“Well, it’s nice,” Breaker says as we step out of his car and stare up at the rather ornate and grand stone church right in front of us. On an almost vacant street in the heart of Los Angeles is a Catholic church with a tall spire reaching up into the sky and an arched entrance that feels more intimidating than welcoming.
I glance up at the grandiose building and say, “There are gargoyles on the edge of the roof. That doesn’t really scream wedding vibes.”
Breaker puts his arm around me. “Not really, but the reason gargoyles were carved into buildings in the first place was to ward off the evil spirits from entering, so . . . if you look at it that way, then maybe it’s a good thing. There will be no evil spirits lurking in your marriage.”
I glance up at his freshly shaved face—he usually keeps some scruff on it but chose to go clean today. “Are you going to put a positive spin on everything?”
“I will until you tell me you absolutely hate it. At that point, I will jump the positivity ship, but you need to give it a fair shot first. Who knows, maybe the inside of the chapel really captivates you.”
“I’m not religious, Breaker.”
“You don’t need to be religious to appreciate the sanctity of divine architecture. Think about what it took for people to build this building back in the day. All the intricate carvings and details you don’t see on today’s modern aesthetic.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but no Chipotle has gargoyles or intricate carvings, and I still very much enjoy walking into their establishments.”
“Because you’re a whore for lime salt chips, just like Lottie.”
“How do you know that?” I chuckle.
“That’s where Huxley and Lottie were on their first official date, if that’s what you want to call it. It’s where they went over the terms of their fake fiancé contract. Honestly, saying it out loud really doesn’t sound real. Anyway, she took home the chips that Huxley bought when he really wanted them. He bitched about it for days.”
“You guys are billionaires. You can buy your own Chipotle and turn it into a chip factory for your own personal pleasure. Why was he bitching about someone taking his chips?”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” he says just as The Beave steps out of a black sedan parked a few feet away.
The Beave is something else. Lanky legs always on a minimum of four-inch heels, she always wears an unflattering resting bitch face, accompanied by a nude-colored lip. She mimics the royal family by always wearing a jacket that you can’t quite tell is a dress or is actually a jacket—even in the California heat—and she pairs it with a hat when she’s outdoors. The only time she doesn’t wear a hat is when she’s sitting down for a meal. She reminds me of Yzma from The Emperor’s New Groove, but minus the grayish purple skin, saggy tits that touch her belly button, and adherent henchman who cooks a mean spinach puff.
“Ophelia, hello,” she says rather coldly and then turns to Breaker, a smile playing at her lips. “Mr. Cane, what a treat for you to join us today.” She holds out her skeleton-thin hand, and Breaker takes it and offers her a simple shake.
“Please, Breaker is just fine, and I couldn’t miss an opportunity to be the perfect maid of honor for my girl.” He gives me a squeeze.
“Maid of honor?” The Beave asks, glancing at me. “I wasn’t aware that you would be having a man on your side of the altar.”
I hold back my smirk. The Beave wasn’t expecting a wrench in her plans this early in the morning I bet. There’s no doubt she’s a traditionalist and requires the traditional setting of a wedding. The bride has women on her side, the groom has men. Well, welcome to the modern century because that’s not how we’ll work.
“Breaker is my best friend. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Well, maybe we can consider—”
“It won’t be any other way,” Breaker says, cutting in, throwing down my authority.
The shitty thing about this situation is that even though this is my wedding, The Beave is not going to listen to anyone other than herself. The only person, and I mean ONLY person, who could overturn her decision is Breaker. Not me, not her son, no one else, only Breaker, and that’s because she values Breaker more than me and her son. The only reason is because of how thick Breaker’s wallet is.
“I see.” The Beave straightens up. “Well, then, I guess I will make a note of that.” She then looks him up and down and says, “You know, Breaker, I heard the news about your former employee.”
Classic.
God, she’s like clockwork. I saw her mentioning that from a mile away.
Breaker cuts her off at the knees, and now she’s trying to do the same, trying to even the playing field. Little does she know the reason the Cane brothers are so successful is because they see right through social climbers and don’t let them tear them down.
And from the confidence in Breaker’s expression, I know he sees right through The Beave.
“Tragic, isn’t it?” Breaker asks. “That a girl with so little self-worth spreads lies to grab attention. Our lawyers are handling it. There will be an apology once we present the required evidence of the former employee’s inappropriate behavior in the workplace. Then again, I shouldn’t be saying anything because of how confidential it is.”
“Ah, understandable.”
“But thank you for your concern. I’m doing quite fine.”
