Chapter Fourteen
The bottom of the pyramid must be strong enough to support the higher levels.
Elodie
Hey everyone!
I’m a little behind, but I finally have the wedding activity schedule for you guys.
Most things are tentative based on the availability of the group, but it should be a decent starting point for us as we move forward.
If you have any questions, you can reach out to me directly or reply to this email chain.
I hope you’re all having a lovely day!
Regards,
Elodie Sage, The One and Only Maid of Honor
I reread my email for the third time, wondering what about it, exactly, prompted Brian to respond asking if we wanted matching Cupid wings or personalized ones. For what, I have no clue. I know that he likes to wear a pair sometimes, but I’m not sure how that translates to group Cupid wings.
I reply that I would like mine to be yellow, if he doesn’t mind, with a bit of pink thrown in.
“Elodie,” Roman scolds from across the table. “It’s dinnertime.”
“Do you want your wings to be blue or green?” I ask, tapping at my phone. “Blue, right? To go with your eyes?”
“I don’t want wings, Sweet. I want you to respect the house rules, which you agreed to when you moved in. Dinnertime is not phone time. You’re not even supposed to have that at the table at all.”
In the kitchen, his phone dings, announcing the arrival of another email.
“Amber cutie-fied my schedule,” I tell him. “It has pink and blue hearts all over it, and a serious amount of frill.” My brows furrow. “How’d she do that so fast? Do you think she pays for the fancy Canva subscription?”
“I think she probably has an abundance of time, because she and Liam have a different dinner time than the two of us. That dinner time being not right now, as evidenced by all of the emailing.”
“Will thinks there should be more hearts on the new schedule. I’m not sure where they’d fit. Do you see this?” I turn my phone to show him Amber’s creation. “More hearts where?”
Roman doesn’t look at my phone. Roman looks at me, eyes narrowed, mouth at full scowl. Then, Roman’s hand shoots out, snatches my phone from the air, and shoves it in his back pocket.
My mouth drops. “Hey!” I protest. “You can’t just steal my phone!”
Except for that he did, the jerk.
“Eat,” he commands.
I scrunch my nose. “What happened to all your character growth and guilt?” I ask. “Two nights ago you were showering me in gifts and giving me massages. I think we should go back to that.”
“Character growth and guilt are superseded by the basic human needs all of us possess. Namely food. After dinner, I’ll show you Maslow’s pyramid. It’ll be real enlightening.”
Uh huh. I’m so sure.
“Seriously, Roman, give me back my phone.” I hold my hand out for it, frowning as it dings in his pocket.
“Seriously, Elodie, eat your dinner. I’ll give it back to you after,” he retorts, ignoring my hand.
“You’re policing my food again,” I observe.
“I made gingerbread cookies for dessert,” he says. “I put them up super high so you can only have one if I get it for you. Which I’m only doing if you eat some of your dinner. Phone and a cookie, Elodie, or throwing a petty fit?”
I drop my hand. “Well,” I sniff. “You didn’t mention the cookies.”
He grunts in response, eyeing me as I scoop a bite of mashed potatoes into my mouth, followed quickly by a forkful of meatloaf.
“You don’t get the cookie faster if you eat faster,” he informs me. “You get the cookie when I get mine, which is when I’m finished eating.”
Oh. Well then.
I slow down, averting my eyes from his reluctantly amused twitch of the lips. “Are you sure you’re still good to handle the catering and the cake and best man duties?” I ask, because picking a fight is better than sitting in the ensuing silence.
“I’ve got it,” he says. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about you.”
I sigh. Truly, I know he does have it. He showed me the menu he prepared, and he’s scheduled to do a cake tasting with Ruby and Will soon.
He’s shown zero signs of stress or regret about his decision to take on these extra duties.
What I should do is let the weight of worrying about it fall off my shoulders, place it firmly on his, and be done with it.
What I will do is let the weight of worrying about it fall off my shoulders, place it firmly on his, and be done with it.
Frankly, I can’t afford to carry that worry on top of all my others, and I know that Roman would rather jump in front of a moving train than disappoint anyone—least of all Ruby and Will—when it comes to food.
I roll my shoulders, a physical representation of me passing the metaphorical torch, then grunt when the weight of all my other responsibilities burrow in to fill the empty space.
I so, so desperately wish I could take a break.
But the wedding planning won’t last forever, and neither will the school semester.
Work will always be work, of course, but this time of stress and obligation won’t last forever, and at the end of it, it’ll only be good things.
Happy things. I just have to focus on that light and goodness while I’m in the not-finished-yet portion of things.
“Is your cousin faring okay with her crime-loving husband?” Roman asks, apropos of nothing.
I blink. “Of course,” I answer. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Because of the crime-loving husband?” he replies, one eyebrow raised while he pokes at a green bean. “And the fact that you told me they burned down someone’s property? For all I know, they could be in jail right now.”
I snort. “Not likely. Jove’s not stupid enough to get caught.”
