Lance:It’ll be good for you.
Lance:For us.
A sense of satisfaction swoops through me when I read his second message. It tells me he still cares, despite everything that’s happened. Dawson’s advice comes back to me in a rush, and I can’t help but suddenly want to go out to dinner with my fiancé. His parents—not so much, but could this mean that he’s finally ready to get back to the place we were before our engagement?
My heart swells with the hope that tonight could be the catalyst—the first step in the right direction after spending so much time not really knowing where to go or how to move.
Guilt streamlines in next because—god—I’ve been unbearable with him. I’ve been a miserable, despondent toddler.
I need to apologize and set the record straight.
Lance needs to know that I don’t blame him for his feelings and words. Yes, they’ve hurt me, but haven’t I done the same back?
It needs to stop—all the resentment.
I have to forgive him and, most importantly, I need to forgive myself. Because I know if I don’t, I won’t ever be able to move forward. Whether I like it or not, my accident isn’t just about me but those closest to me as well. Lance is part of my healing process. I need him to know that, and I need him to be there for me.
Because if he’s not—what do we really have?
For what feels like the first time, I understand how important having a conversation with him is, and how right Dawson was when he told me to give him a chance.
This is that for us.
Our moment that shifts everything back into place.
I set my phone back down, Dawson’s face a mere image in my mind as I commit to trying to work on my relationship with Lance, even if there is something that wholly intrigues me about my therapist.
“The whole townis going to want an invitation,” Larissa says, more so to Lance than myself. I take the time to cut one of my raviolis in half and shove it into my mouth. The cheese filling coats my tongue and the tanginess of the marinara sauce spreads with it.
“I don’t know about that,” is what Lance says, and I can’t help but feel a sense of pride in his reply. I never imagined myself having a big wedding with over two hundred and fifty guests. I never imagined spending more than,maybe, ten grand on the whole thing. Meanwhile, the reception rental at the country club is going to cost that on its own.
I almost balked at the price, but then Larissa shushed me and told me that she and Cliff, Lance’s father, would be covering all wedding expenses—half of their gift to us. The other half—a honeymoon to Barbados.
The one time I brought it up to Lance, telling him how uncomfortable it made me, he told me to leave it be. Whether I liked it or not, his mother wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Which is why I’m not at all surprised when she says, “Well, Idoknow. And I’m telling you, you’re going to be thanking me when you’re sorting through all your wedding gifts and envelopes of endless money.”
I almost choke at her directness and speak up. “Our guest list shouldn’t be determined based on gifts and how much money people are willing to give us. It should consist of people who we want to share that memory with.”
The words feel good coming from my mouth, strong and confident, which is something I’ve lacked since waking up in that hospital bed weeks ago.
Larissa smiles at me, but it doesn’t exactly reach her eyes. She’s not pleased with my rebuttal, but I want to show Lance that I’m in his corner. That we’re a team, and that we shouldn’t do something just because it’s what his mother wants.
Our wedding day, and our marriage, is aboutus.
Cliff focuses on his plate, cutting through the slab of meat on it while letting us keep the conversation going. He’s always been on the quieter side, and I suspect Larissa loves that about him. It means she gets her way more often than not.
“You don’t really mean that,” Larissa says, forking the lettuce in front of her. She’s the only one who opted for a light meal. Her excuse for it was that she had a heavy lunch, but I know she’s really trying to watch her weight for the wedding.
Everything with her is about appearances.
“I do,” I say, resting my hand on the table and reaching for Lance’s. If my words aren’t proof enough that I’m with him—in everything—then this small act of affection will show so.
Except, the second my fingers dip into his palm, he fidgets and pulls his hand back, dropping it down onto his lap. The rejection is a figurative punch to the gut, and I don’t know what to do about it other than to pull my own hand back. I use it to pick up my water and take a sip of it.
Thankfully, Larissa and Cliff are completely oblivious.
“Lance, talk some sense into your wife.” Larissa shifts her attention to her son, pretending as if I’m not sitting across from her. I want to inform her that I’m not his wife yet, but she continues speaking. “Remind her that she’s going to be a Bronson.”
