Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
At Christmas Eve dinner, the conversation inevitably turns to the wedding.
I keep my expression pleasant, composed, though every cell in my body is screaming to run.
I fix my gaze on my plate, sip my water, and nod at the right moments, while my mind spins with one impossible question: How the hell do I do this?
I have three days to overcome somehow thirty-nine years of hurt, wrap up a life with Mason, and figure out how to rebuild everything without harming Anna in the process.
No version of this doesn't hurt.
But maybe that's what real choices look like. They’re messy and painful, but necessary anyway.
“Syd, did you hear Ivy’s question?” Mason lightly touches my arm.
“What did you ask?” I compartmentalize the deadline barreling toward me.
Ivy looks directly at me. “Have you and Mason picked out the reading you’re doing together at the ceremony?”
“No, I haven’t,” I reply, a little too curt, judging by Jules’s raised eyebrow. I soften my tone and continue, “I haven't found anything that feels... right.”
James is seated between Vera and Darrell, carefully positioned away from Ivy. I didn’t witness their introduction, but Vera’s eyes soften as she watches Ivy—like someone watching a car crash, they’re powerless to stop. James glances, his eyes saying exactly what I’m thinking. This is excruciating.
Anna sits beside me. Bell’s tail thumps against my chair as she begs for another bite.
“You don’t have any sisterly words of wisdom to share with me and James as we step into this chapter? As we become husband and wife.” Ivy continues, faux-pleasant.
I bite the inside of my cheek, nodding, pretending to listen while my fingers tighten around the napkin in my lap. My stomach asks me if we can leave. But we can’t. We’ve been trained to perform and endure. One wrong word, and I’ll ruin dinner. Ruin this holiday for everyone.
Jules swoops in. “I read the perfect thing this morning. Let me grab my Kindle.”
Whatever transpired between Margaret and Jules after breakfast is tucked away with all the inconvenient truths we look past. They’re smiling and joking as if this morning didn’t happen.
James chuckles, imagining the kind of material Jules considers perfect. Ivy shoots him a glance so sharp he stops and looks down at his plate.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Margaret cuts in. “I know exactly what kind of smut you read. Let’s go with something more traditional. What about When You Are Old by William Yeats? It’s a beautiful poem, perfect for two people to read together.”
Ivy’s already pulling out her phone. “Do you know it, Syd? Let me read it, and we can see if it works. James, Mason, you too. We should all be invested in this reading.”
I feel James’s eyes on me, but I don’t look back. I grip the napkin in my lap as if it might restrain me from doing something I can’t undo because I know the poem. I studied it in undergrad, and there is no fucking way I’m reading that.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I wrote a scathing critique of it, missing the connections and meanings I now understand.
I was lost in the despair of my mother’s death, how her loss shaped everything I believed and didn’t believe about love.
I’d scoffed at the idea of love enduring through age and regret, never guessing how deeply it would one day cut.
Anna’s laughter cuts through the room as she throws another piece of chicken for Bell. Bell’s paws pound across the floor to chase the food. All our eyes fall on her and we take a deep breath.
Until Ivy starts reading.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
My chair scrapes violently as I stand too fast. The legs catch. It crashes to the floor with a crack.
Forks pause mid-air. Every face turns toward me.
Jules doesn’t miss a beat.
“That’s perfect. Great choice, Mom. Syd, come help me with the pie in the kitchen?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She rights my chair and pulls me out of the room, her grip firm but gentle. The moment we’re alone, Jules hisses through clenched teeth. “How can you sit there and pretend any of this is okay?”
“How do I… how do I do this?” The worry folds my voice into a broken whisper.
Jules pulls me into a hug. “Anna will be okay. She’s loved by so many people. But you also get to want something for yourself. You’re allowed to choose this. And that isn’t selfish. It isn’t anything like what your parents did.”
I meet her eyes, drawing strength from her certainty.
Before I can move, Mason steps in, his face tight.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you. That was embarrassing. It’s a reading. Ivy and James are getting married. That doesn’t matter to you, right?”
He holds my gaze as Jules grabs my hand. We stand locked in a tense triangle.
“Hey, Mason, I heard the Celtics are on. Why don’t you kindly fuck off and let me finish talking to Syd?” Jules steps forward, amber eyes glaring, full of challenge.
“I need a moment alone with my wife.” He grabs my arm, fingers digging in, enough to make a point.
I stare at his hand on my arm for one deliberate second. Meet his eyes. See if he remembers what I told him about touching me and shake him off.
“Syd, these dramatics are inappropriate. Get it together,” he hisses.
I paste on a Barbie smile—perfect, plastic, empty—and carry in a few plates of pie. Let my rage simmer in the depths of my stomach.
Margaret scans the room: Mason and me. James and Ivy. She senses it. This isn’t betrothal bliss or holiday cheer. It’s a masquerade of strained smiles and fractured silence. And whatever she’s thinking, her words from earlier make it clear. There’s only so much intervening she’s willing to do.
