Chapter 10
EMORY
Iset my mug down on the table on our back patio and try to level out the nerves that seem to be zipping through my body at breakneck speeds.
Just beyond our yard is a rocky bluff that eventually transforms into water.
My tablet is on my lap, my fingers clinging to its sides, but my eyes are focused on the blue at the horizon.
It wasn’t that long ago that I was down there begging the waters to spit me out as they tried to lay their claim on me. Just being out here and looking at it makes me want to retch. Makes my lungs feel like they’re filling with water—not air—all over again.
It’s part of my therapy homework to come out here and at least try to look at it to overcome the gnarly nerves that have had their hold on me.
The reality is that this is my home. I live on the coast with the Atlantic Ocean as part of my backyard.
I can’t keep being afraid of it, thinking it’s going to reach out and drag me under when, unless I venture into the open waters, it won’t.
Dawson told me it’d take time, but that incorporating it back into my daily routine would be beneficial in the long run. Knowing that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. Because every time I get even a little glimpse of it, the same emotions I get after my nightmares swirl through me.
It’s hard keeping them at bay. To tell myself that this is part of the process, and that it’ll get better.
Dr. Cole’s voice smooths over my thoughts, the deepness of it igniting a flurry of hopefulness through me.
I want you to slowly become more acquainted with the sea so you can get back to living life at its fullest. This isn’t going to be forever, Emory, he told me during my last appointment.
I didn’t tell him that it always feels like forever when you’re in the thick of it.
Always feels like the end of the tunnel, while in sight, will never be close enough.
I glance over at my phone where it rests next to my mug. “Don’t do it,” I whisper to myself. Do not text him. Lance is at work, so it’s not like anyone is around to hear me. As usual, I’m alone. Both physically and emotionally. The feeling mounts on top of all the others, and it makes me crack.
I slouch down in my chair and hike my feet up after grabbing my phone. I switch off my tablet—and the photos I was looking over—and open my texts. There’s an unread message from Lance, and I click into it.
Lance: Mom and Dad invited us out to dinner tonight. I told them we’ll be there.
I chew on my lip, my brain automatically wanting to put a stop to these newfound plans.
Me: And what if I don’t want to?
It’s a childish thing to say, but I send it anyway. Lance messages me back almost immediately. I assume he has a break in between looking at listings or setting up potential open houses.
Lance: It’ll be good for you.
Lance: For us.
A sense of satisfaction swoops through me when I read his second message.
It tells me he still cares, despite everything that’s happened.
Dawson’s advice comes back to me in a rush, and I can’t help but suddenly want to go out to dinner with my fiancé.
His parents—not so much, but could this mean that he’s finally ready to get back to the place we were before our engagement?
My heart swells with the hope that tonight could be the catalyst—the first step in the right direction after spending so much time not really knowing where to go or how to move.
Guilt streamlines in next because—god—I’ve been unbearable with him. I’ve been a miserable, despondent toddler.
I need to apologize and set the record straight.
Lance needs to know that I don’t blame him for his feelings and words. Yes, they’ve hurt me, but haven’t I done the same back?
It needs to stop—all the resentment.
I have to forgive him and, most importantly, I need to forgive myself.
Because I know if I don’t, I won’t ever be able to move forward.
Whether I like it or not, my accident isn’t just about me but those closest to me as well.
Lance is part of my healing process. I need him to know that, and I need him to be there for me.
Because if he’s not—what do we really have?
For what feels like the first time, I understand how important having a conversation with him is, and how right Dawson was when he told me to give him a chance.
This is that for us.
Our moment that shifts everything back into place.
I set my phone back down, Dawson’s face a mere image in my mind as I commit to trying to work on my relationship with Lance, even if there is something that wholly intrigues me about my therapist.
“The whole town is going to want an invitation,” Larissa says, more so to Lance than myself. I take the time to cut one of my raviolis in half and shove it into my mouth. The cheese filling coats my tongue and the tanginess of the marinara sauce spreads with it.
