Chapter 7
EMORY
My muscles go tight with anticipation when I hear Lance’s footsteps in the hallway earlier than normal. A second later, he pokes his head into the bedroom where I’m propped up, my knees hiked up and back pressed against the headboard.
Robyn emailed me yesterday morning, letting me know that another of my pieces sold and that I may want to consider reworking an old favorite to replace it.
I’ve been looking through folders of photographs ever since.
Normally, I’d just go out and snap more pictures, but every time I think about getting close to the ocean, my heart hiccups and my ego informs me how bad the idea is, telling me it’s the equivalent of walking into oncoming traffic.
The thought of simply dipping my toes in the sand sends me into a tizzy I don’t want to give extra attention to.
“Have you been in here all day?” I don’t miss the way his eyes dart to the windows and the closed curtains. The light was hurting my eyes, but also, I didn’t want to see the blues of the distant ocean every time I walked through the room.
I offer a half shrug and keep my focus settled on my computer screen.
It’s odd how I can handle looking at snapshots of the coast and ocean life, but I can’t see it in real time.
It’s something I know I’m going to have to work through since coastal living is such a large part of who I am and what I do.
“I’m working.”
His brows lift, and he crosses his arms across his chest as he leans against the door frame. “You’re working?”
“Yes, that is what I said.”
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. It’s as sunny as can be outside, and you’re in this dark room. What’s wrong?”
My eyes flick to his, my heart reaching at the thought of him caring. How I wish things could be like they were. That I could walk up to him, press my face into his chest, and let the world around me fall away. But it’s not as simple as that. Not when his words lack patience and devotion.
“I wanted to be comfortable while I worked,” I tell him, keeping my attention on photographs of seawater and horizons.
“And acting as if you’re a vampire brings you comfort?”
His words are thumbtacks that prick into my skin.
I bite the inside of my cheek, deciding a lie is better than telling him the actual truth.
Lately, there’s only one person I can trust with the thoughts and fears that rest in the dark corners of my mind.
“I have a headache, and the light was bothering my eyes.”
His shoulder presses against the door frame, so nonchalant in the way he stands, as if he doesn’t realize that our relationship is in turmoil and has been for a very long time.
His hair is freshly cut—he must’ve stopped by the barber last night on the way home and I’m just realizing it now—and his skin is effortlessly bronzed from his time at the country club playing golf with his buddies from work.
“That doesn’t make sense, Em.”
His reply has me looking up at him. “Why not?”
He points a finger my way. “Because your face is two feet away from your computer screen. I’d like to think that if the sun bothered your eyes, the blue light would have the same effect.”
Shit.
My eyes lock onto the image of a sunset that takes up just about the whole screen, pinks and oranges fused together in its own special ombre.
Lance’s words sharpen, turning a lot less friendly when he says, “If you’re going to lie to me, at least make sure the lie makes sense.”
Instinct has me defending myself. “I’m not lying.”
I don’t know why I try to stick with being dishonest. It’s not something I typically do, but I don’t know how to talk to him in a way that my words will actually register.
He hums, and I’m sure it’s because he doesn’t believe me.
Instead, he changes the subject, though I’m not necessarily sure it’s a good switch.
“Mom has been trying to get ahold of you all afternoon. You have an appointment for the cake testing at the end of the week, and she was looking to confirm your attendance.”
I sigh quiet enough that he can’t hear it.
I got her message shortly after lunch. And then, I ignored it. Because the last thing I want to discuss is wedding plans when Lance and I can’t even get through an entire dinner together without some level of animosity or resentment pulling at one of us.
The last thing I need is his mother prying or acting as if everything is right in the world when mine feels as if it’s a trembling house of cards.
“I need space right now,” I say.
“Isolating yourself isn’t going to help you get through this.”
I twist my lips to the side and finally look at him.
Even with irritation brimming just below the surface, he’s still as handsome as can be.
Part of me hates that I notice how well his shirt clings to his lean muscle.
But then the other side of me, the broken parts, see past all of that and wonder what happened to the man who proposed to me, the person I fell in love with years ago.
He used to lie on the couch with me and binge-watch silly romcoms when my period cramps made me feel incapable. He used to bring me flowers, look at me like he couldn’t wait to get me alone, and made me feel like the most important person in his world.
When did that stop? When did it change? When did I drop down on his list of priorities?
“I don’t need you micromanaging me, Lance. I’m not your assistant or one of your other work colleagues.”
“Do you think I like having to leave work early to check on you? I had to cancel a showing this afternoon because my mother wouldn’t stop texting me over your whereabouts and you confirming your plans together.
” He uncrosses his arms and pops the clip on his watch, pulling it off before he walks across the room and deposits it on the dresser.
