Lose one relationship but earn another.
But I should know by now not to expect too much from Melanie Kincaid, now St. George.
She turns to me, her jaw set, those eyes watering in the same superficial way as before.
She’s not upset about what Cami said.
She’s upset Cami had the nerve to say it.
“Call me when you’re not with her.”
What she doesn’t say is what I hear.
I’ll expect an apology.
She reaches where her small clutch sits on the bed, grabs it, and walks out.
And then it’s just Cami, Cici, and me in the room, all staring at the door.
What the fuck is in the air today?
THREE
SATURDAY, AUGUST 19
After my mother leaves, we sit in stunned silence.
Well, Cami does.
I move once more to clean up the mess, to keep my hands—and my mind—occupied.
“You didn’t have to do that, Cam,” I say, grabbing at the pile of tissues and moving them into a garbage can. “I know it came from a good place, but it so wasn’t necessary.”
If you didn’t grow up with her, I understand how one might be offended or frustrated with my mother. She’s brash and not in the fun, Cami way, but she means well.
Truly, I have to believe that.
“I love that you did, really. But she’s just overwhelmed. And she’s right—she hyped this event up so much to her circle of friends, and you know how those women can be. She’s going to be the target of bitchy whispers until the next scandal, and that’s my fault.”
We’ve worked with enough of them for Cami to know, for her to understand.
“She wasn’t raised to think about other people, only about how it impacts her. I guess we could blame my grandfather—”
“Liv,” Cami says finally, breaking into my rambling as she walks to where I’m cleaning, holding my hands in hers to stop me from distracting myself further. “No.” Her warm eyes meet mine, holding me in a trance, and suddenly, it’s clear just how serious she is.
How much she needs me to understand what she’s about to say to me, even if she knows I’m not going to like it.
“I need you to know nothing, none of this, was your fault. None of it. Do not listen to her. You did not deserve this. And you are not at fault for your mother’s emotions nor the way her so-called friends will treat her.” I sigh and bite my lip but don’t dare break eye contact with her.
“I did nag. A lot.” Cami rolls her eyes, and Cici’s quiet scoff can be heard from where she’s sitting.
“You nagged about what? About things he was supposed to be helping you with as your partner?”
“He has a very high-stress job.” He was sure to remind me of that often.
“And so do you, Olivia.” I shrug.
Public relations and party planning for the wealthy aren’t the same as managing the finances of millionaire clients who have unreasonable expectations.
“He makes more money.”
“Jesus Christ, who cares? If we want to go down that route, you’re worth more money than him.” She lifts her hands in defense, knowing my argument. “Not that it matters. But if we’re looking at things like that, shouldn’t he have been worried about you? About what you needed or wanted? If this all boils down to your value—which, Olivia, look at me.” I had started to inspect the perfect French manicure I’d gotten the day before. “It does not. But if you’re going to use that as your excuse, you deserve to look at the full picture.”
Digging into that would cause too much turmoil in my already delicate mental state so instead, I break eye contact again, looking at my hands, at my perfectly filed nails, and at the small cut on my pointer finger.
I got that handmaking his gifts for his groomsmen.
“We can order them,” I had said of the intricate flasks engraved with initials. “Look, this site makes them and we can get them shipped in just a few days.” I’d brought my phone to him to show him the gift site I had found them on at his request.
“But it won’t mean as much if they aren’t handmade.” I sighed, taking my phone back, switching tabs, and showing him a new one.
“This other site, it costs a bit more but they’re handmade.”
“Olivia, I really want them made by us. Can you please do this for me?” I bit my lip, thinking of the work I had to get done before our honeymoon, of the little touches I still needed to finish for our wedding before sighing and opening my calendar.
“I can order the materials and get them here . . . Thursday. Friday, we can make a night of it. I’ll come to your place and we’ll order pizza and do it together.”
As exhausted as I was, I wanted that: a night with my fiancé, hanging out and spending quality time together, working on something together. It was just two weeks before the big day and a nice way to reconnect.
I wanted some kind of proof, I think, that I wasn’t making a huge mistake. I needed the reassurance this relationship was going to last, that we were meant to be like I had convinced myself we were.
But were we really?
“I’m going out with Casey. I really don’t have time for it, Olivia. Can’t you just do it?” He wasn’t even looking at me, scrolling on his phone and leaning on his kitchen counter, and I remember for the first time actually questioning what I was doing here.
I think I had questioned it a few times quietly, but this was the first time I asked myself straight out.
Why were we doing this?
“Bradley, I—” Finally, he looked up and put on that boyish smile I used to think was so fucking cute, so sweet. I thought it showed a part of him he shared with me and only me.
That was bullshit, I’m seeing now. A well-practiced look he used to get his way.
He took a step forward, grabbed my chin, and pressed a soft kiss to my lips.
“Come on, Liv. You know I’m no good at that stuff, and you’re so great at it.”
“I just—”
“This is why I love you,” he said, his voice low, and I melted.
I smiled.
And he stepped away, eyes moving back to his phone as he reached for his keys absentmindedly.
“Alright, I gotta go out. You’ve got that handled, right?” He looked to me but I didn’t answer. “Remember to lock up before you leave.”
Before I leave because I didn’t live there.
We were together for nearly three years and we didn’t live together.
That’s weird, right?
Neither of us were religious; there was no “living in sin” concern.
I remember watching him walk to the front door and not answering, still holding my phone with the tutorial I was going to show him.
“Later, Olivia,” he said, and then the door closed behind him.
That was barely two weeks ago.
Saturday, after I spent the entire Friday making them while he was out with his friends, slicing my finger open on the packaging, I handed him the groomsmen’s gifts with a smile. He barely thanked me.
I convinced myself he was anxious. Overworked.
But that little cut . . . it means more to me at this moment.
He wasn’t any of that. He wasn’t sweet or boyish. He wasn’t anxious or overworked. He surely wasn’t stressed about the wedding he had no hand in planning.