Free The Other Guy by Cary Attwell

was up for wrangling a solo adventure, and just bummed around the resort, my listlessness seemingly tangible within a mile-radius; Alak looked concerned at me and offered to help me book a relaxation massage.
    Just to have something to pass the time, I let him. It seemed to cheer him up.
When the time for my departure rolled around, I couldn't decide whether I was happy to leave or not. On the one hand, I was beginning to irritate myself with my incessant expectation of seeing Nate pop up everywhere; on the other, I was going back to my normal life as Emory, he of failed weddings and even worse receptions.
Still, happy or not, I left Thailand behind and got on a plane home.
A million hours later, having thoroughly enjoyed the vocal stylings of two distressed infants on each flight and probably the worst movies ever committed to film, I opened the door to my empty apartment, and a sigh shuddered out of an equally empty me.
Sadly, the pile of wedding presents hadn't miraculously vanished in the night. It's so typical of the fine china dishes you registered for not to run away with any of the matching cutlery when you want them to.
Having left my cell phone turned off while away, I retrieved it from the inside pocket of my carry-on and sank onto the couch to check my messages. Too tired to even contemplate holding the phone up to my head, I played the messages on speaker.
One by one, I listened to them, one from my mother, another from work. I stared at a blank wall, simply letting the sound waves filter around me and out of my way, until the next message came on.
"Hey, Em." Michelle's voice filled the space of my living room, and when it had nowhere else to go, kicked me in the stomach. "You're not picking up your phone... Um, I don't blame you, but I want to say that I'm really sorry about, um, the wedding and everything. I know it was--"
"--Message erased," said my loyal voicemail. "Next message."
"Hi, Em," said Michelle again. "Um, I don't know where you are, and Hal's obviously not talking to me right now, but I wanted to make sure you're okay? It'd be-- It'd be nice if we could still be friends. Call me when you get this, okay?"
No, thank you.
I went through the rest of my cell phone messages and deleted all the ones she'd left without listening to any of them in their entireties, feeling sick.
Leaving the wedding gifts alone for another day, I rolled my luggage into the bedroom. I had intended to unpack like a responsible adult but ended up shoving it against one bedroom wall. It could wait.
I showered and crawled into bed, tired all the way to my bones. Maybe when I awoke, seven years would have passed, and I'd wake up to an Emory who had his life together.

Chapter Five
    I had to Google the proper etiquette for dealing with the wedding gifts. It wasn't much, but if I was going to be a poor schmuck dumped at his own wedding, at least I wouldn't be a poor schmuck with no manners on top of it.
    I also resolutely did not Google 'Nate Harris'. Since I was on the computer anyway, I thought I might as well upload my photos now or I'd never get around to it. One by one, they appeared on my screen, beach after beach, golden temples, wide spans of coconut trees. They all seemed so distant now, like someone else had gone and taken those pictures in my stead.
The picture of me and Nate on our last day came up, the only one of the two of us together, and I pretended it wasn't the reason I'd gotten my camera connected to the laptop before doing almost anything else.
It was a good picture. You could tell by the amount of time I spent staring at it.
Someone pinged me on Skype, and I jumped, startled out of my mooning. I'd forgotten that I was automatically signed in. It was Linnea, and although I didn't really want to talk to anybody at the moment, or for the next millennium, give or take a century, I accepted the call anyway. I'd catch hell otherwise.
"Hey, friend," she said warmly. "You made it home."
"Hey," I said.
"Are you tired? Is