26
“Awwww, she’s crying again! This is just the sweetest, most romantic thing everrrrrr! I cannot wait to fall in love and get marrieeeeed!” Samantha, my oh-so-fourteen-year-old sister literally swoons, falling back onto the dressing area settee with a sigh. My sisters laugh, along with the saleswoman who sold me this wedding dress and the tailor who’s making adjustments to the hem at my feet.
“I can. I think you’re crazy.” Skye mutters.
“Skye!” Sadie and Samantha both scold her.
She shrugs, looking at me in the giant three-paneled mirror. “C’mon, Suze, you’re so young! Don’t you want to work on your career, do some stuff? Have your own apartment? Move away?”
I chuckle through the burn that’s been ever-present in my throat all week. “Those are things you want.”
“I think it’s romantic too. You two are perfect for each other.” Sadie smiles at me in the mirror.
I mentally pat myself on the back. After navigating a minefield of questions about what happened with Josh, I worked hard to curate only the perfect settings for her to see Adam and I together on campus. Loud parties where she couldn’t observe us too closely, fleeting hugs on the south oval, and even the carvings and the flowers after he screwed up.
Clearly, she bought it.
My mother has had her eyes trained on me all day today, though, making my own water over and over. We haven’t had a moment alone yet but it’s coming. I’m bracing myself for what she’ll say. Or maybe what she’ll ask.
“And there’s just something about football players, isn’t there?” Sadie goes on. “His giant arms, I bet he could pick you up over his shoulder like a sack of flour.”
“Ummmm, awkward!” Skye says.
“Ha, no it’s not,” I say, “She’s not talking about Adam’s arms.” I wait for Sadie to deny she’s mentally fawning over Shep, but she just blushes and looks away.
“Wait, what did she say? Like a what?” Sally asks, confused. Her genius eight year old brain gets tripped up on idioms and expressions.
“Flour,” Mom explains, “used for baking, comes in large, heavy, bulky packages.”
“Huh.” Sally says. Sam is also frowning. Skye stifles a laugh.
My mother just gives Sadie the same worried glance she’s been giving me, then redirects us.
“You look beautiful, Susan. Does it feel right?”
Mom means the fit, the tightness after the alterations. It’s a classy, satin, off the shoulder dress with a tight bodice and a mermaid skirt. It’s fitted enough to accentuate my hourglass figure but plain enough to still feel modest and timeless. It’s gorgeous.
But nothing about it feels right.
I don’t even know if I still love the dress, or if I ever did. When we went dress shopping months ago I was only worried about the approval of Adam’s family. Then I wasn’t worried at all, sure I’d never actually walk down the aisle in it.
“Sure,” I squeak.
“Great,” she says, before nodding at the tailor and excusing everyone. “I’ll help Susan get out of the dress, we’ll meet you girls in the car.” The second the rest of the women have filed out, I start to shake. “Susan? Tell me what’s bothering you, please.”
“I don’t, I just, it’s—”
“I thought you’d decided Adam was a good man?”
“He is, but—” I start sobbing too hard to talk and we both realize I need to actually get out of my dress before I stain it with black tears or smudged make up.
“If you don’t think you can go through with this, just tell me so and I will help. Your father will recover, Susan, I—”
“No, no, I can do it, it’s just…”
How do I explain?
I won’t have to go through with it at all.
Even though the wedding is scheduled just days from now, Uncle Lance’s team came through with a solution. Adam is going to blindside his dad any minute now with a team of lawyers and binders of new paperwork.
I should probably feel relieved.
I don’t.
Not after the weeks since his apology.
Not after long, unbearably sweet hugs, every day.
Not after the text messages started every night, each one linking to a strange roadside attraction he found in small towns all over the country. Or naming a song for me to look up in iTunes. Not romantic ones, of course. Funny one-hit-wonders. Unheard of tracks from popular artists. Strange musical comedy parody songs.
Every text made me smile.
Especially when he asked how my day was, everyday. A creature of habit, he kept it simple.
“How was your day?”
I always replied “Fine.”
He replied with “See you tomorrow?” Every time.
Then a couple weeks ago the kisses started. We were hugging on the sidewalk and he cupped the back of my head before whispering “Megan is coming. I’m gonna kiss you now.” The next day it was my sister he saw. Or Shep.
Lies.
I always looked and no one was ever around, but I never called him on it.
Because he just wanted to kiss me, I think. And holy cow, he did. My cheeks heat thinking of it and I’m sure my mother is trying to puzzle out the smorgasbord of feelings being served to my face.
Honestly, it wasn’t just kissing. We’ve been full-on making out all over OU every single day. People walking by have yelled, cheered, expressed their disgust. I think we’ve become a thing on campus at this point.
So I fell to my knees yesterday, literally, when his text came through.
