Chapter 11 Emory
EMORY
My bagel pops in the toaster, but I’m too busy freaking out over the email Larissa just sent me to do anything about the thunderous roar of my hungry stomach.
I look it over for the third time, noting the three hundred and twelve names listed in an attached spreadsheet—AKA our guest list that seems to keep growing.
I cringe and let out an annoyed sigh. This wasn’t what I wanted to deal with this morning. Especially not since I actually had a decent night of sleep last night. Instead, this is pushing me awfully close to that ledge that I’ve been trying so damn hard to stay away from.
Scrolling through the spreadsheet, I roll my eyes, too distracted to hear Lance come into the kitchen behind me.
We’re nowhere near close to being back to our regular routine of sharing breakfast and a few loving kisses before we start our day.
I was hopeful we could get back to that, but then dinner happened and he pulled away from me, from my affection.
“Your bagel is waiting for you,” he says, giving me a quick glance.
I startle, my shoulder jolting slightly as I find him opening the fridge door. I lift my phone in the air, but he isn’t looking in my direction. “Did your mother send you our guest list, too?”
“Got it a few minutes ago but haven’t looked at it yet.”
“Lance,” I say, “there are over three hundred people on it. I don’t even think the country club can hold a group that big without the fire marshal showing up.”
He grabs the milk carton and places it on the kitchen island. He gets a glass, fills it up, and says, “I honestly don’t know how many people are cleared for the venue.”
He still hasn’t looked my way again, but when I sigh, he lifts his attention to me, sipping his drink in the process. “I thought we agreed a long time ago that we wanted a small wedding.”
He swallows a big gulp. “You heard her at dinner last night before you ran off to the bathroom.”
I’m mildly surprised he mentions my trip to the bathroom just because it wasn’t an issue last night. I sidestep it, declaring it unimportant to the topic at hand. “I did hear her,” I say, “but you're not getting married to your mother. You’re marrying me.”
His face screws into a grimace at the mention of Larissa. “Why would you even say that?”
“Because you seem to be forgetting that we are the ones in a relationship. We are engaged and preparing to get married. She had her chance at having everything exactly the way she wanted when she married your dad.”
“I don’t understand what the big deal is.”
Frustration like I’ve never felt moves through me. Why can’t he understand that this isn’t okay? That it’s not what I want, and it wasn’t what he wanted, either. “When did it change for you?”
Confusion dawns on his face. “What do you mean?”
“The night you proposed, we made love and then we discussed our vision for our wedding day and the days after. I mean, don’t you think it’s weird that there’s going to be a bunch of randos there who know nothing about us?”
He sets his glass down and crosses the kitchen. His hands come down on my hips, resting against them. Where was this version of him last night? Where was my fiancé when I wanted to hold his hand in support?
He looks down at me, and if I wasn’t already upset with him, I’d easily be swept away.
His gaze darts down to my lips, but he doesn’t press forward.
It’s almost like he’s questioning if he can, if he should—because it’s been so long since he has.
Or maybe he hesitates because he doesn’t want to kiss me. I realize both are just as likely.
I bring my hands up and rest them on his chest, my phone still in one hand, showing him that this is more than okay. That it’s what I’ve been hoping for from him for months now. “I want what’s going to make everyone happy,” he states simply.
“Having guests at my wedding who I don’t know doesn’t make me happy. I want my wedding day to be personal, not feel like a public event.”
He lowers his forehead to mine. I expect him to back me up, to agree with me, and tell me he’s going to handle it—especially since this has been a point of contention in our relationship.
Instead, I get, “No one is going to be happy if my mother is throwing a fit, no matter how big or small the guest list is. You don’t have to spend time with people you don’t want to. ”
My heart thuds dully in my chest, defeat circling through.
That’s not good enough.
I don’t get the chance to press the matter further because he pulls away. “I have to get to work. Remember, it’s Friday.”
“Right.” I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “You’re going golfing with the guys from work.”
He grins big, but I can’t say I’m exactly happy that he’s going to be spending the evening with his work buddies. Still, I push that aside and try. “Why don’t you skip tonight, and we can get takeout and watch a movie or something?”
His smile goes crooked, like he’s not totally cool with that idea. “I can’t. I already told them I’d be there, and I don’t want to rescind my word.”
But it’s okay for you to do just that when it comes to me?