She offers an even smile and then gestures toward the church. “Now, I believe we have a church to view and a priest to meet.” She turns, and with her assistant, who appears at her side, she starts up the steep stone stairs that lead to the red door entrance.
Hanging back for a moment, I cling on to Breaker’s arm and say, “I’m so sorry she brought that up.”
“Don’t apologize for her. She’s disgustingly transparent. I knew she was going to bring up the lawsuit, and shutting her down was easy.”
“I know, but still, she shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Lia, I’m fine.”
“Okay.” I clutch him tighter. “I’m going to need your help making our way up these stairs. These shoes Brian bought me are a touch too big.”
Breaker glances down at my shoes, examining them. “I was wondering where the hell you got those.”
“You don’t like them?” I ask as I turn my feet to the side. This whole outfit screams Brian. A fluffy, red mini skirt with a black tank top and black four-inch heels that I would never, ever wear, I feel more like a newborn clown than the sophisticated lady about to marry the very sought-after Brian Beaver.
“They’re nice, just not you.”
“What makes you think that? The gold buckle on the toe or the fact that I look like I’m a newbie trying to walk on circus stilts?”
“Maybe a touch of both.” He chuckles.
“Well, at least The Beave didn’t say anything disapproving.”
We head up the stairs, Breaker helping me the whole time. “Way to find the positive. Now, let’s just focus on whether we like this church.”
“I’m going to say no.”
“Do you have a second venue where you want to get married? A counter offer?” Breaker asks as we make our way up the stairs.
“I do, actually, but I know The Beave is going to hate it.”
“Then that means it’s perfect,” Breaker says as we reach the door and step into the opulent church.
The entrance opens into a large cathedral space with natural wood beams crisscrossing against the vaulted ceiling. Rows and rows of pews face the altar while a red velvet carpet stretches along the candlelit aisle. The altar is intricately carved with the same natural wood as the beams while also draped in linens and an arrangement of flowers that seems rather extravagant for a mid-summer mass.
Leaning toward Breaker, I whisper, “I’m surprised the lit candles aren’t a fire hazard.”
“And those candleholders don’t look too sturdy.”
“Isn’t it just divine?” The Beave asks in awe. “We won’t be able to fit everyone into the pews, but we will live-stream the wedding to those waiting at the club for you to arrive.”
I blink a few times while I glance at the many pews. “How many people do you plan on inviting?” I ask.
“Ophelia, I emailed you the guest list.” She snaps her fingers, and her assistant appears at her side with a box. The Beave opens the box and pulls out the crown of a veil. “Now, let’s see this on.”
“Hold on, what guest list?” The Beave ignores me and slips the veil on top of my head, digging the clip deep into my scalp until I’m almost positive she drew blood.
“I sent it to you, Ophelia. Honestly, do we need to talk about organization?” She removes the rest of the veil from the garment box, dragging the tulle fabric out in piles. Jesus, how long is this thing? And why did she put it on my head?
“I guess I didn’t see it. I was sort of busy this weekend.”
Busy with Brian, her son.
“Well, if you took the time to worry about the upcoming nuptials, you would have seen I have a little over two thousand invites going out.” She gestures toward the aisle. “Now, please, walk down the aisle so I can see how this veil looks.”
I blink, completely oblivious to what’s happening to me. “Two . . . two thousand?” I ask, my mouth going dry. “Like two thousand people?”
“More like four to five. There are couples and families.” She gestures for me to walk again, but I stand still.
“Oh my God,” I say, my armpits starting to sweat. “That’s . . . that’s too many people. Can the club even hold that many people?”
“Of course not,” she says, waving her hand at me. “That’s why we have secured the private beach as well. It’s all about appearances, even if people won’t be able to see everything. Now, if you’ll please . . .” She motions down the aisle.
I turn to Breaker, my heart racing, my eyes pleading for help. “Did you hear that?” I say through clenched teeth, the veil tangling up in my legs. “Two thousand people, Breaker.”
Luckily, Breaker senses my panic. “That seems like a lot,” Breaker says. “Has Brian gone over the list?”
The Beave dismisses him with her hand. “Brian has better things to do than bother with wedding details.”
“But . . . it’s the start of his marriage. Don’t you think he should be a little interested?” Breaker asks.
Her head snaps toward Breaker. “He’s interested enough, but a guest list is menial. You should know the importance of his high-level job. I can’t be bothering him with these questions. That’s why I’m in charge. Now, Ophelia, walk down the aisle so I can see if the veil is right for you.”
