Chapter Twenty-Five #2
He even helped me look for flights to London the week after.
Flights Alex didn’t want me taking. But the novelty of being supportive must’ve worn off because eventually, he seemed exasperated by my sudden bursts of tears.
He insisted that the best way to move on was to get back into our routine.
To focus on happier things, like our wedding.
The same wedding he has had no interest in planning.
“Julia.” I tense when he touches my shoulder. “Did you even hear what I said?”
“No,” I admit and carefully slip out from underneath his hand. It makes me wonder when I stopped craving his touch.
“I said, please be ready to go by five thirty. This dinner is important to my mom.”
Every dinner is important to your mother. My nod seems to appease him, and he kisses my cheek before leaving.
Once the door closes, I sink down into the sofa and close my eyes, relieved for the quiet.
I try to think about how happy he used to make me.
How our life seemed to be an adventure. Before he started to take meetings every other day and started floating the idea of moving to Chicago after the wedding.
Now, when I think about our lives together, all I see are fancy dinners, late nights, and his mother telling us what we should and shouldn’t be doing.
It’s a future I’m not sure I want anymore.
A bit of panic starts to creep in. Something that’s been happening more and more lately.
I try to focus on all the reasons I love him.
He’s supportive and successful. He asks me about my day and cleans up after I cook.
He loves me and wants to build a life together, even if he doesn’t seem all that interested in the details of our wedding.
He’s smart and ambitious and has no idea who Debbie Gibson is or why I like to wear heels.
Jesus, this isn’t going well.
A loud knock that echoes through the apartment is a welcome distraction.
When I open the door, it’s the postman with his mail bag slung over his shoulder and a small pile of mail in his hand. “Hi, Ms. Julia. Sorry to bother you.”
“You’re never a bother, Joe,” I tell him with a smile.
“I’ve got your mail.” He hands it over and points to the large cardboard mailer with the words Do Not Bend written all over it. “This seemed important, and it wouldn’t fit in your mailbox without a proper bending. Thought I might hand deliver it.” He gives me a sheepish look.
“That’s so thoughtful, thank you.”
He tips his head forward. “Have a good day, miss.”
“Same to you. Until next time,” I call out after him.
Most of the pile he hands me is junk that I toss on the counter to go through later, and I focus instead on the large cardboard mailer.
From Brian’s mother.
With a loud groan, I sit back on the couch and open it. Inside is another envelope with a sticky note that reads: Thoughts? We really should get these printed and sent out.
A sense of dread settles in the pit of my stomach. I already know what I’ll find when I open it. Sure enough, an elaborate “save the date” and a matching wedding invitation slide out and into my lap.
“What the fuck is this?” The colors I wanted were teal and silver, not pale pink and gold. I notice the location isn’t the venue we picked but the country club she belongs to up in Maryland, along with a date.
Saturday, November fourteenth.
November?
Where is this even coming from? Did Brian give her the okay to do this? Did he tell her it was okay to change not only the colors I wanted but the venue? Did he say it was fine to move the wedding up by almost a year?
No wonder she’s pressing me about flower arrangements and cake tastings. She’s expecting this to happen in seven months!
The more I stare at the invitation, the angrier I get. Nothing about any of this is what I wanted, least of all the gaudy style of these invites. Your presence is requested? Who even says that?
I told Brian and his mother on more than one occasion that I wanted to focus on the wedding after grad school so I could put time and energy into the type of wedding that I want. Not that it matters, considering it’s clear that it’s not about what I want and all about what Mrs. Prescott wants.
None of this is fun. None of this brings me joy.
My chest tightens, and it becomes harder to breathe. November feels like a countdown. Like I’m closing a door I’ll never be able to reopen.
I grab the “save the date,” ready to rip it in half, but stop when I catch sight of the names typed in looping gold letters.
Julia Marie Marrow and Brian Ashton Prescott.
The first letters of our names are much larger and in bold. I stare at the A and the P, imagining them to stay Alex and Pestano instead, and the thought makes my stomach swoop.
I toss the “save the date” on the coffee table and call my mom.
It’s a quarter to six. Brian was supposed to be home twenty minutes ago.
He’s rarely late, and with each second that passes, I worry that I’m going to lose my nerve and bottle up what I need to say, postponing it until another burst of courage decides to make an appearance.
I press one thumb into my pendant and chew on the nail of the other.
I would be irritated if I wasn’t so anxious.
If I wasn’t sick to my stomach and absolutely terrified.
Maybe now’s not the time. Maybe I should quickly throw on a dress and some heels and take a little more time to think about—
The lock on the door turns, and my stomach jumps into my throat.
Brian rushes inside. I let go of the pendant and wipe my hand on my pants. No more procrastinating.
“Hey, sorry, my meeting ran a little late. I’m not even going to have time to change.” He takes in my jeans and old Penn sweatshirt and frowns. “You’re not ready.”
I lift my chin, making myself appear braver than I feel. “I’m not going.”
“What do you mean you’re not going?” He places his keys on the side table and crosses the distance to press the back of his hand to my forehead. “Do you feel okay?”
His touch is cold. “I feel fine.”
He takes a step back and sighs, his expression one of annoyance. “Julia, we don’t have time for—”
“None of the arrangements have peonies in them.”
He glances at the flowers I grouped on the table and then at me, confused. “What?”
“They’re my favorite flower.”
His confusion shifts to impatience. “I’m sure my mother didn’t know. We can tell her at dinner. She’ll make sure to include them, but we really do need to be going.”
“She sent over mock-ups of the invitations and ‘save the dates.’ Did you know that?” I hand him the templates. “In champagne and rose gold, the colors she chose. Those aren’t the colors I want.”
“Julia.” His exasperation fuels me to continue, confirming that this is the right choice.
“Do you remember the colors I said I wanted?” He doesn’t answer. “Teal and silver,” I remind him. “There’s also a date. November fourteenth. Did you tell her we wanted to get married in November?”
“I mentioned the possibility of moving the date up when she asked me if I’d consider it, yes. I’m sure it’s just her subtle way of telling us—”
“Nothing about your mother is subtle.” My tone is sharp, anger simmering beneath my skin. “And you never stand up to her. Not even on my behalf.”
“You’re being dramatic.” He tries to hand back the invites.
But I don’t take them. He tosses them on the table next to the flowers.
“She just thinks we need to stop procrastinating and commit to a date, and I agree. I don’t understand why you keep dragging out the engagement. Don’t you want to get married?”
And that’s the question I’ve been struggling with for a lot longer than I’d care to admit. “I thought I did.”
He stands still, his mouth open like he can’t believe what I just said.
To be honest, a large part of me can’t believe it, either.
But that’s the truth. After confessing everything to my mom, she helped me realize that maybe there’s a reason I haven’t picked a date.
It’s the same reason I hesitated when he proposed.
It’s because even though I love him, he’s not the one I want.
Deep down, I think he knows it, too.
He shakes his head and goes to the closet. With my jacket in his hand, he walks over and holds it out for me to take. “You’re being ridiculous. You’re just stressed. We’ll go to dinner and tell my mother—”
“Brian.” I say softly.
He slowly sits on the couch and stares at the invitations. I wait for him to say something, to ask me why or what changed or put up some sort of fight. When he doesn’t, I carefully remove the diamond and place it gently on the coffee table.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
When he doesn’t respond, I quietly slip out of the apartment without my jacket. It’s still gripped tightly in his fist.