“You’re so goddamn stubborn that you can’t even see how you’re affecting those around you.
I’ve been trying like hell to get through to you, but I don’t know how much longer I can circle you when you keep turning your back to me. ”
This is exactly why I no longer feel like an equal to him but a burden. Like a hindrance he’s responsible for each day.
I snap my computer shut and haul it close to my chest. “You know, you really have a way with words,” I say, getting up from the bed.
“I didn’t text your mother back because I don’t want to be smothered right now.
Excuse me if I’m not in the mood to plan a wedding.
And as far as we’re concerned, don’t act like you’ve sat with me and listened to my sorrows and fears.
Don’t pretend like you’ve put your all into something that you’re largely half-assing.
” My voice is almost a whisper when I say, “The second you could go back to work, you did. You didn’t even ask me if I needed you. ”
He lets out a humorless laugh, his back still to me, when he says, “I can’t just not work and sit in dark bedrooms with you every day. You’re isolating yourself and lashing out. You might want to discuss both with your therapist the next time you see her.”
I don’t correct his assumption that my therapist is a woman. If I weren’t so irritated with him, maybe I would, but I don’t even want to be in the same room as him currently.
“What I discuss during my appointments is my business.”
He does that little hum thing again, and it crawls under my skin and makes me vibrate with annoyance. Then, he walks over to the closet, grabs a polo, and tosses it onto the bed.
My eyes cut to the orange fabric. The upset that was just there turns into heartbreak, and time almost slows as I watch him unbutton his work shirt and slip out of it. My heart leaps, but not in a good way.
If roles were reversed and he was acting how I am, I wouldn’t be running in the opposite direction. I’d stay. I’d silently sit and wait for him to open up to me, to feel comfortable with that.
“So, what, you come home to check on me, and now you’re leaving?”
He lifts his polo up and pulls it over his head.
“You said you didn’t want to be bothered,” he says.
“And if I’m being honest, I don’t care to stay if it means all we’re going to do is bicker with one another.
This house has turned into a goddamn trap, Emory, and I can’t handle that.
I’m tired of feeling uncomfortable in the space I’m supposed to feel relaxed in.
Not to mention that I don’t even know what to think about the fact that you’re no longer interested in planning our wedding.
” He shakes his head. “I wanted this to work between us, but as the days go on, it’s getting harder and harder to see what our future looks like.
I mean, you don’t even like my parents and find issues with everything my mother suggests.
As much as you’ll probably disagree, you’re not an easy person to work with. ”
Guilt trips me up. I wonder when I went from being hopeful for our future to not giving much of a damn—or being able to visualize it like Lance said.
There’s a sorrow that follows, that fills me, that beckons me forward and asks me to fix everything—but I don’t know how to.
It feels like we’re already far beyond a solution that won’t result in us hating each other.
I take a tiny step forward, my walls crumbling as I watch my fiancé prepare to leave me, and not for the first time. The number of times I’ve watched him head out for work when all I wanted was for him to stay is astounding.
I wonder if that’s telling enough. If maybe I’m not the one who gave up first. Or maybe we both gave up at the same time.
I understand that not everyone can handle someone’s weakest moments in life.
That they might not know what to do to help the situation.
Or that it’s possible for them to have struggles of their own in response to it.
But…I’m supposed to be his wife one day.
On our wedding day, he’ll vow to take care of and love me at my best and worst.
Him leaving to go golfing in a moment like this isn’t something that calms my soul and makes me feel safe. Instead, it’s showing me he’d run at the first sign of difficulty.
I feel like I deserve better than that.
Hell, he deserves better than that, than this, than me.
“Lance—”
“No,” he says, brushing me off as he loosens his belt and whips it out through the loops of his slacks.
“It’s fine. We both should take the time to cool off so we can come back later more grounded.
Maybe by then, your head will feel better and we can talk about if what we have is salvageable after all we’ve been through. ”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say, even though I’m wholeheartedly aware.
He gives me a look. “It’s obvious that we’re both unhappy. I’m not sure when it happened, but it did, Emory. We both need to recognize that for what it is and decide if that’s something we want to work to fix or not.”
“Are you saying you’re done?”
“I’m saying,” he lets out a breath, “that I need time to think. You need it, too. A lot has happened recently, and we’re both going through things. I think it’s best if we continue living life how we’ve been and wait to talk about it in more detail when we’re both more level-headed.”
“Fine,” I mutter out quietly.
I stand there stunned, unable to move myself out of the room, my heart splintering and accepting that this very well could be the end of Emory and Lance, a couple that was once deeply in love.
He finishes changing and slips past me, not bothering to stop and give me a kiss, a hug, or any other type of physical affection.