“Yeah, but that’s a lot of people, Mrs. Beaver,” Breaker continues as I try to straighten the veil out. I kick at it with my feet while the assistant—not sure of her name—attempts to help as well. “Lia doesn’t do well in big crowds. Unless you want a bride passing out at the altar, I think you need to pare down.”
The Beave turns toward me and says, “That’s not true, is it?”
Not proven, but I could see it being a possibility, so I go with it. “I have weak knees,” I answer while tilting the crown of the veil. “Where did this veil come from?”
“It was mine from when I married. Please don’t kick at it with your hooves. It’s a precious heirloom.”
“Oh . . .” I smile. “It’s lovely. You can really smell the history.” Very . . . musty. “Anywho, can’t say that a passed-out bride at the altar will result in cherished wedding memories. If I pass out, it’s going to embarrass Brian.”
Anything that might harm, embarrass, or taint her son, The Beave is going to want nothing to do with it.
“I wasn’t aware that you’re a risk at the altar.” She glances down the aisle. “If you pass out, that would ruin the entire ceremony.”
No one likes a fainty bride.
“Yeah, and what if I hit my head on one of the pews?” I ask. “A cracked head leads to blood, and I don’t think guests will want it to be a gory wedding. Especially if I wear this heirloom veil. Not sure blood comes out easily from fabric like this. Perchance, do you know the length of it?”
“Fifty feet,” The Beave answers absentmindedly.
Fifty feet, dear God, who needs a veil that long? She’s not even royalty.
Cutting in, Breaker says, “White dress, blood, and gore doesn’t really say high-class wedding. Not to mention, she bleeds easily. We’re talking pools of blood.”
“Iron deficiency anemia,” I say, nodding my head.
“Well.” The Beave turns her nose up. “Perhaps I’ll speak with my doctor and get him to prescribe you some Xanax for the day to avoid any way of you passing out.”
Of course she would have a pharmaceutical solution.
“Uh, that won’t work,” I say, glancing up at Breaker, looking for help.
“Yeah,” he says, picking up on my plea. “That won’t work because . . . uh . . . well, she’s a puker.”
The Beave recoils in disgust, don’t blame her. Didn’t see that coming.
“Pardon me?” she asks.
Breaker nods, going with it. “Yup, a serious puker this one.” He points his thumb at me. “Any sort of medication that curbs her anxiety, she just pukes right up. And not just a little. It’s projectile. I remember a time in college when she took some calming meds—can’t quite remember what it was—but she took some before her final exam in data statistics and mechanics because she was so nervous. After the first ten minutes of dry heaving, she started throwing up all over her exam and the poor girl in front of her. It was a disaster. Since then, she’s stayed as far away from the medication as she can. I don’t think risking Xanax on the day is worth it, so I believe we should just cut down the guest list. How about you send it to me,” Breaker suggests. “Since I’m so immersed in who to rub elbows with, I’ll be able to pick who will be insulted and who doesn’t matter when it comes to being there.”
Puking during an exam? We couldn’t have found a less disgusting image to plant in my future mother-in-law’s head?
I glance over at The Beave, ready to see absolute disgust on her face. Instead, she has the lightest of smirks, like if I didn’t know her, I wouldn’t be able to tell, but there it is, plain as day, her often imprisoned joy.
“Oh,” The Beave says, clasping her hands in front of her. “You’re attuned to the social ladder?”
“Of course. How do you think I became a billionaire?” Breaker asks with a wink, and I know, deep in my bones, that it absolutely pained him to say that. If you should know one thing about Breaker, it’s that he is not one to flaunt his money, ever, so for him to mention he’s a billionaire in front of The Beave, that just goes to show that he’s being the best friend that I need at this moment.
“Well, that would be lovely then. I will take you up on your generous offer,” The Beave says before turning and heading down the aisle. I guess that’s it. Fine by me.
Pinching his side, I joke, “Dropping the billionaire title just like that?”
He chuckles under his breath and whispers, “Got her to send me the list, didn’t it? We can look it over together. Bring your red pen.”
“I’ll bring multiple. There will be a slashing. The gore might not happen at the wedding, but it sure as hell will happen over the guest list.”
The Beave turns on her heel and says, “Now, are you Catholic, Ophelia?”
“Uh, that would be a no.” I itch the spot where the veil clip is digging into my scalp.
The Beave’s brows crease. “I believe Brian told me you were.”
I shake my head. “Nope, not a Catholic. I actually don’t really have a religion at all.”