“He’s stupid enough to commit regular crimes,” he replies.
“You take that back,” I gasp. “He only commits crimes against the deserving . He’s not stupid. He’s a hero.”
“That’s called vigilantism,” he says. “And it’s illegal in every state.”
“So is jaywalking, and I’ve seen you do that.”
“Jaywalking is not at all on the same level as destruction of property. The man burns down buildings and slashes people’s tires, Sweet. That’s not jaywalking.”
I huff. “You’re saying that if someone was mean to your wife or your sister you wouldn’t at all, even a little bit, consider slashing their tires?”
He goes quiet, jaw working as his eyes slide to the ceiling.
Uh huh. That’s what I thought.
“Jove’s not a monster,” I say. “He’s just a guy taking care of his family in the way he feels he needs to.”
Roman’s eyes fall to me, sky blue hitting my hair and lingering before meeting my blue.
“That’s an awful lot of understanding for Jove, Sweet,” he murmurs.
“Perhaps you have a little left for the man across from you, who is also just a guy taking care of his family in the way he feels he needs to.” His eyes flit to my plate, then back up, and I find myself, inexplicably, blushing.
Rather than address his words—and him calling me family—I choose the coward's way out of the conversation. “Are you done eating yet?” I ask. “I would love to gnaw the head off a gingerbread cookie.”
His eyes linger on me for a moment longer, frustration settling into his face before he sighs, shakes his head, and answers, “Take a few more bites, El. I’ll get the cookies in a minute.”
I pout, just a little, as I scoop a bite of potatoes onto my spoon. “I’ll eat more,” I say. “But I want it noted that it’s under duress.”
“So noted,” he mumbles as both of our phones ding.
My fingers itch to check my email, and it takes an incredible amount of self-control to stay in my seat instead of, say, bolting to the kitchen to steal Roman’s phone and check his email.
I look around for my medal in willpower, but it does not appear. Pity.
Eventually, Roman finishes his food and I finish enough to have earned a cookie, so he retrieves them from the kitchen, where he has them stored on the tippy top of the cornermost cabinet, a place I have no hope of reaching unless I do some serious—and perilous—climbing.
Hmph.
When he returns to the table, it’s with two of the most adorable gingerbread cookies I’ve ever seen in my life .
They’re matching, but different, decked out in oranges and purples reminiscent of autumn.
I assume these cookies are part of the test batch for the fall pastry rollout next month at Sweet & Salty.
“These look incredible,” I tell Roman honestly, taking in the meticulous little belt buckles on the gingerbread men’s waists. They wear vintage-style suits, the dapperest little guys there ever were. He’s even piped tiny little handlebar mustaches on their cutie-pie round faces.
“Which one do you want?” he asks, presenting my options.
I choose the one with a mostly purple suit with orange accents, and Roman takes the one with a mostly orange suit with purple accents.
I hold my breath before biting into mine, preparing myself for the delight I’m about to experience. Even Roman’s first testers are better than most people’s final products.
Ginger hits my tongue, quickly followed by a comforting wave of cinnamon and cloves. He’s put just enough icing on it to sweeten up the spices, but not so much as to pang my mildly abused sweet tooth. It’s the best gingerbread man I’ve ever beheaded.
“Needs more cinnamon,” Roman grumbles, inspecting the crumb pattern from a leg of his gingerbread man, which he’s broken off and is nibbling on thoughtfully. “Maybe more molasses too.”
Sure, because it’s not absolutely perfect as it is.
My eyes roll. I do not need to be here for his scientific breakdown of gingerbread goodness.
“I’m finishing this in my room,” I say, scooping up my headless man and holding my hand out to Roman. I wiggle my fingers. “My phone.”
He retrieves it for me as he continues his inspection of the cookie, and I snag it before he changes his mind. A quick pit stop in the kitchen to take care of my dishes, then I’m passing by his form, hunched over his plate and muttering, on my way to the stairs and, ultimately, my bedroom.
The cookie doesn’t make it past the stairs.
Wiping the crumbs from my hands, I collapse onto my bed, and the puffs of my quilt cradle me as I sigh.
I should really open my phone, read my emails, and finish my maid of honor duties for the day.
Barring that, I should go to my desk, pull out my laptop, and work on the assignment I have due in two days.
Barring that , I should call Lyra or Sol or Ruby and get back to being the type of person who is there for her people, even if they live far away or have abandoned her for a better life without her.
Cough.
Not that I’m a bitter, jealous, sucky loser or anything.
I close my eyes, letting my arm fall across my forehead as a headache builds behind it. I should do all of those things and more, but will I?
No.
Not today. Not right now. Not with the weight of my responsibilities coming down hard on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I think, instead, that I will just…
Sleep.
Precious, beautiful sleep.
As I fade away from my worries and stresses, the weight on my chest squirms, burrowing into my bones and stealing all restfulness from my sleep, leaving me only a hazy, burdened intermission from my worries.