HYDRANGEASPEONIES?
NORA
The fight with Wes still lingers in my body like a bruise I keep pressing just to prove it's there.
It's been days, but the sourness hasn't lifted. If anything, it's deepened and turned into this persistent ache—the kind that settles into your bones and makes a home there. Sets up furniture. Hangs pictures. Plans to stay awhile.
I thought I was confused before. I thought uncertainty was the worst of it.
Turns out, I was adorably naive.
Now the ground beneath me has shifted entirely. Like I've been standing on something unstable for so long I forgot what solid ground even feels like. Or maybe I never knew. Maybe I've been performing stability this whole time, and only now am I noticing the wobble.
And somehow, despite all of that—despite the bruise and the ache and the general sensation that my life is a carefully constructed house of cards in a wind tunnel—I'm standing in the middle of a wedding venue that looks like it was designed for royalty.
Someone else's royalty. Definitely not mine.
The kind of place where history hums in the walls and the air smells faintly of roses and money. Old money. The kind that doesn't need to announce itself because the imported marble does it instead.
High arched ceilings. Stone floors that probably cost more than my first book advance. A sweeping staircase that seems to exist purely for dramatic entrances, which is ironic considering I only want to exit.
Everything is cream and gold and impossibly perfect.
Like a dream someone else is having on my behalf while I stand here wondering whose life I accidentally stepped into.
There are too many people here.
A wedding planner with a clipboard and a smile that never falters—I've tested it, she's either a professional or a very committed android.
A florist pointing at arrangements I haven't asked for, didn't request, and definitely don't recognize.
A venue manager explaining something about exclusivity windows and security deposits in a tone that suggests I should be grateful for the opportunity to hemorrhage money.
Others hover nearby, nodding, chiming in occasionally, performing roles I don't even know how to name. Professional Wedding Enthusiasts? Paid Encouragers? Witnesses to my slow-motion panic?
I'm five minutes in and already overwhelmed.
Also? Considering fleeing. The staircase would make for a dramatic exit, at least.
Wes stands at the center of it all, confident, assured, speaking in that smooth, executive cadence that makes people lean in and listen. Makes them nod like he's saying something profound instead of just expensive.
He arranged all of this. Did he ask for any of my input? No, of course he didn’t.
I didn't even know where we were coming today until we pulled up to the gates.
Didn't know we were touring venues. Didn't know we'd reached the stage where other people are making decisions about flowers and chair covers and whether our hypothetical wedding should have a string quartet or a jazz trio.
Apparently, we have.
The wedding planner approaches with her clipboard, that smile still perfectly intact. "So, Nora, what else are you envisioning for your big day?"
Honestly? An exit.
Preferably before the deposit is non-refundable.
But I smile instead. Say something vague about elegance and intimacy. Watch her write it down like it means something.
Wes catches my eye across the room and winks.
Like this is fun. Like this is us.
Like I'm not standing here wondering whose wedding this is for, because it certainly doesn't feel like mine.
My phone vibrates in my hand and for once, I don't let it go to voicemail.
"I'm so sorry," I say the second I answer, words tumbling out too fast. "I should have called you back earlier, I was at this awards thing and it was loud and—"
"Nora," Mom says gently, firmly, the way she used to when I was a kid and spiraling. "Alfie passed away a few days ago."
The world tilts.
For a moment, everything around me blurs—the venue, the voices, the gold and marble and carefully curated beauty.
All I can hear is the soft catch in my mother's voice, the grief she's holding back because she's always been better at holding things together than falling apart.
I step away from the group. Find a corner near the windows. Press my back against the cool stone wall.
"Oh," I say stupidly. Uselessly. One small sound trying to contain everything rushing through me at once.
Alfie with his sun-worn skin and crooked smile. Alfie who smelled like old paper and peppermint tea. Alfie who had Gracie’s bookstore on Main Street—the one with the creaky floors, the one I practically lived in every summer.
He knew what I was reading before I did. Would set books aside for me with little notes tucked inside: Thought you'd like this one or This reminded me of you.
He never made me feel like I was taking up too much space, even when I'd spend entire afternoons curled up in the corner reading anything he'd recommended.
He'd become a fixture in our lives—in the whole town's life, really. Everyone knew Alfie. But he and Mom built a special kinship, especially after she married Nick.
He sent me postcards after I left for LA. Little notes about new arrivals at the store, about the town, about how proud he was that I was chasing my dreams.
He always signed them the same way: Keep writing, kiddo. The world needs your words.
I write back at first. Little notes about school, about writing, about the places I think I might go someday.
Then life gets busy and I stop replying.
The guilt settles heavy and hot in my stomach.
"I don't know what to say," I whisper, not sure who I'm apologizing to anymore.
Mom exhales slowly. "I know, sweetheart. I just… I wanted you to hear it from me."
There's a pause. She's breathing on the other end. I picture her sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea going cold, holding herself together.
"He went peacefully," she says finally. "Nick was with him." Her voice cracks slightly. "He was making plans right up until the end."
That sounds like Alfie. Always looking forward, always believing there was another chapter coming.
"I should have visited more," I say, the words catching in my throat.
“You were busy," Mom says gently. "He was so proud of you, Nora. He had your book on display in the front window. Told everyone who came in that he knew you'd make it."
The guilt sharpens, cuts deeper.