“How could you not have a religion?” she asks in disgust. “Who on earth do you thank for everything in your life before you go to bed?”
“Uh . . . my parents?” I ask.
She sneers. “Well, that just won’t do.” She snaps her finger to her assistant and says, “Phone.” Her assistant quickly offers The Beave her phone, and I watch as she taps away on it. She lifts it up to her ear, and while she waits, I feel her gaze look me up and down, her perusal purely judgmental and meant to put me in my place. “Father Joseph, yes, it’s Mrs. Beaver, how are you? Good. I have a slight problem. Brian’s fiancée just informed me she’s not Catholic. Yes, I know . . .” She pauses. “Uh-huh. Well, what if I offer a large donation to the parish?” Her lips tug at the side. “Yes, very large.”
Is she bribing the priest? Good God. Isn’t there something terribly wrong about that? Doesn’t that grant you a fresh ticket to hell—if you believe in that?
“That’s great. Thank you.” She hangs up and hands her phone back to her assistant. “Problem diverted. Father Joseph will take care of it.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Best not ask questions, Ophelia. You’ve already done enough with your lack of faith.”
Isn’t she precious?
“Don’t Brian and Lia have to take pre-cana classes?” Breaker asks. “And doesn’t that require to be done six months before the wedding?”
“Like I said, best we do not probe with questions. What needs to be done will be done, so let’s drop it.” That sounds very . . . god-like. She gestures to the altar. “Now, if you would please walk down the aisle so I can see how the veil looks in this space. We have asked for the walls to be re-painted before the wedding a bright white as well as the carpet to be replaced since it’s quite dingy, but this is the example of opulence we expect when it comes to wedding pictures. Of course, your dress will have a minimum of a twelve-foot train so it can descend the stairs along with the veil.”
On unsteady feet, I start walking down the aisle. “Twelve feet?” I ask. “That seems like a lot of fabric.”
“Lovely observation, dear.” She watches me as I slowly, and I mean slowly, take one step at a time. She gestures toward my glasses. “Did Brian talk to you about laser eye surgery? We can’t have you wearing glasses on the wedding day.”
I pause as my hand rises to my purple glasses. “Why not?”
“Glasses glare in pictures. Do you really think I want pictures of my son marrying a woman who looks like she has one eye because of the glare? No. Plus, he doesn’t care for your glasses anyway. He called them childish. I believe he was going to talk to you about Lasik surgery. I have a doctor who can get you in this week.” She snaps her finger again. “Book an appointment for Ophelia to go visit with Dr. Rosenblad.”
“I don’t want Lasik surgery. It freaks me out,” I say.
“Ophelia”—The Beave pins me with a glare—“there is a time and a place to act like a child or act like an adult. Please remember your age.” She brushes past us and heads down the aisle while calling out to her assistant to take notes on flower arrangement placement.
I just stand there, stunned.
Brian said my glasses were childish?
I thought he always liked them. I didn’t think there was anything that he didn’t like about me. But knowing that he doesn’t like them, that . . . wow, that hurts.
Insecurity quickly chokes me as my throat grows tight with embarrassment.
“Hey,” Breaker whispers as he slips his arm around me. When I don’t look at him right away, he tugs on me and forces me to meet his eyes. “Your glasses are fucking awesome,” he says quietly, his mouth close to my ear. “Besides your heart, your honesty, and your sauciness, your glasses are one of my favorite things about you.”
“Breaker.” I shake my head, but then he grips my chin, holding me still.
“Not only are they a direct depiction of your personality, but they make the beautiful, light green flecks in your eyes stand out even more. It’s already sometimes impossible to look away from them, but when they’re highlighted so exquisitely, you can’t help but be captivated.”
I glance away, but he forces me to look at him again. “I’m so embarrassed,” I say.
“The only people in this scenario who should be embarrassed are The Beave for saying such a demeaning thing to you and Brian for even thinking that your glasses are unflattering.” His thumb caresses my cheek, and he quietly adds, “You’re gorgeous, Lia. The glasses accentuate just how gorgeous you are.”
“Th-Thank you,” I say as his words penetrate the sorrow swirling around me.
I glance up at him, expecting a reassuring smile, but instead, I’m greeted by a deep gaze of seriousness. And for a moment, we stand there, staring at each other, his sweet compliment resting between us.
He’s told me I’m beautiful before.
He’s even told me I look hot.
But it’s always felt like what a best friend would say.
But this moment, it feels entirely different.
I want to dive deeper into his statement.
