27. Wedding Plans #2
He exhales, long and frustrated—but controlled. “So we’re planning this whole thing around your job?”
“That’s not what I’m doing.” I keep my voice even. “But I’m the one who has the full-time career right now. And daycare. And the bills. I need something realistic.”
“But I’m going to have a career too,” he says. “Internships don’t schedule themselves around weddings either.”
That lands like a dull thud inside my chest. “I know that,” I say quietly. “I’m not ignoring your goals.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, I just feel like everything is weighted your direction. Your job, your city, your schedule.”
“And you’re five hours away living out of a dorm,” I say. “Of course the logistics fall on my side right now.”
He glances off-screen, jaw tightening. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m saying it feels like we’re already deciding things without actually deciding them.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes.
Eric: Need a quick update on the anomaly patch. Trying to close the loop before morning.
Perfect timing. I stare at the screen, waiting for the urge to throw the phone across the room to quiet down.
“Give me one second,” I tell Reid.
His voice stays neutral, but his eyes say everything. “Sure.”
I type a quick response.
Give me 10. Wrapping something up.
When I set the phone down, I already feel the weight of divided attention pulling me in two. “Sorry,” I say.
“It’s fine,” he says.
It’s not fine. I can hear it.
I push on before the silence tightens further. “Let’s regroup. We said we wanted something small, right? Maybe we can look at late summer instead. August?”
“August is the best month for internships,” he says. “And if I land one out of state, then what?”
“Then we figure it out,” I say, though I can already see the problem forming. “If you get an internship somewhere else, we’ll adjust the timeline.”
He shakes his head, slow. “You keep using words like adjust and shift, but what you actually mean is you won’t move.”
“That’s not what I said,” he says in a low tone.
I sigh. “It’s kind of what you said.”
The heat rises behind my sternum, not anger—fear. “Reid, I have stability here. Liam has stability here. I’m not going to uproot our lives unless we have something concrete.”
“And I’m telling you something concrete might come up,” he says. “What if I get a job offer after graduation? What if I get into a grad program? Am I just supposed to pick based on distance from your office?”
“No,” I say. “But I can’t pick based on hypotheticals.”
He drops his gaze to his desktop. “Feels like every time I talk about the future, you’re already shutting it down.”
“I’m not shutting it down,” I say, voice tightening. “I’m trying to build something solid.”
He lifts his eyes again. “So am I.”
In the silence that follows, the distance between us stretches even though we’re staring right at each other.
I break first. “Let’s talk venue,” I suggest, too quickly. “That’s something we can actually nail down.”
He nods like he knows I’m shifting the subject but doesn’t want to push. “Okay… did you have any in mind?”
“A few,” I say, flipping to another tab. “There’s a place near Liam’s daycare?—”
His face freezes. “Near the daycare?”
“It’s central,” I say. “Easy for family. Easy for us.”
“Or,” he says carefully, “it’s another decision anchored to your world.”
“My world is our world,” I say, confused. “That’s where we live.”
“That’s where you live,” he corrects, but his tone isn’t sharp—it’s wounded. “I’m still in school. I’m not even there most of the year.”
There it is again. The widening space. The different assumptions.
“We can look at places closer to your campus,” I offer quietly, even though my stomach knots at the idea of planning a wedding in a city I’ve barely spent time in.
“That’s not what I want,” he says. “I want us to choose something together. Not default to what’s convenient.”
The sting lands deeper than I expect. “I’m not defaulting. I’m trying to keep things manageable.”
“And I’m trying not to feel like a guest star in my own wedding.”
I open my mouth—and stop. I’ve never thought of it that way. Before I can respond, my phone buzzes again.
Eric: Sorry—still need that update. Can you jump on for three minutes?
I close my eyes for a split second, already exhausted. When I open them, Reid is watching me.
“You can take it,” he says.
“I don’t want to.”
“But you need to.”
There’s no anger in his voice, but there’s a resignation that twists something in my chest.
I pick up the phone but don’t answer yet. “Reid.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Really.”
It isn’t. It absolutely isn’t. But work fires don’t wait, and bills don’t care that I’m trying to plan the rest of my life.
“I’ll call you back,” I say.
“Yeah,” he answers softly. “Okay.”
