“Julia.” I tense when he touches my shoulder. “Did you even hear what I said?”
“No,” I admit and carefully slip out from underneath his hand. It makes me wonder when I stopped craving his touch.
“I said, please be ready to go by five thirty. This dinner is important to my mom.”
Every dinner is important to your mother.My nod seems to appease him, and he kisses my cheek before leaving.
Once the door closes, I sink down into the sofa and close my eyes, relieved for the quiet. I try to think about how happy he used to make me. How our life seemed to be an adventure. Before he started to take meetings every other day and started floating the idea of moving to Chicago after the wedding. Now, when I think about our lives together, all I see are fancy dinners, late nights, and his mother telling us what we should and shouldn’t be doing.
It’s a future I’m not sure I want anymore.
A bit of panic starts to creep in. Something that’s been happening more and more lately. I try to focus on all the reasons I love him. He’s supportive and successful. He asks me about my day and cleans up after I cook. He loves me and wants to build a life together, even if he doesn’t seem all that interested in the details of our wedding. He’s smart and ambitious and has no idea who Debbie Gibson is or why I like to wear heels.
Jesus, this isn’t going well.
A loud knock that echoes through the apartment is a welcome distraction.
When I open the door, it’s the postman with his mail bag slung over his shoulder and a small pile of mail in his hand. “Hi, Ms. Julia. Sorry to bother you.”
“You’re never a bother, Joe,” I tell him with a smile.
“I’ve got your mail.” He hands it over and points to the large cardboard mailer with the wordsDo Not Bendwritten all over it. “This seemed important, and it wouldn’t fit in your mailbox without a proper bending. Thought I might hand deliver it.” He gives me a sheepish look.
“That’s so thoughtful, thank you.”
He tips his head forward. “Have a good day, miss.”
“Same to you. Until next time,” I call out after him.
Most of the pile he hands me is junk that I toss on the counter to go through later, and I focus instead on the large cardboard mailer.
From Brian’s mother.
With a loud groan, I sit back on the couch and open it. Inside is another envelope with a sticky note that reads:Thoughts? We really should get these printed and sent out.
A sense of dread settles in the pit of my stomach. I already know what I’ll find when I open it. Sure enough, an elaborate “save the date” and a matching wedding invitation slide out and into my lap.
“What the fuck is this?” The colors I wanted were teal and silver, not pale pink and gold. I notice the location isn’t the venue we picked but the country club she belongs to up in Maryland, along with a date.
Saturday, November fourteenth.
November?
Where is this even coming from? Did Brian give her the okay to do this? Did he tell her it was okay to change not only the colors I wanted but the venue? Did he say it was fine to move the wedding up by almost ayear?
No wonder she’s pressing me about flower arrangements and cake tastings. She’s expecting this to happen in seven months!
The more I stare at the invitation, the angrier I get. Nothing about any of this is what I wanted, least of all the gaudy style of these invites.Your presence is requested?Who even says that?
I told Brian and his mother on more than one occasion that I wanted to focus on the weddingaftergrad school so I could put time and energy into the type of wedding thatIwant. Not that it matters, considering it’s clear that it’s not about what I want and all about what Mrs. Prescott wants.
None of this is fun. None of this brings me joy.
My chest tightens, and it becomes harder to breathe. November feels like a countdown. Like I’m closing a door I’ll never be able to reopen.
I grab the “save the date,” ready to rip it in half, but stop when I catch sight of the names typed in looping gold letters.
Julia Marie Marrow and Brian Ashton Prescott.
