20. Rosie
20
ROSIE
On my way out of class, I dig my phone out of my pocket and groan at the name flashing on the screen. I normally don’t mind talking to my mom, but I have a feeling I know why she’s calling, and I’m not in the mood for this conversation.
I’m tempted to ignore the call, but she’s persistent, so it’ll only be a matter of time before she’s ringing again.
I duck into an alcove and swipe to answer.
“Hey, Mom.” I sound far more cheery than I feel.
She launches right in. “I made an appointment for you at a bridal store in Nashville to try on dresses. It’s?—”
“Mom,” I interrupt, “I really can’t be thinking about dresses right now. Christmas is almost here and—” I bite my tongue. We still haven’t told our families about Sammy.
We had a home inspection a few days ago—after we babyproofed the house and got started on the nursery, at least. The wallpaper finally came and is being put up this week. Now, if only the furniture would show up. Just about everything we picked out is on backorder, and they keep changing the dates on me. I’ll have to cancel and order furniture elsewhere if it can’t be delivered in the next couple of weeks. Sammy might not be my child, but I want his room to be special. Maybe that’s silly. A room is a room.
“I know Christmas is almost here,” she huffs. “I’m still upset that you’re not coming to see us.”
“Daire and I want to be here, just the two of us, for our first Christmas,” I lie.
In reality, it has nothing to do with us wanting to be alone. We’re supposed to get another supervised meeting with Sammy on Christmas Eve.
“I have an idea!”
I pinch my brow and close my eyes, guessing where she’s going with this.
“Why don’t we come there to see you guys?”
“Mom. No.”
Setting boundaries with parents can be hard. She forgets that I’m an adult now, with my own life.
“Why not?”
I stifle the urge to groan. “Like I told you, Daire and I want to spend our first Christmas together.”
“I think it’s unreasonable that you don’t even want to see us. It’s Christmas.” A sniffle echoes over the line. She’s really laying the guilt on thick now. “Grace misses you.”
“Just you and Grace, huh?” No mention of my dad. “We can FaceTime on Christmas morning.”
She sniffles again for dramatic effect. “It’s not the same.”
The longer we talk, the heavier the weight pushing on my shoulders becomes. Not once has she mentioned my dad missing me too. I’ve stopped trying to reach out to him, deciding it’s better to let him work through his anger.
I’ve always been a daddy’s girl, so being on the outs with him sucks. We’ll move past this eventually, but that doesn’t keep me from wishing we could skip to that part now.
“Back to the dresses—I’ll schedule a visit in January. Grace and I will be there. I’m not missing out on this. You already robbed me of the first wedding.”
“It was in a courthouse,” I remind her.
“I don’t care. I would’ve been there.”
No, she would’ve been dragging me out of there and demanding we have a real wedding.
“I don’t know if I’ll have time.”
“Make time. And lose ten pounds. You’ll fit in the samples… more easily.”
When she hangs up, all I can do is gape at my phone. I know she doesn’t intend to hurt me with her words, but fuck, it feels like a stab to the heart every single time. Why does the size of my body matter so much to her? I’m the one living in this shell.
I tuck my phone into my pocket, inhaling a steadying breath. Even though I made Daire promise we could have a real wedding, I’m beginning to regret that part of the bargain. All because my treacherous feelings keep forgetting that this marriage isn’t real.
And my stupid mother is telling me I need to lose weight to fit into a dress.
It’s just a fucking dress.
Slipping out of the alcove, I start toward the dining hall. I’ve completely lost my appetite, but I could go for a hot chocolate. At this time of the year, they serve specialty hot chocolate, and I’m in desperate need of a peppermint cocoa with a snowman marshmallow.
“Rosie? Wait up!”
At the sound of my name, I look up and come to a stop. Daire—my husband—is jogging away from a group of guys, Cree and Jude among them, and he’s headed my way.
“I—” The word dies on his tongue, and his face morphs into a mask of concern. “What’s wrong?” He reaches for my wrist, warm fingers wrapping around the cold patch of skin. “Did someone hurt you?”
“Just my mother,” I retort.
His eyes narrow. “Do I need to call her?”
Snorting, I pull my coat higher up around my face. I feel like a turtle poking its head out of its shell, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“No. But don’t be surprised if she shows up on our doorstep on Christmas, despite being told no multiple times. That word doesn’t seem to exist her vocabulary.”
“What did she say?” he demands, not letting it go.
“It really doesn’t matter.” I shake him loose, then turn and continue my trek to the dining hall.
He follows, matching my stride. “It does to me.”
“Why?” I demand. I just want to get my hot chocolate and find an empty corner where I can let the tears fall.
“You’re my wife.”
Another snort rips out of me as my chest constricts. “In contract only.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “That doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me.”
“Daire?” I tug my beanie down lower over my ears. Why didn’t I pick a college somewhere warmer? “Right now, I just want to get a hot chocolate and drown my sorrows in sugar. Is that too much to ask?”
He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Then will you talk to me?”
I flash him a toothy smile. “Maybe.”
When we reach the dining hall, he hustles past me so he can hold the door for me. Silently, he follows me over to the beverage station. I never get coffee here. It’s nasty sludge, so I’d rather get it from the on-campus café, but the seasonal hot chocolate is a different story.
