Chapter 51
A GOOD CRY
REMY
But I won’t let myself bask in my sister’s delight. Once we slip into the back of a town car with Mom, the cameras off, Fresh Face left behind, I take the next step. It’s one I should have taken a while ago.
“Everything Jameson said was true. It was a fake romance. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth, but I wanted everything to go smoothly for the wedding.
I didn’t want the Jumbotron dump with Jameson to cause problems. But I was wrong,” I say to them, and this excavation hurts, like someone is scraping out my insides.
“In the end I did cause problems. Your dress, and the live stream, and lying to you both. And I’m so sorry.
I wish there were something else I could say, but I made a mistake. ”
I’d like to say it’s a relief to tell the truth at last. But mostly I’m sad. Disappointed. And heartbroken. I’m tired, too, of always keeping it together.
Across the seat, Caroline reaches for my hand and sets hers on mine, her huge diamond glinting in the sun streaming through the car windows. She tilts her head, her expression unusually gentle. “Why did you feel you had to fake it with me? Because of your ex?”
I wince, heat crawling up my neck. I don’t want to lie again. “It seemed…easier.”
“What do you mean?” She’s soft, so rare for her.
“How could it be easier?” my mother chimes in, confusion in her eyes.
I half want them to be mad. But I’m so grateful they’re not that a sob works its way up my chest. “I wanted to look like I was moving on,” I admit, as my breath hitches, my voice breaking.
“Why didn’t you just say that?” my mother asks, reaching for me too, setting a hand on my arm.
That’s a good question. One I’ve asked myself often enough.
I had ample opportunities to tell them it was fake.
And I could answer them in a number of truthful ways.
I could say I didn’t want the secret to leak out.
I didn’t want Jameson to know. That once one person, aside from my best friends, knows everyone will know. Case in point—today.
But deep down, that’s not why I kept the truth hidden. I face my fears head-on. “I wanted you all to think I was fine, to think I had it together. Like you two.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” my mother says, her lower lip quivering. “I hardly feel like I have it together at all.”
I whip my gaze to her, arching a brow. “Come on, you do your brain games. You work out. You’re retired from a successful business.
You helped manage this wedding. You have everything together.
You even got it all together with Dad,” I say, then turn to my sister.
“And you have the ultimate power-woman life. Your show, your employees—even your hair is perfect.”
Caroline shakes her head. “Oh, Remy, I make mistakes every day. I lost my shit on camera a few minutes ago, but that’s just part of life.
I’ve learned not to let those things get me down, and I’m sorry I told you to get a plus-one.
I’m sorry I didn’t handle this from the beginning by kicking Jameson out,” she says, her eyes pleading with me.
“I told you to strike first without thinking what it might turn into. I’m the one at fault.
I pressured you to be responsible for my wedding going smoothly. That’s on me.”
Oh god. She’s right. She does own her mistakes, immediately and completely.
“It’s not your fault,” I whisper, exonerating her.
“But it is,” she says. “I treated you like a member of my team. I gave you a role to play. I expected key performance indicators. I’m so sorry.”
My heart softens, even though it was never very hard toward her.
I love her too much. “I didn’t say no to you.
I let my wishes for everything to go perfectly get the better of me.
And I wanted it all to go so well today.
” I shift to my mother, as the car cruises closer to the Marina, the site of the wedding dress.
And with everything out there, I share the hardest part of all—the part I haven’t really ever said to her.
I swallow roughly. “Just like I wanted everything to work out for you and Dad. Like when I was trying to keep you together as a kid. When I planned all those dates for you, the dinner and the candlelight and the games. All I have ever wanted was for you guys to stay together. I knew you were struggling.”
It feels like rubbing sandpaper against my heart.
My mother frowns, shaking her head. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry I made you feel that you had to do that.
And I know maybe it seemed like we stayed together because of all of your planning and your dates, but honestly it was because we realized we’d raised such great kids and that they were a team worth fighting for.
It wasn’t because of the candlelight, the games, or the dinners.
It was because of the hard things. And I’ve probably been hard on you, and I’m sorry for that. I truly am.”
My heart doesn’t feel like it’s being scoured. It feels like it’s being held by someone who cares.
“It’s okay. We can start over.”
She wraps an arm around me, hugging me in the back seat of the car, Caroline getting in on it too as a good group cry turns into a group hug.
* * *
I hold my breath as I zip up the dress.
“Let this be my glass slipper moment,” Caroline whispers, adjusting the lacy bodice.
I reach the top of the zipper and my shoulders relax since it’s nice and snug. It fits perfectly.
I turn her around and gasp. “It’s even better.”
My mother nods. “She’s right. It’s simple and lovely.”
“And it doesn’t smell like beer or have a train,” Caroline says, then sighs like she’s settling into a bubble bath.
But it hardly lasts. She jerks her gaze to me. “Why did you have this again?”
That’s a whole other story, but as she hustles to my bathroom and fixes her makeup, I tell them about the store, the estate items, and the list. “I think I wanted our relationship to be real,” I admit quietly.
“Well, why can’t it be?” Caroline asks, since of course in her world she’d march up to Lake and say, “It’s real. Deal with it.”
But I’m still me. I’m not her. You don’t change that quickly. “Because it was fake. Things don’t work out that way. Sometimes you get a dress and it fits perfectly. But most of the time, fake romances don’t become real.”
My mother squeezes my shoulder. “Maybe it could be.”
Maybe, but truly for now, I need to focus on them. My final romance design. “I quit being a romance designer,” I tell them, since this is evidently the day of confessions.
As Caroline brushes on pretty pink blush, I tell them more.
And once she’s done, we take turns touching up our makeup.
“For what it’s worth, you’re pretty great at events,” Caroline says.
“I’m not going to be a wedding planner,” I say.
My mother laughs. “It wasn’t the worst job.”
“But it would be for me.”
“And that I understand. Now let’s get your sister down the aisle.”
And we leave, but when we return to the hotel, Caroline holds up a finger and says, “There’s one more thing I need to do.”
She marches over to Fallon and says, “Cut the live stream.”
Then she walks down the aisle in front of friends and family and marries the man who adores her while I steal glances at the hockey star in the front row, wishing I could do what Caroline would do.
But Lake’s words from earlier repeat in my head. You want to know why we faked it? I insisted on it. Because you were such a dick to her.
He finally admitted it was fake in front of everyone to save me. But he didn’t say it was real. Maybe someday I’ll be strong enough to walk over to him, grab his collar and say be mine like I mean it.
But not today.
* * *
That night, as the DJ plays a Frank Sinatra song, Lake asks me to dance. I take his hand, my heart aching with so much longing. So much wishing.
He brings me to the dance floor, among the other couples: my mother and father, Parker and Caroline, and so many others. My throat tightens as I meet his blue eyes. They’re searching mine, like he’s looking desperately for something, hoping to find it.
But what?
As we sway, he parts his lips, and says, “That was…a wild day.”
“It was. And you have been the best fake boyfriend ever. So thank you.”
He tenses for a second or two. Maybe more. Then he presses a kiss to my forehead, his voice tight as he says, “You deserve everything.”
But what I want most is you. And I want so badly for him to ask me to stay the night at his place. Just one more night where we’re together.
But his motivation to fake date me is gone.
And now my heart is breaking for real.
It’s shattered in a fresh and painful way, so much worse than when I was dumped on a Jumbotron.
This time, I ache everywhere.
I keep those thoughts locked up, where they’re safe.