15. All The Courage （Hattie）
ALL THE COURAGE (HATTIE)
“ S o, I made a spreadsheet,” Mom tells me, tapping the tablet she brought with her to lunch.
Ah, here we go.
As far as Mom lunches go, this one has been surprisingly okay so far.
Not entirely insufferable.
She hasn’t pushed me to join her yoga classes ten times yet or scowled at me for grabbing a cup of clam chowder with my lobster salad.
Still, it’s Mom, and that means nothing stays unseen or uncomplicated. It’s never just nice .
If she didn’t come at me, I’d worry about her mental state.
I dig my fork into my salad, spearing leaves and lobster meat with more force than necessary.
“I told you, Mom, we already have a wedding planner. A really fabulous one. She’s like my fairy godmother.” I think it’s the fifth time I’ve had to say it during lunch.
“Oh, well, fairy godmother or not, you can’t leave everything to her, no?” Mom says dismissively.
“She’s literally a professional.”
“Maybe so, but she doesn’t know you like I do, darling. I just think you should consider some feedback for your venues, at least. Water weddings are very in.”
Water weddings.
The words remind me of the recent trip on Leonidas’ yacht.
Well, technically Ethan’s yacht now, even if he’s dead set on selling it eventually.
The past and the present keep blurring into one.
And the way Ethan looked at me out there.
My heart still sputters.
So I know I’ve let my head swell up like a balloon over it.
Making it more than it was. But the way he touched me—
My face heats.
Probably not the best thing with my nosy mother sitting right across from me.
“I don’t want a water wedding. It’s trendy because it’s what every rich person in New England does,” I tell her. “And I know you think you’re helping, but Ethan was pretty clear. He’s even shut out his own sister from any extra duties beyond bridesmaid.”
“I think he could be a little more open, that’s all.”
“He is being open, Mom.”
She sniffs and looks down at her spreadsheet, giving me that practiced kicked puppy look. She’s a master manipulator.
Of course, she’s assembled a detailed list of venues. Plus, menus healthy enough to fit her obsessions, vibrant flower arrangements, everything she’d love at her own wedding.
Everything she still has the nerve to throw in my face.
Apparently, mother of the bride means living vicariously through her daughter.
I’m so tired.
“Have you thought about your wedding party?” she asks, blinking intently. “And the rehearsal dinner, Hattie? The seating arrangements? Can I see your invitation list? Where is it?”
“Holy shit. Mom. ” I bite back the urge to tell her she’s not on it. “Could you please just lay off a little?”
“I’m your mother and you’re my only daughter.” She pouts, brows pulling together. “Don’t you want me involved?”
No.
Honestly, I’m not even a little bit excited about bringing her into the wedding.
Even the big day itself…
It’s just a necessity, a giant PR stunt to show off something that’s not real.
Except maybe it does feel real, and I don’t know what to do with that. And now I’m worried that once we do get married, things could change, mutating in terrible ways my heart won’t understand.
“We can leave it to the professionals. Way less stress,” I say again. “I’ve given them my preferences.”
“Your preferences?” She frowns.
“Yes, Mom. Mine and Ethan’s.”
“Well, I’m glad he’ll be involved. Some men can be so hands off.” Her tone doesn’t match her words at all. She sounds more like she’s gritting her teeth. “He always was a lovely boy, so focused. But he should allow you a little more flexibility.”
“I thought our wedding was supposed to be about us?” I huff loudly.
“He’s a man, sweetheart,” she says. “He doesn’t care what happens, really. No man does.”
While that might be true with Ethan, there’s no denying he knows his duty, and he’s determined to check every single detail.
If this was a real wedding, it might be different, but this one’s all optics to help fulfill a contractual obligation.
Still, it feels good knowing I have him right beside me, supporting me through this, helping make all the major decisions.
“We agreed we wouldn’t decide anything alone,” I say. Technically, that’s not a rule we’ve officially established, but I know it’s true.
Ethan is a control freak. He wouldn’t want me making any executive decisions without his approval.
But that’s okay when he gives me the same respect.
Mom bites into her fish wrap, disappointed.
“Well, fine. Although I must say I think he’s being very heavy-handed.”
“Heavy-handed? He just wants to make sure it’s a wedding we’re happy with.”
“Then I suppose there’s only one thing left to plan.”
I have a bad feeling about this.
She has a manic gleam in her eyes.
“What?” I ask cautiously.
“It’s coming up fast, moving at the pace you are, but if you work hard and really push yourself, you could lose a few pounds in the time you have left. I simply want you to look your best.”
