Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When I wake, it’s still dark outside. The middle of the night. I blink, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Something’s wrong. The feeling sits in my gut like rotting ground beef, making my insides churn. I roll over, feeling for Simon in the bed, but come up empty.
My hand connects with only mattress. Sheets. No skin. No warmth.
I sit up, checking that I haven’t missed him somehow, but no. He’s gone. There’s no light coming from underneath the bathroom door either, so he’s not in there.
Where could he be?
I flick on my lamp. His phone is missing from his nightstand.
My heart picks up speed in my chest, galloping, then a full sprint.
I slip out of bed and cross the room, pulling open the door and stepping out into the silent hall. There’s a light coming from downstairs, and I follow it, crossing my arms to cover the fact that I’m not wearing a bra.
The soft carpet of the stairs masks the sound of my footsteps as I descend, and when I reach the first floor, the whisper of soft music reaches my ears.
Chills line my skin. It’s…jazz, I think. Something soft and relaxing. Ghosts of memories swim through my mind, my nose filling with the smoky scent of a little speakeasy my college girlfriends and I spent most Saturday nights in.
I blink the memories away, focusing on the music and where it’s coming from.
As I near the living room, the song drifts into silence, and the gentle crackles of the record player rise in its place, filling the space with a quiet, timeless hum.
The room is eerily silent for several long seconds.
Then, a sigh. A man’s sigh, I think. I move to round the corner.
“We should probably head upstairs.” Vic’s voice is faint.
Another sigh. “My night-owl partner in crime can’t keep up with me anymore.” It takes me too long to place the voice, to decide which Morning man it belongs to. Not Duncan, I’m fairly certain. Not Simon either.
“Well, when you guys have a second, you’ll understand.”
Preston.
She’s talking to Preston.
But…why? It’s odd. I’ve never really seen the two of them together. They couldn’t be more different—Vic with her laid-back, go-with-the-flow personality. And Preston, the busybody workaholic with a daily itinerary that, literally, includes bathroom breaks.
“Eh, no chance there. We’re done with all that. It’s up to Simon and Marlie to fill the house for Christmas now.”
Vic chuckles. “Something tells me they’ll both have announcements sooner than later. Warren is crazy about her.”
“We all know how that goes. In the beginning, anyway. Then real life comes along.” He clears his throat, then I hear the clinking of ice in a glass. “Anyway, Simon…told Dad they’ve been trying.”
“You tried really hard not to say ’Simon Says’ right there, didn’t you?” Vic says with a soft chuckle.
“Simon says fuck off,” he mutters with a laugh of his own.
I slip past the doorway in a hurry, hoping they won’t see me and suspect I’ve been eavesdropping. At the edge of the kitchen, I hear another voice.
Rachelle’s.
“…plan in case it falls through. Still. The makeup artist still hasn’t texted me back.”
It’s distant enough I suspect she’s in the dining room, just past the kitchen.
“Well, you did text her in the middle of the night.” There’s Pierce’s soft, unbothered voice. “Maybe we allow her a few hours’ rest?”
“The florist got back with me at the same time. And the cake designer. What if she cancels? What if she’s sick? There are always things going around this time of year. Surely, she’d let me know. But what if there was an accident? Maybe I’d better call her.”
“She’s not going to cancel, Mom.” I recognize Simon’s voice in an instant, and everything in me relaxes. He hasn’t left me. Isn’t trying to distance himself. “Let the woman sleep. You’ll hear from her tomorrow.”
“And if we don’t, we’ll find someone else,” Pierce adds.
I run my hand along the wallpaper, taking an easy step forward, stopping when I can nearly touch the door frame to the kitchen.
“Tomorrow? The day before the wedding? Oh, you really are men, both of you. Everyone will have already been booked months out. No one worth anything will have an opening the next day.”
“We’ll pay them triple what they’re making to cancel their appointments, then,” Pierce says matter-of-factly. “No big deal.”
“No big deal?” she asks, exasperated. I hear her sharp breath. “Easy for you to say. This is our daughter’s wedding. We’ll be looking at these pictures for generations to come. Her makeup…our makeup has to be perfect.”
Simon inhales through his teeth. “Yeah, you’re right. Otherwise, someone might look at the photos and be like, ‘Wow, her eyeliner’s messed up. Guess love isn’t real after all.’”
Pierce chuckles into a glass and someone—Rachelle—swats the table.
I smirk to myself, flattening my back against the wall, steadying my breathing. I should walk away and go back to bed. But I can’t just yet.
“Oh, you. You know what I mean. I just want everything to be perfect for my little girl.”
“And it will be,” Pierce tells her. “She’s marrying the person she loves. The rest is just decoration.”
“I know,” she says, softer now. “It just feels like my job to make it the day she dreamed of. You know, we never had that. Our day fell apart. And the boys, well, they never cared one way or another. I’ve spent twenty-eight years preparing for the day Marlie would get married, and then you blink, and it’s… tomorrow.”
Something rattles on the tabletop. A phone, maybe.
Someone has placed their phone down. It’s Simon who speaks next.
“You did great, Mom.” His voice is low and gentle, the same tone he’s used with me a million times.
I see now where he honed his skills, why he’s always the perfect person to calm me down.
“Marlie isn’t stressed about her wedding because she knows the amount of work you put into it. Everything’s going to be perfect.”
“Has she said that?” she asks. “She used to tell me everything. Now it’s just texts.
” The word is a curse on her lips. “‘We picked a song.’ ‘We chose a band.’ ‘Don’t stress.’ I didn’t even know which song their first dance was going to be until everything fell apart, and suddenly, they needed me involved.
I don’t know how it’ll sound live. The acoustics in the guest house… ”
“You’ll hear it on Friday,” Pierce says. “Probably make you cry.”
