“The night you proposed, we made love and then we discussed our vision for our wedding day and the days after. Imean, don’t you think it’s weird that there’s going to be a bunch of randos there who know nothing about us?”
He sets his glass down and crosses the kitchen. His hands come down on my hips, resting against them. Where was this version of him last night? Where was my fiancé when I wanted to hold his hand in support?
He looks down at me, and if I wasn’t already upset with him, I’d easily be swept away. His gaze darts down to my lips, but he doesn’t press forward. It’s almost like he’s questioning if he can, if he should—because it’s been so long since he has. Or maybe he hesitates because he doesn’t want to kiss me. I realize both are just as likely.
I bring my hands up and rest them on his chest, my phone still in one hand, showing him that this is more than okay. That it’s what I’ve been hoping for from him for months now. “I want what’s going to make everyone happy,” he states simply.
“Having guests at my wedding who I don’t know doesn’t make me happy. I want my wedding day to be personal, not feel like a public event.”
He lowers his forehead to mine. I expect him to back me up, to agree with me, and tell me he’s going to handle it—especially since this has been a point of contention in our relationship. Instead, I get, “No one is going to be happy if my mother is throwing a fit, no matter how big or small the guest list is. You don’t have to spend time with people you don’t want to.”
My heart thuds dully in my chest, defeat circling through.
That’s not good enough.
I don’t get the chance to press the matter further because he pulls away. “I have to get to work. Remember, it’s Friday.”
“Right.” I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “You’re going golfing with the guys from work.”
He grins big, but I can’t say I’m exactly happy that he’s going to be spending the evening with his work buddies. Still, I pushthat aside andtry. “Why don’t you skip tonight, and we can get takeout and watch a movie or something?”
His smile goes crooked, like he’s not totally cool with that idea. “I can’t. I already told them I’d be there, and I don’t want to rescind my word.”
But it’s okay for you to do just that when it comes to me?
I shake my head. “Silly me,” I say, though there’s a whole lot of sarcasm laced in my words. I turn around and grab my bagel from the toaster, plopping it down on a plate. “The absolute last thing I’d want is for you to cancel your plans with them.”
His shoes squeak against the floor a few steps and then they stop. “Have a good day,” is what he calls over his shoulder before saying, “If you need me, you know you can call me. I’m checking out a few new potential listings today, but I’ll answer if I can. If I can’t, I’ll call back as soon as I can.”
He leaves through the front door, and when I turn to prepare my bagel, it’s cold.
Just like the edges of my heart.
With the TVplaying in the background, I smile as I stare at the picture on my phone. It’s a photo of a coffee cup, Dawson’s name scribbled on the side of it with a question next to it reading:is your last name Creek?
A text follows the multimedia message, and I push back into the coziness of the couch, the room basked in the soft glow of the side table lamp.
Dr. Dawson Cole:Can you believe this?
Me:Can’t say I blame them. The first time I heard your first name, I thought about that show, too.
Dr. Dawson Cole: Catchy name or not, it’s not cool to reduce me down to (potentially) one of the most iconic couples from the twentieth century.
Me: They are *definitely* in the top ten.
Dr. Dawson Cole: You know what I mean.
Me:What’s more important is the flavor of coffee inside the cup.
Dr. Dawson Cole: That’s a bad, bad question to ask.
Me:Dawson…
Me:There isn’t coffee in there, is there?
Dr. Dawson Cole: You can’t judge me.
Me:You little coffee imposter.
