Everything Changes

my side, dumping him off me and onto the floor. I make a mad dash for the door, and then rush through the kitchen, stopping for a second to comb my hair with my hands and tuck in my shirt before stepping back into the main hall.
    Fuck, fuck, fuck.
    The party is still in full swing, and rejoining it is like stepping into a dream, all of the guests oblivious to the imminent shitstorm. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, except for the spasms in my churning stomach as I make my way desperately through the crowd.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I figure I have anywhere from thirty to sixty seconds to find Hope and disappear with her, to explain things on my own terms and avoid a major public spectacle. As I make my way across the floor, I see that Matt’s commandeered the band and drawn a crowd as he furiously abuses a borrowed guitar, cranking up the distortion as he leads the musicians through “Blitzkrieg Bop.”
Hey! Ho! Let’s go! Hey! Ho! Let’s go!
The steady throbbing of the bass line pulsates up and down along my nervous system, keeping pace with my frantic heartbeat.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I spin around as my panic builds to a crescendo, scanning the room fruitlessly for Hope. My chest feels primed to explode like a bomb, spewing blood and tissue across the room onto the unsuspecting revelers.
    And then, finally, I find her standing beside the bar, chatting breezily with a girlfriend. And I know it isn’t actually happening like this, but it feels as if the crowd is parting on cue to give me a clear path to her. And as I approach, she becomes aware of me, and I can see her expression as it changes, from distraction to consternation, and then outright alarm, and I realize that I must be more of a mess than I thought. The noise of the party retreats like I’ve gone deaf, and all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears as I reach out to her. And there’s time to register the growing awareness of the people around me, and the horrified look in her girlfriend’s eyes as she fades into the background. Hope takes a step toward me, and she really is so beautiful—even at this moment I can see that—and I feel a pang, like a hand closing around my heart, a lightning-fast preview of the pain to come. “Zack,” she says, and before I can answer her, a fist hits the side of my head and I go down hard onto the bar, scattering glasses and bottles as I crumple to the floor.
    “I’ll kill you, you bastard!” Jack screams, sinking his knees into my stomach as he lands on top of me, knocking the wind out of me as he pummels from above. The sound has come back, but now there’s nothing to hear other than the breaking glasses and Jack’s incensed shouts. And then he’s got a large champagne bottle in his fist, seemingly snatched from the air itself like in a cartoon, and he’s wielding it by its foiled neck like a club, and I know instantly that it will crack my skull if he makes contact. I manage to free one of my pinned arms to desperately deflect his swing, and the bottle hits the floor with a heavy thud. I try to sit up, but he’s got position on me, and I catch a forearm in the face as he lifts the bottle for a second swing. This time timing and momentum are on his side, and I know the bottle will hit dead center, shattering my teeth as it goes, the crazed look in his eye confirming that he will bludgeon me to death if he’s able. Death by Moët & Chandon, a fitting end for the man found kissing the wrong woman at his own engagement party. Jack raises the bottle above his head and has just started his downward swing when another arm grabs his, stopping its descent. And then, impossibly, Jack is off me, thrown across the room like a laundry sack, where he collides noisily with a buffet table, sending breads and sauces flying through the air.
    “Zack!” Jed says, pulling me to my feet. “You okay?”
    “I didn’t think you were coming,” I mutter, trying to catch my breath.
    “I’ll bet you’re glad I did, though,” he says with a grin, straightening out my shirt and jacket. “Who is that guy?”
    “Hope’s father.”
    Jed stares as Hope and Vivian kneel on the floor beside Jack. “You’re shitting me.”
    Four of the larger men in the crowd, corporate underlings of Jack’s, start closing in on us in a small circle, not quite sure what’s called for, but ready to go to battle if their CEO demands it, and at first we appear to be outnumbered, but then Matt pushes through the crowd, brandishing