She laughs through a sigh. “I’m already crying.”
There’s a long, drawn-out silence. I force myself to breathe quieter, to listen. My mind wanders back through the day. I silently will Simon to bring up the necklace. I wonder if he already showed it to them and what Pierce said about it, if anything.
But he doesn’t bring it up. There’s more silence. Stillness. Someone refills a glass. Rachelle sniffles. Simon laughs under his breath, probably at something on his phone.
Then Pierce speaks, his voice gentle. “How’s she doing? You think tomorrow will…”
“She’ll be fine,” Simon says, his tone firm. Defensive. “She really believes what she heard. I can’t explain it.”
“But the wedding…” Pierce presses, not saying exactly what’s on his mind, but we can all read it just fine.
“Won’t be an issue,” Simon assures him. Heat spreads to my fingertips. “The guest house is done. She’ll be with me tomorrow and Friday. It’s under control.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, heat flaring under my skin.
What right do I have to be angry over this?
If it were my daughter’s wedding, I’d want to make sure there were no more problems either.
I can’t blame them, and yet, I do. Because I’m supposed to matter too.
And right now, it’s painfully clear I don’t.
“She’s worried you’re all mad at her,” Simon says, gently laying my scars on the table for examination. “Embarrassed.”
“Oh, honey,” Rachelle says, sniffling. “Do you want me to talk to her? She has to know we don’t blame her. We’re worried, that’s all.”
Pierce clears his throat. “After…everything with her mother, it’s therapy she needs. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.”
I press a hand to my chest. How dare they?
“I’ll bring it up again when the time’s right,” Simon mutters.
He’s never once brought it up. Is that really what he thinks of me?
That I need therapy for something that happened to me as a child?
I’ve worked through my issues. I’m fine.
Actually, now, I’m angry. Furious. I’ve always known how the Mornings feel about my mother.
I saw the way they handled her with kid gloves at our wedding—kind on the outside but patronizing underneath.
She’s a problem they’re trying to solve.
A stain on my history, and now on their son’s.
I’m…
I grip the wall, running a hand over my forehead. My palm comes away damp. Suddenly, I’m all too aware my clothes are sticking to my skin, soaked with sweat. When did that happen? I’m not thinking clearly. I know I’m not.
Everything they’re saying is coming from a place of concern. They don’t understand our history. Our love.
I need to get away from here before I do something I regret.
The sound of a chair scooting across the kitchen floor breaks the silence and tears me into reality. I take half a step back, then bolt on quiet tiptoes toward the stairs.
No one saw me.
They don’t know I was there.
Back in our bedroom, I sink down onto the bed, a hand on my chest as I try to calm my racing heart. To my surprise, my eyes burn with sudden tears.
I curl up under the covers, so tired and so angry and so utterly lost.
Until this moment, I don’t think I’d fully processed how alone I feel here. How other. Now, with these family meetings going on and leaving me out, with everything else that’s happened to put me on the outside, it’s more obvious than ever.
More than anything, I just miss my mom.
I miss her so much it hurts in my bones.
I close my eyes, drifting in and out of a sleep I have to fight for.
When I open my eyes, the time on my phone shows it’s just after midnight. I shouldn’t call so late, but years of night shifts means Mom is probably awake right now anyway, if she’s not currently at work.
I dial her number.
She answers quickly, her voice crackling with sleep and worry. “Astrid?”
“Hey, Momma. Did I wake you?”
“I was just on the couch watching my Tyra. Is everything okay? You’re not usually awake so late.”
I smile, immediately brought back to a time when Tyra Banks was the voice that filled the house during the hour after I got off the bus. A time when so many life lessons and new trends in our house were led by Mom’s voice. “Well, Tyra says…”
I lean away from the phone to sniffle, trying desperately to hide the signs in my shaking voice. “I’m fine. I just…we’re with Simon’s family for Marlie’s wedding, and…I missed you.”
The sound in her background is silenced, and I hear the strain in her voice as she adjusts. “Did something happen?”
“No. No. Everything’s fine. Just…you know. I guess the wedding is making me think of my wedding.”
“You’re worrying me,” she says softly, her voice cautious. “Do you want me to come down there? I’ve got days saved up.”
“No,” I say, all too quickly. And I hate myself for it. For the disgust I feel at the idea, the embarrassment. Mom has only met the Mornings once, at the wedding. Our worlds couldn’t be further apart. “No, I’m fine. Really. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
There’s a long beat. “You sound sad. Are you taking your meds?”
I force a smile, though she can’t see it. “Yes, of course. Every day.”
“And Simon’s being nice?”
The question almost makes me laugh. It’s so simple. Too simple. As if we’re just kids in the schoolyard again. “Always.”
She’s quiet. “You know I’m always going to be on your side, don’t you? No matter what you tell me.”
My brows draw down. “Mom. I didn’t do anything wrong.” At that, I can’t help but laugh. But is it true? Sneaking around and lying like I have been?
“Okay. Well…just remember it anyway. And remember, too, you don’t have to be like them. You can always just be you.”
And there it is, straight to the heart of the matter even if she doesn’t know what’s actually wrong. She knows me.
She’s the only person in the world who knows me.
And I guess this is what I’ve been craving all this time.
Someone who knows me. Deep down to my very core.
As much as I love Simon, it would be a lie to pretend I’m not cosplaying someone more like him when we’re together.
That I’m not wearing a mask at all times, even if it’s slowly getting thinner.
Even if the cracks have started to show.
“Okay, I’m going to go back to sleep now,” I tell her, yawning. I’m already drifting off, my vision blurring. I’m so hot. So, so hot. “I love you, Momma.”
“Love you too, pumpkin. Call me again soon, okay? I miss hearing from you.”
“I miss you, too.”
And with that, we end the call, her words like a balm over my hidden wounds.