I want to see if there is more emotion behind it or if I’m the one who is only feeling this way, but just as I open my mouth, his phone rings in his pocket, freeing us both from the trance we were in.
“Uh, I’m going to grab this,” he says awkwardly. “Excuse me.” He blinks a few times, almost as if he’s trying to get his head on straight, and then pulls his phone out and answers it. “Uh, hey, Birdy.” Birdy? She’s calling him? “No, it’s okay. What’s going on?” He glances at me and then says, “No, I don’t think I have any plans tonight.”
Um, I thought we were going over the guest list, but then again, I don’t think we planned a time for that.
“Yeah, sure, sounds fun. I’ll meet you there. Text me the info. Yup, see you then. Bye.” He hangs up the phone and sticks it in his pocket. “Sorry about that.”
“Seeing Birdy tonight?” I ask as I awkwardly adjust the large veil at my side.
“Seems like it,” he says and then turns to me with a smile. “Shall we blow The Beave over with your ceremony suggestion?”
“Sure,” I say, feeling weird that he changed the subject so quickly.
“And what would that suggestion be?” He holds up his finger in a jovial way. “Hold on, let me guess.” He taps his chin and says, “Uh, it has to be somewhere unique because that’s who you are, but also something quaint and old school.” He snaps his finger. “The old courthouse.”
“I would love that, but you know it can’t even fit one hundred people.”
“Good thing we’re paring down the guest list then.” He wiggles his brows.
“There’s no way she would go for that, and if I’m going to suggest something, I might as well suggest something that would make her think that she came up with it.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” he says as he folds his arms.
I tug on the veil, attempting to pull it off, but The Beave shouts, “You’re not done with that, Ophelia. I’m still processing how it will look.”
I roll my eyes at Breaker and then shove the clip back on my head. “Well, as much as I hate the club for obvious reasons, they have a beautiful garden out back that would be perfect for the ceremony. People could watch from the balcony of the club, from the lawn, or from chairs in front of the altar.”
He nods. “It’s not exactly you, but just you enough. Want me to suggest it?”
“I hate to say it would be better coming from you, but I think that’s the truth.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” He puts his arm around me and guides me down the aisle toward The Beave. The whole time, my mind is racing about my glasses, about Breaker’s warm voice, telling me how much he loves them, about his date with Birdy, and this damn veil. It all makes me so nauseated. “Mrs. Beaver,” he calls out.
“Yes?” She turns her spindly-like body on us.
“You know, I was thinking, the reception will be at the club, right?” Breaker says so casually that if I didn’t know him, it might be disturbing to see how quickly he can turn on the charm.
“That’s correct,” she says, folding her hands together.
“Beautiful choice, by the way. I went there for a wedding a year or so ago, and it was breathtaking.” God, I hate when he gets like this, all proper. It’s not the man I know. But it’s his business persona, and it’s why he’s gotten where he has because he can charm like no other, just like JP. Huxley, on the other hand . . . well, he’s the hammer. Huxley has a tough time being charming. To him, things are black and white. There is no gray . . . well, besides Lottie.
“It is picturesque.” The Beave studies Breaker. I can sense her wanting to know where he’s going with this.
“And because it’s so picturesque, it makes me think, although this church is beautiful, it pales in comparison to what the club has to offer. I was just there the other day, having a meeting with Clinton Mars. Do you know him?”
Ha!
Of course The Beave knows Clinton Mars. Everyone does. He’s one of the wealthiest men in America. He created a little piece of hardware that goes in every phone, and he’s made so much money off it, he basically sneezes hundred-dollar bills now.
Leave it to Breaker to name-drop the right name to make The Beave weak in the knees. This is why he’s my best friend, my man of honor.
“Yes, of course. Clinton is a wonderfully sharp and intelligent man. I was lucky to meet him a few months ago,” The Beave says, her eyes sparkling.
“Well, we took a stroll through the gardens during our meeting, and he raved about how it was so beautiful and what a perfect setting it would be for a wedding. He was actually thinking about having his daughter get married there.”
“Really?” she says, her mind racing now. You know the phrase “Keeping up with the Joneses”? Yeah, The Beave lives her life by that.
“Yup, and I thought . . . he was right. The gardens are breathtaking, beautifully landscaped with the ocean in the background, just spectacular.”
The Beave slowly nods her head. “You know, the flowers will be in full bloom in five weeks.” She snaps her finger, and her assistant appears by her side. “Get the club on the phone at once. I need to make arrangements.” She then turns to us. “Now the gardens would be magnificent, but I worry about your ability to walk in heels in the grass.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it at all,” I say, not wanting her to find an excuse not to use the gardens. “I’m quite astute with heels.”