Ohhh God.
The worst part? The very worst?
She makes it sound like she’s throwing open the door on a great opportunity rather than slapping my face.
“Are you serious?”
“It’s what I did,” she explains, apparently blind to the fact her marriage didn’t last. “You’ve still got time, honey. You can do it. And tread lightly with desserts on your honeymoon or you’ll put all that weight back on.”
Freakout. Activated.
I’m standing up before I know what I’m doing.
The only thing I can feel is the ghost of Ethan’s hand on my leg, the way he whispered to me so many times how perfect I am, how beautiful, how he loves my body and he doesn’t need me to change.
The restaurant quiets as people turn to look at me.
My fists stay clenched in shaky little balls at my sides.
I’m wrestling with my temper.
I’ve never stood up to Mom and her pathological fixation on health and appearance before.
But this has to be the day.
“Hattie, sit down,” Mom pleads, her eyes shifting around, very aware we’re now the center of attention. That’s her all over, always worried what other people will think. “You’re making a scene,” she adds miserably.
“Yes. Because I’ve heard enough,” I tell her. “Enough shaming me into starving myself. I’m a grown woman. I make my own choices. I’m marrying a flipping billionaire hottie who wants me for me . Can’t you respect any of that?”
She stares at me, frowning, her fork clattering against her plate. “Hattie, please. You’re being rude!”
“Rude? No. That’s you, always pecking, refusing to leave me alone. ”
Holy shit, my heart drums.
“You know I just want the best for you. I always have. And I want you to hang on to this wonderful man!”
Hang on .
Like one wrong move or one extra pound and he’ll be out the door.
The words sting, and they shouldn’t.
Deep down, I know this marriage isn’t real—I agreed to it—no matter how amazing it’s been lately.
Just like I know Ethan isn’t really marrying me for me.
He’s marrying me for money, to satisfy his grandfather’s wacko requirement, and six months down the line, we’ll amicably divorce.
I won’t leave empty-handed, of course.
Quite the opposite.
I’ve got my bookstore and my dreams served up on a silver platter.
And Ethan, he can walk away with his inheritance and whatever weird secrets he still won’t open up about even though we’d had some perfect moments.
Like whatever it was that drove him away when he was young.
Argh.
Every time I think this might be getting real , he shuts down.
He reminds me what this truly is.
And he makes it all too easy for Mom’s hamfisted remarks and judgments to shred my heart.
Sometimes, it feels like he’ll never fully trust me, even if we had to stick together six years rather than six months.
Sighing, I throw myself back in my chair, my knees suddenly weak.
“I don’t need you to look out for me anymore. Not like this,” I whisper.
She covers her hand with mine.
“Hattie, you’re taking this all wrong. I just can’t bear to see you heartbroken again, sweetie. You remember that boy in college? The one you couldn’t keep up with?”
“He was a huge dick, Mom. And a marathon runner.”
“Yes, but… you were really into him at the time. Jake, wasn’t it? And he just left you behind, and I don’t want that happening with Ethan. Hang on to that wonderful man.”
“It won’t,” I throw back, but the words are on autopilot.
I’m back to fuming about all the ways I’ll never match my fake husband.
The marathon runner was a boy.
A kid who only cared about how many times I hit the gym and how small my waist was. He secretly liked my figure, I think, but he always pretended otherwise.
He also hated that his strength was all in his legs, and he couldn’t throw me around like a delicate little flower.
He was a jerk and Margot was right—I wound up better off without him.
But Ethan is a billionaire. Or he will be soon.
He’s respected up and down the eastern seaboard for being a shrewd businessman in his own right. People know his name instantly and he’s wildly attractive.
The kind of hot that’s so outrageously beyond my league that it’s actually insane.
I’m just a girl who failed to get a library degree and who only owns a bookstore because my future husband dropped it in my lap so I had no reason not to meet his parents.
He bought it as a bribe.
Right now, things are fresh and exciting and it’s easy to forget how messy this truly is.
We’re sleeping together, sailing around and having fun.
Fine.
But it was fresh and exciting with Jake once, too.
The one time he complimented me, he was drunk and he told me he loved my boobs—until I couldn’t keep up with him hiking the hills on a trip to Bangor the next weekend.
I pressed him about it.
He insisted he didn’t mind my weight. He just felt ‘obligated’ to tell me I needed to push myself and overhaul my entire diet.
No surprise, we broke up a few days later, after our trip.
What happens when Ethan comes to his senses and decides six months is a very long time with a girl who’ll never be worthy?
Who he’ll never truly love?