My uncle saved us. I’m meeting with him tonight.
Saved us.
Saved him.
Because feelings or no feelings, Adam still can’t imagine marrying me.
And I was growing more excited to marry him with every passing second.
“I’m all right,” I say to my mom, though she’s not convinced. She tilts her head and dips her chin, waiting. “I just don’t know how he feels about me. Months and months and I don’t think he,” I take a deep breath to keep going, “I don’t think he wants to marry me.”
“Based on what evidence?” She replies, the most Doctor-Susan-Canton-response ever.
“He’s,” I lower my voice, “he’s been working on an exit with his uncle and a bunch of lawyers, trying to get us out of the agreement.” My mother gasps. “Don’t say anything, it has to be a total surprise, and it might not even work.”
“And do you want that? Out?” She asks eventually. All I can do is shake my head as the tears restart. “No, I didn’t think so. I have observed how you look at him. But Susan,” she grabs my hands. “He looks at you the same.”
I shake my head even harder. “He’s just a good actor.”
She harrumphs. “Is he good at communication? Very articulate? Expressive? Demonstrative?”
I sniff loudly. “What? No. He’s none of those things.”
“Then, as your father would say, acting, my ass.”
“Mom!” I almost laugh.
“Perhaps he wants to get you both out of your obligations, but I don’t believe that boy wants to get out of a relationship with you.”
“You’re wrong, you’ll see.”
“I guess we will.”
_____
Susan: Well?
Adam: I will explain tonight
Susan: So the rehearsal dinner is still on?
Adam: Yes
Susan: Okay
_____
Adam arrives late looking disheveled and I’ve never been so thoroughly conflicted about a party. I love and hate everything about it. We’re at a chic locally owned steakhouse that a florist has turned into a garden, basically. There is white and green and lilac and violet everywhere. It would’ve been perfect for my real rehearsal dinner.
I love and hate that all of my favorite people are here, plus a large amount of important business and family connections, both Canton and Bell. I love and hate that it’s loud and warm and fuzzy. A live band is playing, my sisters are laughing and little cousins run around making a mess.
It’s so busy in here that Adam and I haven’t had a moment alone since he walked up and took my hand. A quick kiss to the head, a “Sorry I’m late,” and away we went, whisked around by his mother, then his dad, non-stop.
Finally, mercifully, someone calls out that it’s time to sit and eat.
“I need my fiancé for a minute,” Adam says to the party planner and his mother at my side.
“Of course!” His mom gushes, beaming at us.
I swallow and blink hard. Did he have to say “my fiancé” like that?
He leads me through a back hall, past the bathrooms and the kitchen. He stops at the last door and tucks us both inside before shutting the door. It’s a tiny office.
I inhale, trying to brace myself.
“It didn’t work. I’m sorry.” He says softly, studying me. I let out all the air I just sucked in. He puts his hands on my arms. “I’m sorry, it just wasn’t safe enough for your dad, there was a chance he’d be ruined, and you’d be in breach of contract and I just, Uncle Lance thought it was low-risk enough but he’s wrong. I know that’s not what you want, right?” He pulls his hands away from me, putting them on his waist and looking up at the ceiling. “Right?”
“Yes, right.” I nod, trying to absorb that everything has changed, all over again. “So…so we’re getting married tomorrow.”
Adam nods, locking his jaw and looking away.
Looking like a man defeated.
“Okay,” I start nodding too. “Okay, it’s fine. Don’t panic. Panic, this is the perfect time to panic!” The Toy Story quote just comes out. I start to sound a little unglued. I feel like I am coming unglued. I’m getting married tomorrow.
To a man I am pretty sure I love.
A man who is literally dripping in dread, sweating like he’s having a panic attack too.
“It’ll be fine, right?” I squeak.
“Yeah, yes.” He finally looks at me, but he can’t hide how sick he’s feeling. “It’ll be fine.” He moves toward the door. “We better…”
“Yeah.” I say.
I plaster on a fake smile and give Adam a look when I think he might throw up in front of everyone. He orders a whiskey and sucks it down, then puts an arm around me at the table. We watch the slideshow Sadie made and listen through toasts and roasts and more music. We laugh when we’re supposed to and I happily tear up whenever appropriate, letting people assume I’m shedding happy tears. Adam pulls me closer into his side, he squeezes my hand, at one point he grips my thigh under the table.
But he can’t truly comfort me.
Not when I can see panic in his eyes. Not when I can hear the catch in his voice. The tremble in his hands as he has another strong drink.
As I sneak glances at him through the night I can’t help but wonder…
Will he be able to ignore his feelings and say those vows? Or will he choke?
What if he leaves me at the altar?
What if he shows up and we actually go through with this tomorrow afternoon?
And then—a new wave of brilliantly conflicting emotions crash through me—what exactly happens tomorrow night?