“Very astute,” Breaker says.
“The most astute,” I add, which, of course, causes The Beave to give me a look of derision. “Uh . . . just watch. I’ll strut up and down this carpet.” I flop the length of the veil behind me, and with the utmost concentration, I walk down the aisle, pretending to hold a bouquet. My sweaty feet slip against the surface of my heels, but I keep them in place as I make it down to the altar.
Thank Jesus, I made it.
“Walk back,” The Beave says, her voice unconvincing that she believes I can execute walking in heels.
God, she’s such a freaking pill.
Shoulders set back, hands poised in front of me, I put one foot in front of the other and head back down the aisle.
Eat your heart out, Beave.
You can make me feel like shit about my glasses.
You can take away my right to choose my own wedding.
But I refuse to allow you to make me feel like I can’t walk in freaking heels.
“See,” I say as I hold my hands out, approaching her. “Not a problem at . . .” On my last step, my foot slips out of my shoe, throwing me off my balance. “Oh shit,” I cry out just as I reach for the closest thing near me . . .
A candleholder.
I clutch it tightly.
“Whoa, buddy,” I say on a shaky breath. “That was a close one.” I chuckle just as I glance up at the candle as it shakily rocks in place.
“Uh, Lia,” Breaker says as he steps forward.
But it’s too late.
It all happens in slow motion as the candle tips over and falls to the ground. My eyes travel with it, watching as it falls right on top of the gathered fabric of the veil.
My breath catches in my chest.
My eyes widen.
And in seconds, the veil bursts into a fury of flames.
“Oh my God!” I shout. “Oh my God, I’m on fire. I’m on FIRE!” I toss the candlestick to the side, and with one heel on and one heel off, I fly down the aisle, running away from the flames . . . as they chase after me.
“The veil!” The Beave screeches.
“You’re on fire,” Breaker cries.
“Put it out, put it out, put it out,” I scream.
“Jesus Christ,” Breaker shouts. “Roll, Lia, roll!”
“Roll where?” I shout back as I circle the altar, the flaming veil moving closer and closer to my head. “Dear Jesus, don’t set my hair on fire. Please, for the love of your father, don’t set it on fire.”
“An heirloom,” The Beave says right before she collapses into a pew.
“Roll, for fuck’s sake!”
I drop to the ground and roll, tucking my knees in so I’m not caught up in the pews. “Is it out?” I yell. “Am I still burning?” I glance over my shoulder and see the flames chasing after me. “Ahhhhh! Breaker, it’s coming to get me. Save my soul . . . save it!” I continue to roll as I see smoke lift into the air. “What’s that smell? Is that my hair? Breaker, help—”
Splash.
Water douses me, soaking me to my bone while putting the fire out at the same time.
I glance up to see Breaker holding a very large metal bowl, his chest heaving, horror in his eyes.
“Is it . . . is it out?”
He swallows hard and nods. “Yeah, it’s out.”
I lay flat on the ground, wet and horrified, as I let out a deep breath. “Where did you get the water?”
He glances down at the empty bowl and winces. “Uh . . . I believe I just blessed you hard with holy water.”
I shake my head. “Baptism by fire just took on a whole new meaning,” I say as I hear The Beave mumbling some sort of prayer in the background. I swallow hard. “Consider me converted.”
“SHE HATES ME,” I say as Breaker opens the door to the stationery store.
After I gently gave The Beave back her ruined heirloom veil, I told her I was going to change clothes before our next meeting to pick invitations. Breaker whisked me away, and instead of discussing what just happened, we sat in silence as we drove along the palm tree-lined streets of Los Angeles.
Breaker scratches his cheek as he says, “I think hate is a strong word.”
“Breaker, I set her precious heirloom veil on fire.”
“Not on purpose. I think that’s something we need to stress. You did not set the veil on fire on purpose.”
“I’m sure she sees it that way.” I glance toward the back of the shop, where I see The Beave with her assistant at a table, looking over what seems to be different textures of paper. “How do I even approach her? Do I apologize again? Do I just leave the decisions up to her?”
Breaker pulls me to the side and whispers, “It was an accident. Was it embarrassing? Yes, but it was an accident. She will respect you more if you head to this next meeting with your head held high and not constantly apologizing. You said what you needed to say, so move on. Okay?”
I nod. “You’re right. Just . . . move on.”
“That’s the spirit.” He straightens and puts his hand on my back, guiding me to the table where The Beave is sitting.