“Vera, that sweater is lovely,” Margaret says. “Is it cashmere?”
“Thank you! I picked it up today at that charming little boutique in town. The one with the yellow door.” Vera beams, smoothing her hand over the soft blue material.
“You stopped in town?” Ivy’s fork stops halfway to her mouth.
“We decided to stop at the winter festival on the way back.” James lifts his wine glass and takes a slow sip. “My mom wanted to see it in person after I told her so much about it.”
“It was lovely,” Vera adds, her eyes finding mine across the table.
“You should’ve seen James on Galaga,” Beck beams. “He crushed the high score!”
A beat of silence follows, the glances around the table saying more than his words.
“You all hung out?” Ivy looks from me to James. Her voice is light, but the accusation beneath it is unmistakable—wanting one of us to confess. But to which crime?
“A quick bite at the arcade,” Vera says breezily. “I needed to connect with Sydney about one of her shelter cases.”
Margaret takes the opportunity to change the subject and jumps in. “How’s that going, Sydney? Must be a big shift from corporate law.”
I exhale, leaning into safer territory. This is something I can share freely and happily.
“It’s been eye-opening. I’ve always been proud of my career. But volunteering, helping these women rebuild their lives, it’s something I didn’t know I needed.”
The tension in my shoulders eases because this part of my life, at least, feels honest. I love this work. Representing these women? It’s about helping people. It’s not money or living up to someone else’s expectations. It’s all mine.
And it pisses Mason off.
Every weekend that Anna and I pack up to fly out to Rochester is a small act of defiance against Mason’s world of power and prestige, and the last name I was born into.
I look over to see him swallow down his thoughts, at least smart enough to know this isn’t the crowd for his rather limited view of my pro bono work.
“That’s sweet of you, Syd.” Ivy’s gaze is pointed. “I didn’t realize you were so involved. How long has that been going on?”
“A while,” is all I say with a smile.
“Maybe I can help with marketing after the wedding, Vera?” Ivy adds, swallowing all the worries and suspicions behind a smile.
“That would be lovely, Ivy,” Vera replies, her voice warm. “Your mom showed me some photos you took. They are beautiful. Do you still get out with your camera?”
“No, I don’t do that anymore.”
“I hope my son hasn’t had anything to do with that. I’ve always told the women in my life to keep something of their own. It took me too long to learn that myself.” Vera’s tone carries weight, her smile gentle but pointed.
“No, it’s not him,” Ivy says. “I…figured my time was better spent planning for the future instead of chasing some silly dream.”
Vera’s gaze sharpens. “Dreams are always worth chasing. You have such a beautiful gift.”
“Not all of us can get everything we want, can we?” Ivy smiles tightly.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I try to hold my brittle smile, but something about Ivy’s voice makes my stomach twist.
“Time for bed, Anna. Santa’s waiting.”
I carry her upstairs on autopilot, my body moving through the motions while my brain spins. I reach for flannel pajamas and try to lose myself in a book. But the words blur, my mind refusing to stop—everything I need to figure out, everything I need to say.
The mattress shifts. Mason sits on the edge.
“Syd, what’s going on?” he asks, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The tenderness throws me off. His eyes are a soft blue, his touch gentle.
“Nothing. Sorry about dinner. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“You know, maybe…” His fingers trail up the length of my leg. “I could help distract you.”
My body stiffens like a lock clicking shut.
“I’m sorry, Mase. I’m exhausted.” I pat his hand, a firm boundary, and turn onto my side, willing him to let it go.
Because that? That isn’t happening. Not tonight. Not ever again.
“Hey, will you talk to me? I’m here. I’m trying. Let me in,” his voice gentles.
“Why are you doing this now? We’ve had plenty of time to talk about what happened. What’s been happening. But you’ve shown no interest, hell, in years.”
“I’m not used to… I don’t know what you want. It’s not like you’ve been a ray of sunshine this year. You've been... different since New Year’s. What the hell happened?”
I stare wide-eyed at him. I didn’t know he was aware enough to notice my mood, to see past my contrite smiles and one-word answers.
This sudden interest is no surprise. The pattern is familiar by now.
It’s not about me at all. It’s about James.
Mason feels him in the room, in my pulse, in the way my eyes drift across the table.
And so, he reaches for me, staking his claim.
This is the closest he’s come to asking me to name what he suspects since that night on the deck last year.
“You mean besides you grabbing me? Treating me like property instead of your wife?”
“I’ve apologized for that night, Syd. Are you going to hold it over my head for the rest of our lives?”
“No, Mason.” I half-laugh. “I’m not.”
With that, I roll over. He exhales sharply. Within minutes, his breathing evens out into sleep.
And I lie beside him, staring at the wall, seeing James’s pleading eyes from across the dinner table. The way they seemed to be asking: Can we get the fuck out of here? Can we please stop this madness?