I step up to order, looking over my shoulder at Daire. “You want anything?”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”
With a quiet laugh, I say, “Two peppermint hot chocolates with the snowman marshmallow, please.” I scan my dining hall card, and then we step aside to wait for the drinks.
“I told you I didn’t need one.”
“Who said the other one is for you? Maybe I’m choosing sweets instead of alcohol today.”
I’m more than a little surprised that I can joke like this so soon after the conversation I just had. It won’t be long before my mom’s words are circling in my head once more.
“That bad, huh?”
I look away, lowering my focus to the tile floor that looks like hardwood. “You have no idea.”
By now, I should be used to her saying things like what she did. My skin should be thicker.
Though I suppose it’s not unfair to be upset when my own mother makes negative comments about my body.
I don’t for a minute think she hates me. She doesn’t do it to be malicious. Honestly, that might be the worst part of it all. It would be easier for me to dismiss if she was a horrible mother in general, but she’s not. She’s wonderful in all areas but this one. I even have sympathy for her, because her critiques of my body have more to do with what she endured from her own mom and the modeling industry than with me.
When our drinks are ready, I swipe both off the counter and hand one to Daire. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”
He looks down at the large snowman marshmallow that nearly covers the entire top of the cup. “Cute.”
His hand is a brand on my back—one I feel through multiple layers of clothes—as he guides me to a table in the corner. None of the other tables nearby are filled, so we’ve got plenty of privacy. I appreciate his effort, even if I’d rather run out the door than talk about my family problems with him.
He pulls out a chair for me, shocking me with the gentlemanly gesture, and I shrug my backpack off and set it on the floor before sliding into the seat.
For a moment, I’m silently focused on gently blowing on my hot chocolate before taking a tentative sip.
Perfection.
I hum at the taste and take another sip. “God, I love this stuff.”
Daire smiles, raising his own cup to his mouth. His eyes widen at the first taste. Surprise coats his words when he says, “That’s good.”
“I told you.”
He takes a few more sips before he sets his cup down and says, “Now, tell me what she said.”
Daire isn’t the kind of guy to give up. He’s always been this way, so I set my cup down and smooth my hands down my thighs, then force myself to dive in.
“She called about wanting to schedule a time for me to look at dresses.”
His brow creases. “Dresses?”
“Wedding dresses.”
“Oh.” He nods, picking up his drink. “Right. Go on.”
“I told her I didn’t have time.” It’s the truth. Between school and the house and Daire trying to get some sort of custody of Sammy, my days are jam-packed. “But you know how she is.”
“Pushy.” He chuckles, though he quickly sobers and rests one elbow on the table, shifting to face me. “But I don’t see why that would’ve had you upset.”
The snowman marshmallow in my cup swirls around, the edges curling in on themselves are a perfect representation of how I feel at the moment.
“It’s what she said at the end of the conversation that got to me.” I tap my fingers against the side of the Styrofoam cup, stalling. The idea of saying it out loud is painful. Even more so than hearing it. “She told me to lose ten pounds before we go so that I fit in the samples easier.”
With a thick swallow, I drop my eyes to the table, waiting for his reaction.
Daire goes eerily still at my side. He lets go of his cup, his left hand curling into a fist on top of the table.
I can’t help but zero in on the ring on his finger, getting far too much satisfaction at the sight of it than someone in a fake marriage should.
“She said what?”
Cringing, I take a sip of my drink, wishing it were spiked. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
He fumbles in his pocket, then pulls out his phone. “I’m calling her.”
“No!” I shriek, grappling to get ahold of his phone. “Don’t do that.”
He glowers, holding it in the air. “Tell me why the hell not.”
“She’s my mom. She didn’t mean to hurt me.”
He holds my stare. “It doesn’t matter whether she meant to. She did hurt you.”
I lift one shoulder and let it fall. “I’m used to it.”
His gaze softens, and he sets the phone on the table. Slowly, he cups my cheek. With a soothing stroke of his thumb, he says, “You shouldn’t be used to that. No one should.”
“Well,” I drop my eyes, “I am and I’m fine.”
“No.” Finger on my chin, he tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his eye. “You’re not. It’s okay to admit when someone hurts you. You’ve certainly given me hell all these years.”
I let out a watery laugh at that. Tears burn my eyes, but I sniff them back. “It’s all so stupid.”
“There’s nothing stupid about your feelings, and I’m sorry I hurt you too.”
“Back at you.” I nod and sit a little straighter. “We really made a mess of things, didn’t we?”
Chuckling, he brings his hand back up to my cheek. His thumb moves in slow, careful circles. “I think we’re starting to get it together.”
With just a few simple words and a couple minutes of his time, he’s managed to make me feel better.
Sometimes, all it takes is seeing that someone cares.
“By the way,” he says carefully. “The guys are picking me up to go out tonight. They said that since I never got a proper bachelor party, they owe me one.”
I eye him over the rim of my cup. “Why do I feel like I should be worried?”
“I’m worried. There’s no telling what those fuckers have planned. Jude in particular.”
“Should I wish you luck?”
He finishes the last dregs of his hot chocolate and sets his cup down. “Probably.”
I pat his hand and grin. “Good luck.”
This camaraderie we’re building is all too reminiscent of our long-ago friendship. A part of me can’t help but wonder how I’ll survive it if I lose him a second time.