EMORY
Disgusted isn’t the proper word for how I feel as I wait for my water to warm in the microwave. I don’t feel like waiting for the kettle to get hot, and when it dings, I grab my mug and steep a chamomile tea bag into it.
It feels as if there are a million ants crawling beneath my skin, and it makes me restless. I can’t sit down. I can’t just stand here. Not when I’m patiently waiting for Lance to make his arrival through the door.
I still haven’t heard from him since I walked out on Larissa. Maybe he thinks I’m still with his mother. Maybe he’s still in his meeting.
But that would be absolutely ludicrous considering it’s the end of his workday.
I hear the front door swing open at the same time I bring my mug up to my lips and take a little sip. The warm liquid spreads out over my tongue, but it does very little to settle the anxiousness stirring in my gut.
He walks into the kitchen and puts his stuff down on the island, his eyes cutting to me as soon as he notices me. “Hey.”
I get right to it because I don’t have the energy to beat around the bush. And, quite frankly, I’m tired of feeling like I don’t have a voice where he’s concerned. Whether he wants to listen to me or not is one thing, but I’m going to say what’s on my mind.
“I texted you hours ago.”
His brow crinkles. “You did?”
I nod as I watch him pull his phone out of his back pocket. “I didn’t get it. The conference room we were having our meeting in must have been in a dead zone.” He looks back up at me, his gaze dancing across my face. The corner of his mouth falls into a frown. He knows something is wrong. “What’s going on?”
“I’m done going through the wedding plans with your mother,” I tell him, keeping my hands around my mug as I lean back into the counter. It’s the only method of grounding I have.
His shoulders relax. “I thought you were going to say something way worse than that.” He huffs out a breath, a chuckle following as he brings his thermos over to the sink and rinses it out. “I’m sure whatever happened isn’t that big of a deal.”
I stare at his back and say, “She tried ordering red velvet after I expressed I didn’t want it for our wedding cake.”
“It’s just a cake. We can have two if it makes you feel better.”
I want to scream. I want to lift my fists and pound them against his chest.
Why isn’t he hearing me?
“I don’t want two cakes.” Even though I’ve already made up my mind, I decide to try one last time to see if he’s the man I need him to be. “I want your mother to allow me—us—to make decisions regarding our wedding. I don’t care if that means we have to pay for it.”
He sighs and turns off the tap before spinning around to face me. “She’s part of the process, Emory. I can’t just tell her that she can’t have her opinion.”
I shake my head and drop my focus to my tea. A small amount of light reflects, casting a white sheen on it, and I ask, “What’s more important to you? Her getting her way or knowing that your fiancée is happy with the choices being made regarding our special day?”
“I’m not going to answer that,” he says, placing his thermos on the drying rack and stepping forward. I slide away when he reaches his hand out to comfort me. “This is more about coming to a compromise that everyone—including my mother—is happy with.”
I look into his eyes. Normally, I’d be all for an arrangement that accommodates everyone, but this is one of those situations where my mother-in-law can fuck right off. “I disagree.”
“Well…” He rests a hand on one hip, the other leaning against the counter where I just stood. “I don’t know what you want me to do about that. If you don’t want to compromise?—”
“This isn’t about that!” My words leave me in an exasperated shout. Emotion claws at my chest, at my arms, at every exposed piece of skin. I let out a breath, one that hopefully steadies me. “Weare getting married—she isn’t. I’m tired of always giving her a thousand miles when I can’t even seem to walk two feet without my opinions and desires being pushed to the side. By her and by you.”
“I don’t understand where this is coming from. You just spent the last few weeks wanting nothing to do with wedding plans. I had to convince you to go with her today, and now you’re here telling me that, under no circumstances, are you going to listen to a word she says about it.”
I can see why he might think that’s odd. But the truth is… “It just finally hit me today how controlling and selfish she is.” It’s a lie, but there’s no point in dissecting the truth where Larissa Bronson is concerned. I’ve always known her to beoverwhelming, but she’s taken on an entirely different role when it comes to this.
Lance’s expression darkens, letting me know he’s agitated. “And now you’re going to insult her on top of it?” His eyes rove over my face, worry marking his brow. “I’m not sure why you’re having an outburst like this, Emory, but if you’re struggling with something then I think you should contact your therapist. It’s clear that whatever is going on is something you need to talk through. Maybe your doctor can help with that because I can’t seem to understand it. You’re not the same person you were. You’re different and unaccepting of what everyone around you says.” He says it calmly, but his condescending tone is clear as day.
And then I realize… This is how it’s always going to be. Communication hasn’t always been our strongest point, but for years, we managed and got through difficult times. But now…now he’s going to use my need for therapy during this time of my life as a way to opt out of having important conversations with me. To opt out of taking accountability.
He’ll chalk everything—especially me expressing myself—up to needing to talk to my doctor. Up to me being a different version of myself than I was when we met and I was so willing to make him—and everyone around me—happy.
That thought guts me more than Larissa’s words.