“I don’t know about that,” is what Lance says, and I can’t help but feel a sense of pride in his reply.
I never imagined myself having a big wedding with over two hundred and fifty guests.
I never imagined spending more than, maybe, ten grand on the whole thing.
Meanwhile, the reception rental at the country club is going to cost that on its own.
I almost balked at the price, but then Larissa shushed me and told me that she and Cliff, Lance’s father, would be covering all wedding expenses—half of their gift to us. The other half—a honeymoon to Barbados.
The one time I brought it up to Lance, telling him how uncomfortable it made me, he told me to leave it be. Whether I liked it or not, his mother wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Which is why I’m not at all surprised when she says, “Well, I do know. And I’m telling you, you’re going to be thanking me when you’re sorting through all your wedding gifts and envelopes of endless money.”
I almost choke at her directness and speak up. “Our guest list shouldn’t be determined based on gifts and how much money people are willing to give us. It should consist of people who we want to share that memory with.”
The words feel good coming from my mouth, strong and confident, which is something I’ve lacked since waking up in that hospital bed weeks ago.
Larissa smiles at me, but it doesn’t exactly reach her eyes. She’s not pleased with my rebuttal, but I want to show Lance that I’m in his corner. That we’re a team, and that we shouldn’t do something just because it’s what his mother wants.
Our wedding day, and our marriage, is about us.
Cliff focuses on his plate, cutting through the slab of meat on it while letting us keep the conversation going. He’s always been on the quieter side, and I suspect Larissa loves that about him. It means she gets her way more often than not.
“You don’t really mean that,” Larissa says, forking the lettuce in front of her. She’s the only one who opted for a light meal. Her excuse for it was that she had a heavy lunch, but I know she’s really trying to watch her weight for the wedding.
Everything with her is about appearances.
“I do,” I say, resting my hand on the table and reaching for Lance’s. If my words aren’t proof enough that I’m with him—in everything—then this small act of affection will show so.
Except, the second my fingers dip into his palm, he fidgets and pulls his hand back, dropping it down onto his lap. The rejection is a figurative punch to the gut, and I don’t know what to do about it other than to pull my own hand back. I use it to pick up my water and take a sip of it.
Thankfully, Larissa and Cliff are completely oblivious.
“Lance, talk some sense into your wife.” Larissa shifts her attention to her son, pretending as if I’m not sitting across from her. I want to inform her that I’m not his wife yet, but she continues speaking. “Remind her that she’s going to be a Bronson.”
“She knows that, Mom. I don’t need to tell her.”
Larissa sits up straighter, and I set my glass back down on the table, my shoulders deflating in disappointment. Why didn’t he want to hold my hand? I’ve been decent since he picked me up. The entire car ride here, I asked him about work and how things have been—something I haven’t done in weeks.
I’m putting in effort. I’m trying, so why does it feel like I want to go to the bathroom and hide there for the rest of the meal?
“It seems to me you do,” Larissa says. “Perhaps hitting her head has made her forget how important it is to carry a last name like ours. That it comes with upkeep and maintenance.”
Her comments take me by surprise, landing in a way that has me itching to get away.
It’s a reminder that a person’s past defines who they are.
At least to some people. But the thing that makes it worse is that my version of ‘some people’ are those physically closest to me.
They’re the ones I spend most of my free time with—Lance and his parents.
The thought makes me want to upheave my food.
How is a person supposed to move forward if the people around them keep reminding them of their mistakes and misfortunes?
I wipe my mouth with a napkin and set it next to my plate. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”
I’m gentle in my departure, standing slowly and softly pushing in my chair as I grab my small handbag—the one I only use when we go out with Lance’s parents—and head toward the back of the restaurant.
It’s a fairly busy evening at L'Italiano. Then again, the place is always packed, with regulars and tourists, being that it’s one of the best Italian eateries in Coralhaven.
Not only do they offer exquisite Italian dishes, but they also double as a steakhouse with a bar constructed of cherry mahogany and leather seating, gorgeous glowing light fixtures hanging throughout the establishment.