weeks?”
Before Phoebe could answer, Carla floated over, flushed and sweaty from dancing with her new husband, happiness emanating from her in a warm glow. She lay her hands on the table.
“Why are none of you on the dance floor — oh, what’s this?”
Carla took in the sheet of paper with names and numbers on it, the caps on the table, the way her family won’t look her in the eyes, and asked, “You’re all betting on me and Craig?”
The group had the decency to look sheepish. Carla guffawed. “Well, what are the odds? Let me in on this!”
The table erupted into a frenzy, with everyone telling the bride their bets. Through it all, Phoebe stayed quiet.
“Alright, alright, that’s what you all think,” Carla said, still smiling, “What’d you bet, Bee?”
Everyone turned to Phoebe. She was used to being under spotlights in Tommy Torini’s shows but she never felt more nervous than now, having all of their eyes, especially Carla’s, on her.
“Well, I know you, Cee, and I know you love winning, so, like you said earlier…” Phoebe raised a glass to Carla. “Till death do you part.” Hopefully Craig’s death.
Carla laughed happily. “You all heard that! I agree. Me and Bee bet on forever.” She ran as gracefully as she could to Phoebe and gave her the tightest hug. “I knew I’d have you on my side,” she whispered in Phoebe’s ear.
Carla pulled out of the hug. There were tears in her eyes. “Love you, Bee.”
Phoebe felt the tears that had been threatening to fall the whole night prick at the edges of her own eyes. “Love you too, Cee.” More than you’ll ever know.
-
After that, the reception was a blur. Phoebe remembered drinking; dancing with Carla, with Carla’s brothers and cousins, with their friends, with wedding crashers, with her boss Tommy Torini and fellow Tops performers; drinking; laughing; trying not to cry; drinking some more; crying anyway. “Tears of joy,” she’d excuse them away, “I’m just so happy Carla’s happy.” She got a lot of hugs, and a lot of drinks. Mainly shots.
Eventually, after the happy couple and most of the entourage left the party, Phoebe stumbled home to her and Carla’s empty apartment in Freeside at four in the morning, drunk, alone, with one of her heels missing. She couldn’t decide whether she had fun or not. She thought of Carla and Craig, kicking off their honeymoon in one of the suites of The Tops, and finally let herself cry the way she wanted to: loud, wet, heaving sobs that shook her entire body. Fat tears ran down her face in a rush, as if her eyes were a broken Hoover Dam, which she and Carla once took a trip to see. Now, they’ll never get to do that, just the two of them. From now on, Craig will be there too.
What a nightmare. Phoebe wanted to wake up from it, but she knew there was no escaping the reality that her best friend was no longer Carla Reyes and is now Carla Boone.
She crawled into Carla’s bed. At least they’re still best friends — they have a bond that not even that goddamn Craig could touch, a bond that they’ve had since they were in diapers. From the cradle to the grave, they used to tell each other. From womb to tomb. From Vault 21 to the wasteland to beyond.
Maybe that’s enough. It should be enough. Phoebe closed her eyes and drifted off, dreaming of her and Carla in matching dresses, dancing on clouds.
