So instead of saying something, I just stay silent.
“Lia.” He tugs on my hand. “I said I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I say, staring at our connected hands. “Just embarrassed, I guess.”
“There’s no need to be embarrassed. I should never have said anything. That was really shitty.”
“Do you think they make me look ugly?”
“No, Lia,” he says quickly. “Not at all.”
“Do you think I would be more attractive to you without them? Because that’s how it feels, how the comment feels, like . . . like I’m not pretty enough when I wear them.”
“Lia, that’s not what I meant. I think glasses look great on you. They’re just, they’re purple is all, and I would have thought that maybe someone your age would want something more sophisticated.”
My shoulders droop as I mutter, “So I’m not sophisticated enough?”
“No,” he groans while pulling on his neck. “Fuck, I’m not saying this right. Just . . . just forget I said anything at all.”
Forget what he said? He insulted me, and that’s not easy to forget.
I look up at him, insecurity racing through me, and ask, “Do you think I’m good enough for you?”
“What?” His eyes widen. “Of course, Lia. Why would you think that?”
Because I’ve thought that for a while.
Because I think that maybe we aren’t on the same trajectory.
Because the things that are important to you like money and status, arenotimportant to me.
“Because there are moments where you try to change me. Like when we go to meals with your mother, you buy me clothes to wear.”
“That’s because she can be very particular, and I don’t want her giving you a hard time.”
“Or the glasses, or when we’re in public, it’s like you have this standard I have to meet for me to be attached to your arm.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just this past weekend, I said let’s go get ice cream, and I was going to go out in my pajamas, but you told me to change.”
“Lia, I could see your nipples through your white tank top. Do you really think I want people seeing that?” He grips my hips. “That’s just for me.”
I look off toward his office windows. “I don’t know, it just feels like I’m not good enough for you.”
“Lia, stop.” He tips my chin toward him. “Of course you’re good enough. Why else would I propose to you? Now I’m sorry about the glasses. I never should have said that, but please don’t let that unravel you.”
“I’m not unraveling, Brian. I’m just trying to make sure my boyfriend—”
“Fiancé,” he says in a clipped tone.
“Yes, my fiancé. I’m just trying to make sure that he is marrying me for the right reasons.”
“What are you talking about? Where is this coming from? We had a great weekend, and now, all of a sudden, you’re doubting me? Does this”—he smooths his hand over his mouth—“does this have to do with anything Breaker said to you today?”
“Are you serious right now?” I ask, taking a step back from him. “Breaker was nothing but supportive, especially when your mother basically told me I was a bridge troll with glasses and that my opinion about my wedding didn’t matter. Do not blame any of this on Breaker.”
“Shit, you’re right.” He exhales and places both hands on the edge of his desk. “I’m sorry. I’m just wound up and apparently unable to stop myself from saying stupid things.”
