Chapter 15 Emory
EMORY
Ineed to approach Lance, but I’m trying to work through these unexpected feelings inside of my head. A part of me is still waiting for him to show how much he still wants this—us.
It’s the reason I’m here, with Larissa at our cake testing, while the memory of Dawson’s lips on mine lingers in my thoughts.
Never in a million years should I have let that happen, but I did.
Not just once, but many times. Him taking me out to the waters and encouraging me through my anxious fears doesn’t help.
It only makes me feel that much stronger for him.
It almost makes me wonder why I’m sitting at this table at all, but I promised myself I’d at least attempt to see the possibility of a future with Lance. He deserves at least that much from me.
“Darling, are you listening to anything this sweet woman is saying?” Larissa asks, giving me a pointed look as the lady across the table offers me a tight-pressed smile.
She’s pretty in that girl-next-door kind of way—soft blonde hair, blue eyes, and a mole that’s stamped right above her lip. It reminds me of Marilyn Monroe.
“I’m sorry,” I say, giving an apologetic smile of my own.
An array of cake options are in front of me, buffet style.
There are too many to count on one hand, and if I’m being honest, I don’t know how to feel about that.
I’m very basic when it comes to most things, cake included.
A solid vanilla bean is all I need to be content, to be happy.
“There are so many options here, I don’t know where to start. ”
“We start left to right,” Larissa says, like it’s not that hard to decide. It feels like it’s an insult.
“Of course,” I mutter, picking up my fork and pressing it into the sponginess of the first option. The cake is a deep red, the icing on top made from a cream cheese base. It’s good, but it’s not something I’d pick if I quickly ran into the store for a sweet treat.
“This is beautiful,” Larissa comments.
“Believe it or not,” Henley, the caterer, says, “that’s our most popular flavor.”
Larissa gasps. “You’re kidding.”
Henley grins. “I’m not.”
I offer them a close-mouthed smile. “I’m not sure if this is the one.”
Larissa barrels over me because it’s what she always does. “I think it’s perfect.” She wipes a napkin over her mouth and nods, her eyes bright with decision. “It’ll match your bouquet and the flower arrangements.”
“I’m not a big fan of red velvet,” I say finally, trying to break it to her nicely that I don’t want that as the flavor of my potential wedding cake.
She talks over me, ignoring my opinion. “Just imagine how beautifully it’ll blend with the roses and centerpieces.”
I set down my fork, frustration zipping through me. “Larissa.”
She waves her hand at me. “No, no, now. I think this is going to be good.” She taps her finger on the table and looks over at Henley. “What’s the price of the red velvet? It’s considered a second-tier flavor, correct?”
Henley glances over at me but ultimately decides to answer Larissa.
She’s the one who set up this appointment, after all.
The one who paid for the tasting to happen.
They begin talking numbers, and I zone out, not caring if I’m being rude or not.
I pull my phone out of my purse and immediately text Lance.
Me: Your mother is steamrolling this tasting.
He doesn’t reply right away, probably because he’s busy with the office’s monthly team meeting—the reason he wasn’t able to attend with me. I’ve noticed how quickly he’s reverted to letting my messages go unanswered—the complete opposite of how he was that first week after my accident.
Feeling like a third wheel, and like I’m not important enough to make the decision on cake flavor, I switch over to my text thread with Dawson.
He’s been nothing but patient and kind with me.
I almost wish he were here instead. Because he’d listen to me.
He would hear my words, and if there was something else he liked more, he’d work with me to find a compromise. I just know it.
Me: Lance’s mother has decided our wedding cake will be red velvet.
Me: Please save me from this nightmare.
I don’t miss how unfair my message is as I send it. Because, to him, there’s probably a very clear solution—one that involves me packing my bags and leaving Lance entirely.
He texts back immediately.
Dr. Cole Dawson: What is it that you want?
Me: I love the simplicity of a vanilla cake and matching buttercream. It’s classic and will go with anything.
Dr. Cole Dawson: So stand up for yourself, Emory. Don’t let her dictate the important details of a day like that. That confidence that’s inside of you is there. Give yourself the okay to tap into it.
