1. EMERSON
1
EMERSON
Now
“Honey, come check out these windows,” Brandon’s mom, Laura, calls him over. “You could put florals in the window or have the curtains pulled together, but I don’t think they should be open to the public.”
Brandon walks over to her. Leaving me and Josie, the event coordinator, who has been giving us a tour for the past two hours.
When scheduling the tour today, they confirmed it would last an hour. We aren’t even halfway through, and we’ve doubled the time. Brandon’s mom stops every four steps to study the placement of an outlet or ask irrelevant questions.
I don’t say anything because she’s paying for the wedding. That, and I learned my lesson the first time I tried to make a decision.
“Did you have a date in mind?” Josie whispers to me.
“No,” I reply.
“Our first available Saturday is in December, but—”
“Oh no. No. No. No!” Laura is rushing toward us, hands frantic in the air. “I will not be having a wedding in winter.”
How the hell did she hear us? Josie glances at me. Eyes flared with precaution for what to say next.
“What season are you thinking?” I ask Laura, careful of my tone.
“Emerson, how could you even think about getting married in the winter?” Laura shakes her head at me with a concoction of sheer disappointment and curiosity about how her beloved son could be marrying a brainless girl like me. I seek Brandon for backup, but he’s not even paying attention. “Summer.” She turns to Josie, ignoring me and the fact that I’m the bride. “They will be getting married in the summer.”
“Unfortunately, we are completely booked for this summer. When we return to the office, I will check out available dates, but it will have to be next year,” Josie says calmly and directly.
Laura releases a dramatic sigh. “I suppose that’s fine.”
Suppose? Tell that to her feet.
She stomps off to the other side of the ballroom to examine who knows what.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but how are you putting up with that?”
I shrug. “He’s worth it.” I think.
Josie nods and moves us on to the next part of the tour.
She speaks clearly, highly educated on the space and offerings. Every question Laura has, even the strangest of questions, Josie doesn’t show if she’s flustered. Each answer is respectful and intentional in trying to keep Laura at bay.
It’s impressive. I could learn a thing or two from watching her. Josie, I mean, unless we are talking about things not to do, then Laura.
We make our way back to the office to review the final details. I space out during this part. Doesn’t matter. I lost control of making decisions the minute I said 'yes’.
He’s worth it. My earlier words echo in my head. Brandon is worth it, right? He has to be.
Brandon silently assures me, as if he read my mind, squeezing my right hand, which is resting in his lap. He has to be—we’re getting married.
Sitting beside him, I peek at my left hand—a three-stone ring. The center stone is cushion-cut and set between two other diamonds. The band is silver, with smaller stones winding around it.
Beautiful, don’t get me wrong; however, it is not my style.
I’m not a fan of silver. Laura is, which means Brandon is .
Our relationship revolves around his mom, as if she is his puppeteer. Two months after introducing me to her, he proposed to me at his family’s lake house in Michigan. We were there for a family reunion last June, and it was my first time meeting his extended family. Brandon and I had been together for five months at that point. Discussions about forever hadn’t even happened. The publicness of his proposal overwhelmed me, and I didn’t know if I saw a future with him.
But who says no to a proposal when it’s in front of their entire family?
I said yes. We’ve been engaged for a year, and it sounds like we’ll be engaged for another.
I question myself: Why go through with this? There are several reasons.
Brandon is sweet and treats me well enough. We have a good time when we are alone, trying new restaurants, watching classic black-and-white films at small theaters, and always laughing. Always laughing.
That’s what I enjoy most about our relationship: never a dull moment.
Plus, he’s pretty good in bed, which always helps.
“Mom, why don’t you let Emme and I talk about the venue and let you know?” Brandon finally speaks for the first time in four hours.
“I’ll give you three days.” Laura glances between the both of us. “Or, Josie, is there a way to hold the date temporarily? I would hate for Emme ”—she hates the palindromic nickname—“to take too long to make up her mind, and we lose that Saturday in June.”
My jaw drops as I stare at Laura. I turn to Brandon to see if he’ll stick up for me and call out his mom for the audacity to say that. He’s silent again.
Frustration boils in me. But what’s new in the matter ?
“I can.” Josie types away on the computer. “It does require a deposit. I can make it refundable for the next seventy-two hours, but after that, it will become non-refundable.”
“Amazing. Did you hear that, Emme?”
“Yes, Laura,” I say. “Brandon and I will let you know.” My voice is as sharp as a razor.
Laura exchanges her black card and other information with Josie while side-eyeing me.
“Do you mind if we take off, Mom?” Brandon asks.
She nods. Not even saying goodbye to us as we get up to leave.
“Mind a walk down Michigan Ave?” I ask Brandon.
He nods, lacing his fingers with mine.
We walk in silence for a mile or two. The silence between us is awkward, and I hate it. In the moments of silence, my worries about us fundamentally as a couple and our future take over. Is this how it’s going to be forever? Is this something I can do forever?
“Coffee?” Brandon uses his head to gesture to the door we are about to walk past.
“Yeah.”
He opens the door for me, kisses me on the cheek, and asks me to get him an iced mocha while he uses the restroom.
It’s surprisingly empty in the shop this afternoon for a Tuesday. Only a handful of people are scattered about on laptops, working or talking with friends. That would be us if we didn’t have to take the day off work because of wonderfully thorough Laura.
A short line forms behind me as I order our coffees.
“One black coffee and one iced mocha, please,” I order.
“Sixteen or twenty-four ounces?” The barista asks.
“Sixteen for both, thank you.”
I tap my card to pay and move out of the way for the next customers to order.
Scrolling on my phone, I check Instagram to view Natalie’s story. She’s been away again on another brand trip. I tap on her profile picture and am instantly transported to Amsterdam. Videos of her biking alongside the canals. A collage of photos showing off the clothes that she’s modeling and a video of her squeezing a metal boob coming out of the brick road in the Red Light District. A recap of the previous days—as I know, she landed home earlier today. I reply to her story with a series of laughing and heart emojis.
There’s a tap on my shoulder when I hear my name.
“Emerson?” a deep, rough British accent tickles my ear.