As we approach, she glances up and says, “Ophelia, I wasn’t sure you would show up, given your appearance when we left the church, but it seems like you can clean up appropriately.”
I tack on a smile as I say, “Wasn’t too difficult.” I can sense she’s looking for me to crumple, and I want to. I desperately want to fall to her feet and apologize over and over again, but Breaker is right. She will respect me if I don’t. “So what are we looking at?”
“Paper density and weight,” The Beave says. “Really, it’s not necessary that you’re here.”
“It is,” I say as I take a seat next to her, and Breaker takes a seat next to me. “These are my wedding invites, after all. Plus, paper is fun.” I pick up a stack and flip my finger through the thick pieces of paper. “Do you know what I love about paper?”
“I’m sure you have some well-thought-out opinion that I can’t wait to hear,” The Beave says with a heavy dose of condemnation.
I can see we’re still angry about the veil, and I’m sure she’s looking to cut me down, but like Breaker said, don’t buckle. Hold strong.
“I do, actually,” I say. “Paper is a journey—”
“Uh, Lia, I need to speak to you for a second,” Breaker says, standing abruptly.
I glance up at him, confused. “What?”
“I need to talk to you.” His eyes grow wide. “Now.”
Sensing the urgency, I excuse myself from the table and head to a corner where Breaker turns his back from The Beave and traps me between the walls and a collection of watercolor pens for sale.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Just saving you before you make yourself look like a fool.”
“What do you mean?”
“Paper is a journey?” he asks. “Where exactly were you going with that?”
“Well, if you let me finish, you would have seen that I was going pretty far with it. I had an entire diatribe about how it opens humans to new worlds.”
“Yeah, let’s keep the philosophical talk to a minimum. The Beave is not going to want to hear it. She’s on edge. Just keep the talking to a minimum. Okay?”
I glance over Breaker’s shoulder and catch a glimpse of the deep, menacing scowl she’s sporting as she flips through templates. Huh, maybe he’s right.
“Okay, yeah. Maybe she doesn’t want to know how paper is a journey.”
“I can bet my balls on the fact that she doesn’t want to hear it.” He pats my shoulder. “Deep breaths. Don’t ramble for no reason. It shows weakness. Pick out an invite with confidence.”
“I can do that.” I nod. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
We head back to the table, and like the gentleman he is, Breaker holds out my chair for me, and I take a seat. The Beave glances up and asks, “Everything okay?”
“Yes, quite good. Thank you.” I let out a deep breath, and as Breaker takes a seat, I say, “Funny how paper is made, right? I watched this documentary—”
Breaker pops right back up from his seat and says, “Lia, another word.”
Reluctantly, I follow him back to the corner, where I whisper, “What did I do now?”
“How about we try this,” he says, with one hand on my shoulder. “You don’t talk at all.”
“So just sit there in silence with her?”
“Yes.”
“You know I can’t do that. I don’t like silence. I can hear people breathing. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“I know, but your chatting won’t do anything to this situation besides make it worse. So just focus on picking an invite and try not to say much.”
“That seems so cold.”
“This is a cold situation,” Breaker says. “After you burned her heirloom veil in effigy, this is no longer a lovey-dovey time. This is war, and if you don’t want to be pushed around, you’re going to have to hold your head high, shut the fuck up, and pick out what you want.” I go to respond, and he adds, “You know how you are so perplexed by the way Huxley can not say a word but get everything he wants? It’s because he’s silent, and people buckle under the silence. Don’t buckle. Make her buckle.”
“You’re right. Be like Huxley, make her buckle.”
“Precisely. Okay, ready to go back there?” I nod. “And no talk about paper journeys and the mechanics of how it’s made.”
“My lips are sealed,” I say.
“Good.”
We head back to the table, and once again, Breaker holds out my chair for me. “Excuse me, I have to use the restroom. I’ll be right back,” he says right before heading to the back toward the restroom sign.
Okay.
Focus, Lia.
You are quiet. You are strong. You are not buckling.
Without saying a word, I pick up a folder and start flipping through it. Every so often, I can feel Beave’s eyes on me, but I continue to look through template after template. All of them are far too fancy to even consider. I don’t want something super stuffy. It can be pretty, but gold filigree seems a bit much.
Lifting my head, I ask the owner, “Do you happen to have anything that isn’t as fancy?”
“Excuse me?” The Beave asks. “What do you mean not so fancy?”
Do I answer?
I was told to be quiet.
Would Huxley answer?
Or would he just stare?
I think he would just stare.
