“But it’s fitting. A tacky wedding for a tacky bride,” Mum says.
I hate Dad for making Mum so upset, angry, and bitter. I hate that the marriage Mum had perceived as perfect came crashing down around her ears. I hate being stuck in the middle of it.
Mum rants to me about how much she despises Dad now. Dad rants to me about how difficult Mum was about their separation and divorce. Thankfully, I’m an adult. I dread to think how hard it would have been if this had happened when I was a kid. The custody battle alone would have been like being the rope in a tug of war.
“Why don’t I come here on Saturday evening? We can watch a funny film together and forget about Dad and Molly.”
Mum snips the head of another rose. “You’ve been invited to the reception?”
“Y-yes.”
I don’t want to go. Archer will be there. Fuck. Why did he have to be Molly’s son? The worst part is Ilikedhim. Okay, no. The worst part is I fucked my stepmother’s son. Which makes him my?—
Nope. La, la, la. Not going there.
“Then you should go,” Mum says.
“Seriously?”
She waves the shears. “I’m not going to come between you and your dad. He already thinks I’m trying to poison you against him. You should go. And if you don’t want to go, find another excuse.”
Why did Mum have to choose this issue to be diplomatic? Not that she is being diplomatic. She hasn’t been diplomatic about any of it. And why should she be? Dad cheated on her.
She narrows her eyes. “You don’t want to go, do you?”
“No. Not really.”
“Why?”
I slump my shoulders and rub my hand with my thumb. I can’t tell her about Archer. I can’t. “Because his affair destroyed your marriage. Why would I want to see him be happy with his new wife?”
“Have you told him that?”
I shake my head.
“Maybe you should.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
I sigh. “Because despite everything, he’s my dad, and I love him. They asked me to do a best man’s speech.”
Mum laughs. “Yet they couldn’t be bothered to include you in their tacky Vegas wedding. Are you going to?”
“I’ve told them I won’t.”
She smiles ever so briefly. “Good.”
Not that Dad or Molly have accepted my no. Dad keeps texting and asking if I’ll change my mind. They’ve probably told people I’ll be making a speech. I can’t. I don’t trust myself to be nice about them and their relationship. I’m a terrible son.
“And don’t let them bully you into it,” Mum says.
“I won’t.”
She puts the shears down—thank god—and sits beside me on the lounger, clasping her hands on her lap. “I didn’t see it coming.” She sobs.
“I know.” I wrap my arms around her.