We talk for a while after that. Really talk. The way we used to before distance and time zones and my carefully curated independence put space between us.
I tell her things I haven't said out loud in years. About how lost I am. About how everything looks right from the outside and feels wrong on the inside.
"You know you can always come home," she says softly.
I swallow hard. "Eden doesn't really feel like home anymore."
“Well, sometimes you need to go back somewhere to remember who you were before life got so complicated."
I close my eyes.
"How's Nick handling it?" I ask.
"He's been busy," she says. "Arranging the funeral. Keeping himself occupied. I don't think it's hit him yet."
The funeral is next Tuesday.
Ollie and Mia are still going ahead with the baby shower at the lakehouse. Lydia insisted. Said it felt right to gather people together instead of cancelling everything.
I tell Mom I'll think about coming. That work is chaotic. That filming starts in four weeks.
Just before we hang up, she says, carefully, "Oh—and I hear congratulations are in order?"
Shit.
"I was going to call you," I say, the words hollow even to my own ears. "I just… things got complicated."
"Life happens, right?" she says, and there's a fracture in her voice this time. A tiny crack that lets me hear what she's not saying—that I hurt her. That finding out through headlines instead of a phone call left a mark.
I don't respond.
"Nora, are you doing okay?" she asks, and the shift in her voice is immediate—from hurt to concern, the way only a mother can pivot. Too quickly, trying to take care of me even when I'm the one who hurt her.
I want to say yes. I want to tell her I'm fine, that everything is perfect, that the ring fits and the life fits and I fit inside it all without questioning.
But I'm so tired of lying.
"I don't know," I admit quietly. "I don't think I am."
There's a long pause. She's choosing her words carefully.
"Then come home," she says simply. "Figure it out here. With people who love you no matter what you decide."
"I'm not sure I can do that right now, Mom."
"Start with getting on a plane," she says, and there's the faintest hint of a smile in her voice. "The rest, we'll figure out together."
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper.
"Love you, honey."
"Love you too, Mom."
When I rejoin the group, the venue feels different. It’s closing in on me.
Wes turns to me, smiling.
"What do you think?"
I look at him, really look. At the certainty in his posture. At how he fills space without apology. At how this entire thing is already decided in his mind.
"Can I talk to you privately?" I ask.
He checks his watch. "We've got fifteen minutes left. Can it wait?"
My head spins.
"I don't think so."
He sighs. "We'll talk in the car, okay?"
"I think we're moving too fast with this." I don't lower my voice. I don't soften myself.
The venue manager freezes. The wedding planner's smile falters. The florist looks down at her tablet suddenly very interested in hydrangeas.
Wes stares at me like I've just spoken a foreign language.
"My fiancée is just a little stressed," he says smoothly to the manager, that practiced smile sliding into place. "With work and everything."
Something in me snaps.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?" he asks, irritation sharpening the edges of his voice.
"Speak for me. About me. Like I'm not standing right here."
The air crackles.
Wes's jaw tightens. He forces the smile wider, more brittle.
"We'll be in touch," he says curtly to the manager. "I'll call later today and secure the deposit."
He doesn't wait for me. Just turns and walks toward the door with the kind of rigid control that means he's furious as we walk out in silence.
The silence makes the drive home unbearable.
The tension is thick, suffocating, feeding off his anger and my resolve that hardens with every mile. He grips the steering wheel too tight. I watch the city blur past the window and the distance between us grows, stretches into something that can't be repaired with apologies or explanations.
When we get home, he storms inside. I linger in the doorway, heart pounding, keys still in my hand.
"Are we seriously not going to talk about this?" I call after him.
He spins around.
"About what? How you humiliated me? Or how we probably just lost that venue?"
"That's what you're worried about?" I say, disbelief mixing with anger.
"I fought for that meeting," he snaps. "Do you know how hard it is to get time at that place? How many strings I had to pull?"
"What about the fact that this wedding feels like it's running away from me?"
He laughs bitterly, the sound sharp and ugly.
"Running away from you? You mean how you run from everything the second anything gets uncomfortable?"
The accusation lands, but it doesn't stick the way it used to.
"Maybe that's true," I say quietly. "Maybe I do run. But at least I'm honest about it."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you need to control everything." My voice shakes, but I don't stop. "You've given me everything except a choice."
"You're ungrateful," he says, stepping closer. "I've given you everything. The house. The car. The ring. The movie deal—"
"The movie deal for the book I wrote," I interrupt.
"That I sold," he counters. "That I fought for. That I made happen."
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I force them to relax.
"You know what, maybe we need space," I say, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my ribs.
He scoffs. "That's ridiculous."
"I'll be back before filming starts on the adaptation," I add, more to convince myself than him.
"Where the hell are you going?" he asks sharply, voice rising now.
I don't hesitate.
"Home."
His face changes. Something flickers there—surprise, maybe, or the first real recognition that I might actually leave.
"Home? This is your home."
"No, Wes. It's yours."
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing now.
"This is insane. You can't just leave in the middle of everything—"
"I can," I say. "And I am."
"What about us?"
The question sits between us, heavy and complicated.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "But I know I can't think clearly here."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then his expression shifts, hardens into something cold and final.
"Fine. Go. But don't expect everything to just be waiting for you when you get back."
The threat is clear.
"I know," I say quietly.
And for the first time in a long time, the word feels like a choice.