His webcam light clicks off before I can add anything else. I sit in the quiet for a few seconds, staring at the blank screen, the spreadsheet still open in front of me—venues, dates, budgets, timelines—all of it practical, structured, logical. Everything I cling to when the future feels too big.
But right now, the only thing staring back at me is how far apart our visions really are. The work call is short—three minutes like Eric promised—but by the time I return, the emotional momentum is gone. I read Reid’s last message.
Reid: Let’s talk tomorrow. It’s been a long day.
The lump forms in my throat. Not because he’s wrong. But because he’s tired, too. Because we keep missing the middle ground by inches. I close the laptop slowly, hands lingering on the keyboard.
We’re doing everything right. We’re saying the right words, making plans, choosing each other.
And yet, somehow, every step forward introduces a new set of questions neither of us knows how to answer.
By the time Liam is asleep, the apartment is quiet in that way it always is when I’ve pushed myself too far.
My laptop is open on the dining table, and the wedding spreadsheets are scattered across the screen like I’m preparing for some technical briefing instead of planning my own life. I stare at the list—venues, cost estimates, availability windows, family RSVPs—and it all feels heavier than it should.
I close my eyes and press my thumb against the base of my ring. The metal feels cool. The weight feels real. I still love the way it looks on my hand, but tonight it also reminds me how many decisions are waiting behind it. Reid and I texted earlier. Nothing dramatic. Nothing emotional.
Just the kind of short messages people send when they’re both trying not to start a conversation they don’t have time to finish.
He’s studying for an exam; I’m finalizing reports for tomorrow’s meeting.
We’re both doing our best, but sometimes it feels like our lives keep shifting under us faster than we can find solid ground.
I open a new tab to look at daycare schedules for the next year. Then I open another for flight prices between our cities. Then I close both because I don’t want to see how much effort we’re already spending just to stay reachable. I go back to the venue spreadsheet instead.
My phone buzzes on the table. Reid’s mom added a photo to the family thread—a picture from when Reid and Logan were little, wearing matching suits at a wedding.
The caption says: “Full circle now. We’re so happy for you both.”
More messages follow.
Logan: “Congrats, man. About time.”
Nathan: “Amelia, welcome to the chaos.”
Reid’s dad sends a thumbs-up emoji because he doesn’t text much. Their excitement lands softer than I expect. They sound certain. They sound proud. They sound like this engagement is exactly the right step, no questions, no hesitation.
I type a polite response back, thanking them, telling them we’re excited too. But the second I hit send, the tension in my chest pushes up again. It’s confusing, being surrounded by support while still feeling unsure about how all the pieces of our lives fit.
The difference between our families hits me again—how my mom wants us to slow down and breathe, and how his parents want us to take the next step and trust it will work out. I don’t think either of them is wrong. I think they’re just speaking from different places.
I shut the laptop because the tabs and reminders feel like they’re staring at me.
I bring the spreadsheets to the coffee table instead, trying to map out a weekend that works for both of us, a date that doesn’t collide with his exams or my work deadlines.
Every option feels like it comes with a trade-off.
The ring slides slightly as I rub my hand across my forehead.
I keep it steady. When Reid calls a little later, his voice is warm, tired, familiar.
We talk about Liam’s day, a story from his study group, a few wedding questions.
Nothing heavy. Nothing deep. Neither of us says the part we’re both thinking—that we don’t actually know what our future looks like yet.
After we hang up, I sit in the quiet again.
I look at the spreadsheets. I look at the ring.
I look at the life I’m trying to build without losing myself in the process.
I love him. I don’t doubt that. But tonight I feel the truth of something I haven’t said out loud: love isn’t the same as clarity.
And planning a wedding doesn’t mean we’ve solved the distance between our worlds.
The uncertainty doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like standing at a fork in the road without a clear view of either direction.
When I finally go to bed, I lie awake for a long time.
I can still hear Reid’s voice in my head.
I can still feel the warmth of the ring on my finger.
And I can still feel the weight of everything we haven’t figured out yet.
I tell myself that tomorrow will help. Tomorrow I’ll find a solution or at least a next step. Tomorrow things might make more sense. But as I close my eyes, I know the truth: A major decision is coming. And neither of us is fully prepared for what it means.