Okay. So. I'm not going to lie. This whole wedding thing has kind of grown on me.
I googled Majorca. It's really pretty and sunny and just like those places that you see in films. And that's really pretty amazing. I know what I said before. I didn't want to leave this little bubble of mine. But as the week passed and packing became more and more important, I realised that I was actually getting excited. I mean, technically this is a holiday. I can just forget about this whole marriage bullshit and just concentrate on the fact that I'm going somewhere new. And only having a week to pack was pretty intense too. No time to think. Just grab and go.
So, you know. The wedding part hasn't grown on me. Just the rest of it.
It took us forever to get the right stuff packed too. I've never been on holiday before. Not somewhere like that anyway. Pretty sure those adopted parents of mine took me to a Butlins when I was younger. That was a load of shit. It rained the entire time and I just felt like an idiot. Being forced to 'have fun' when I was actually having the furthest thing from 'fun' as a child could have. Jesus, I hated that place. And those people too...
So to be going to a place that has guaranteed sun constantly is a little bit different to what I'm used to. And I don't know how to dress for the sun. I see girls in skimpy skirts and shorts and sleeveless tops...but you can get fucked if you think I'm going to wear those. Even though Mark seemed to like the idea a little more than I thought he would. He's never seen me in shorts before, and has always turned up his nose at the idea of other girls wearing them. But for some reason, I seem to be an exception. Sorry, Mark. Not even you can get me to wear those things.
So once that was all sorted, we then had the joys of working out how to get to the airport. All those problems of who's going to drive, where they'll park, who will sit by who on the plane. Stuff that I could quite easily stay right out of up until the point of the car journey. I kind of got dragged into that whilst sat in the front seat of Mark's car. He got the short straw and had to drive and made me look at the map of the local area to find decent parking. What he failed to realise is that I can't read a map. So for about twenty minutes, I got us lost in this massive place whilst having three Irish men shouting at me for directions that I simply couldn't give them. Mark eventually pulled over and gave the map to Glen after I threw a hissy fit and threatened to throw the map out the window.
I've been a bit cold with Mark since then. Even as we walked through the terminals, I didn't give him the pleasure of holding my hand. I really wanted to, of course. This place is big and scary and has far too many people in it for my comfort. But I'm making a statement. You do not shout at me and tell me that I'm doing it wrong. I'm pretty sure if it was him trying to read it, he would be doing the exact same thing. And I bet he wouldn't have liked it if I shouted at him. So, I sucked up my fear. I didn't hold his hand and I ignored the puppy-dog look on his face that usually gets me to do whatever he wants me to do. No matter how difficult that is.
But now that I'm on the plane, all that has mostly been forgotten. As I'm sat in between him and Danny, I can barely keep still with excitement. I was going to sit by the window just next to Mark, but he was a prick to me. I'm going to need someone else's conversation on this flight as well. And I'm still trying this whole 'Danny is family' idea so I decided to sit in between them. Mark wasn't overly pleased, but I don't really care. He has no say in what I do today. And if I want to sit by the window, he can swap with me. That's probably going to be the case anyway. And then he'll get what he wants. Win-win situation eventually.
“I'm sorry.”
Hmm. I turn my head at the whimper to meet the sad look on Mark's face. As much as it shatters something inside of me, I'm still angry at him.