I shake my head. “Silly me,” I say, though there’s a whole lot of sarcasm laced in my words. I turn around and grab my bagel from the toaster, plopping it down on a plate. “The absolute last thing I’d want is for you to cancel your plans with them.”
His shoes squeak against the floor a few steps and then they stop.
“Have a good day,” is what he calls over his shoulder before saying, “If you need me, you know you can call me. I’m checking out a few new potential listings today, but I’ll answer if I can.
If I can’t, I’ll call back as soon as I can. ”
He leaves through the front door, and when I turn to prepare my bagel, it’s cold.
Just like the edges of my heart.
With the TV playing in the background, I smile as I stare at the picture on my phone. It’s a photo of a coffee cup, Dawson’s name scribbled on the side of it with a question next to it reading: is your last name Creek?
A text follows the multimedia message, and I push back into the coziness of the couch, the room basked in the soft glow of the side table lamp.
Dr. Dawson Cole: Can you believe this?
Me: Can’t say I blame them. The first time I heard your first name, I thought about that show, too.
Dr. Dawson Cole: Catchy name or not, it’s not cool to reduce me down to (potentially) one of the most iconic couples from the twentieth century.
Me: They are *definitely* in the top ten.
Dr. Dawson Cole: You know what I mean.
Me: What’s more important is the flavor of coffee inside the cup.
Dr. Dawson Cole: That’s a bad, bad question to ask.
Me: Dawson…
Me: There isn’t coffee in there, is there?
Dr. Dawson Cole: You can’t judge me.
Me: You little coffee imposter.
Dr. Dawson Cole: I don’t think you’re supposed to call your therapist names, Miss Prescott.
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, the good kind of nerves blossoming in my belly. They’re the ones everyone wants to feel. The ones that give you a steady high that rides out for a long time even after the words that caused them are gone.
Me: Please forgive me, Dr. Cole.
The three floating dots appear, disappear, then pop back up a few seconds later.
Dr. Dawson Cole: You’ve inspired me to try a few variations of tea.
I don’t know what to think of that, but I kind of like knowing that I’ve influenced him to some extent.
Dr. Dawson Cole: How are you feeling today?
Me: I’m okay.
Dr. Dawson Cole: You can’t see it, but I’m tapping my foot in exasperation, hardly able to withstand the wait to hear your *actual* answer.
Me: You want my honesty?
Dr. Dawson Cole: Nothing but.
Me: I’m at home alone right now because Lance went out with his colleagues. I asked him to stay home, but yeah, that didn’t happen. So I’m all by my lonesome watching TV as the silence envelops me.
Dr. Dawson Cole: Dare I ask, are you watching Dawson’s Creek?
I laugh out loud without question.
Me: No, but maybe I should be.
Dr. Dawson Cole: You will do no such thing without consequences.
A call comes through as I’m sitting there, contemplating on how to respond. I’m not sure if he’s being serious or not. Either way, it’s definitely coming across playful.
I answer the call. “Consequences, huh? I have to say, I’m almost tempted.”
“Of course you are,” Dawson replies, his deep voice strumming through the receiver.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand you're a woman who likes a challenge.”
I blink, images of the harsh ocean waters coming to mind.
Out of the blue, he asks, “When do you think Lance will be back?”
I pull my phone away from my ear to check the time. It’s just after five. He texted an hour ago saying that he was leaving the office. “Honestly, who knows.” It’s likely I’ll sit here for the next few hours without company until I get to the point where I’m ready for bed.
“Okay,” he breathes out. “I’m about to drop a proposition on your lap. Not as your therapist, but as…a friend.”
This piques my interest. I sit up a little bit, unsure of where this is going but also knowing that I want to hear what he’s going to say next.
Excitement zips through me in a way that feels extremely missed.
Unlike before, the promise of betrayal doesn’t enter my mind and try to make me feel guilty.
Even if it would, I wouldn’t let it. If Lance is out enjoying time with his friends, there’s no reason I can’t do the same.
Dr. Cole’s voice comes through the speaker. “I bought one of those pizza making kits from my neighbor’s kid for a fundraiser, and I think it’s actually a sin to do them alone. In fact, the packaging on it implies that more than one person should make it.”
A tiny smile graces my lips. I kind of wish he could see it but also not mad that he can’t. He’s extending a lifeline, I realize. A bulb to replace the one that went out in me weeks ago.