God.
I fucking love how he doesn’t comment on where I am with Lance—and the decision of our future. I love how he gives me what I need, even when it might not be what he needs.
I glance up, nibbling my lip in thought as Henley comes back over to the table with a binder that I presume has information about all their catering services. I didn’t even realize she walked away.
I search for the fire inside me. That spark that would have me standing up for myself. Because Dawson is right. This is my wedding, and I don’t like red velvet. I barely like the red roses that Larissa had to have included in my bouquet and centerpieces.
“Henley,” I say suddenly, my voice a little too loud. It catches Larissa’s attention, too. “We won’t be getting the red velvet.”
“Oh, that’s absurd,” Larissa comments, swinging her attention away from me. “That is the choice we’d like. Now if you don’t—”
“No,” I say, my tone unforgiving. I look Larissa directly in her eyes when she looks back over at me with an expression of horror—oddly, it reminds me of the nightmares I had, the ones she was present in.
The ones where she blamed me and made me suffer for something that was completely out of my hands.
“We will not. I don’t like red velvet. In fact, what I actually would like to have is vanilla on vanilla. ”
“Now, that is ridiculous,” Larissa says. “That’s boring and bland and not something we’ll have at a Bronson wedding. Besides, Lance loves red velvet, which is another reason I thought it was a great choice.”
She says it as if I haven’t been with her son for years, as if I don’t know his preferences.
“I’ve never seen your son eat a slice of red velvet cake, Larissa.
” My expression flattens, turning neutral despite a certain fire brimming under the surface.
“You like it, but this is my wedding.” As those words fall from my lips, something in my gut flatlines.
“And to be frank, I’m tired of you making all the choices regarding it. ”
She scoffs, and Henley watches us. She slowly rises from her seat. “I think I’ll give you two a minute.”
Neither of us bother commenting on her departure.
“You ungrateful little brat,” Larissa sneers in a low voice, her upper lip flattening into a distasteful line of, you guessed it, red.
“We have welcomed you into our lives, into our family, because Lance loves you and chose you to be his fiancée. We offered to pay for many of the expenses, because Lord knows your absent family won’t offer a single dime, and this is how you act when you’re months away from taking the Bronson name? ”
I don’t know what to say. I’m flabbergasted that such hateful words come out of her mouth. I go to open mine to reply in some capacity, but she continues.
“And to top it off, this is how you act after Cliff and I make sure you don't have to be mentally institutionalized after your little stunt out there on Coralhaven.”
A tightness constricts around my airways, but for once, I don’t let it take over. How dare she speak to me like I mean so little. Like I’m nothing.
My words hold strong, even though my voice wants to crack. “Nobody asked you to do anything for me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she snarls.
“Lance requested that we take care of it so his soon-to-be wife’s poor choices wouldn’t interfere with his work life and the opportunity for a promotion.
Do you really think a multimillion-dollar real estate company wants people running their agency who have ties to such weak, disposable individuals? ”
I damn near fall out of my seat, but I hold steady.
In fact, I go as far as collecting my phone from my lap and shoving it into my clutch. “If this is what you really thought of me, Larissa, then it would have been good to say so before your son proposed.”
She has the audacity to say, “My son knows my thoughts, but I’m not selfish enough to keep him from what makes him happy.” Her judging gaze swoops over my body when I lift from the chair. “I’m not the one that has to come home to you every night, but I sure do pray for the person I love who does.”
That last comment hits me right where she intends, and it elicits a response I don’t expect. Tears prick behind my eyes, but I will not crumble in front of her. I won’t let her have the satisfaction of knowing that she has that much power over me.
Not anymore.
I let way too much time go by without having a voice, but I’m not letting go of it now. Never again will those around me make decisions for me. I’m my own person. My own damn decision maker.
“You can have your opinions of me all you want, but it doesn’t mean I have to stand here and listen to them.”
She scoffs again. “Darling, you wouldn’t be able to handle it even if you tried.”
I give her one long look and say, “Goodbye, Larissa.”