So that’s what I do. I stare at her.
“Ophelia, I asked you a question.”
I know, but I’m supposed to just stare, so . . . that’s what I do, as sweat creeps up my neck, because this staring thing is hard.
The Beave must pick up on what I’m doing because she folds her hands in front of her and stares back.
Oh God!
It’s a stare off.
Breaker did not prepare me for this.
Why did he choose this moment to go to the bathroom? He had a chance when we went back to the apartment to change. This is poor peeing management on his end, leaving me here like this, all alone with a teaspoon of confidence in what I’m doing.
And boy, is she good.
Really fucking good.
Those beady eyes stare back at me. She recognizes it’s a showdown, and if I know this woman like I think I do, she won’t back down. Huxley might be the king of not talking, but man, oh man, it looks like The Beave can run a master class on it.
Just look at the way her eyes remain steady.
Not a twitch.
Not a fidget.
Meanwhile, over here, I’m a party of one, heading straight into the fiery pits of hell as I attempt to hold steady. But I’m wilting.
I can feel it.
There’s too much silence.
It’s killing me.
I’m going to break.
I’m going to snap.
I’m going to . . .
“Paper was invented by the Chinese back in 100 BC,” I blurt, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. “And now, one single pine tree can create over eighty thousand sheets of paper. Can you believe that? Wow, what a dedication to the journey of paper, which is of course, quite the tale in and of itself, but I won’t bore you with that other than to say that paper really can transport us from world to world, and sure, some people might say it’s the author who is transporting us, the words are just on the paper, but you can’t print words without paper. Although I guess you can read electronically, ehh . . . either way, I think paper is a journey, and don’t you think we should appreciate that journey? I mean, look at this piece of paper,” I say as I pick up a thick cardstock. “Where do you think it came from? What part of the world did this traverse? For all we know, this used to be part of a tree that once housed a sloth or maybe a gibbon. And to know that it was a house at one point and is not going to offer its—for lack of a better term—body to us so we can invite people to the start of a new journey in life . . . do you see the full circle here? Just marvelous.” I pick up a pile of paper and run my fingers through it. “All marvel—ouch.” I chuckle and then shake out my hand. “The paper didn’t like me stroking it like that. Bit me right on the finger.” I shake my hand again, but this time, a line of red dots splatters across the paper and right across The Beave’s face.
Oh.
My.
God.
I glance down at my finger and immediately feel faint as I see blood pooling.
“Dear God, I’ve done it now,” I say as I sway, holding my finger up.
“What the hell?” Breaker yells as The Beave just sits there in a shocked, catatonic state. “Jesus, Lia. Can we get some tissues?” He holds my finger up and then wraps his arm around my shoulder to keep me from falling. “What happened?” he asks.
I glance up at him and whisper, “I buckled.”
“HOW ARE YOU FEELING?” Breaker asks as he sits across from me in his car.
“How do you think I’m feeling?” I ask as I set down my yogurt drink.
“Besides embarrassed, humiliated, and regretful, I want to know how you’re doing physically.”
“Fine.” I stare up at Brian’s office building. “Do you think she already called him and told him?”
“Can’t be sure,” Breaker says. “But from the way she wiped your blood off her face with vehement swipes, I’m going to say yes.”
“Then it’s official. I can’t show my face near her ever again.”
“You’re going to have to, and don’t worry, I will be there with you.”
I shake my head. “I should just go back to my apartment, drown in my sorrows.”
“Is that what you want to do?” Breaker asks.
I press my lips together and stare down at my linked hands. “No. I want to talk to Brian.”
“Then I think you need to go talk to him.” Breaker takes my hand in his. “I can go up there with you.”
“No, that would be a bad idea.” I undo my seat belt and open the door. “I can and should do this on my own.” I glance up at Breaker. “Thank you for everything today, despite you leaving to pee at the worst time ever.”
“I’ve already noted that I’m to pee before I ever leave you alone with The Beave again.”
“Good.” I hop out of his car and say, “I’ll see you later.”
“Good luck.”
I wave goodbye and head into Brian’s office building. After the blood was cleaned and Breaker offered to pay for all damages to the bloodied paper, The Beave roughly showed me her three choices, and instead of putting up a fight, I went with her favorite. It’s an invitation anyway, not like my actual wedding dress. She offered me a curt goodbye and took off.
Breaker took me to grab something to eat to help with my anemia, then I asked him to drive me here because not only do I want to clear the air about what happened at the church . . . and the paper shop, but I also need to talk to him about how he spoke so negatively about my glasses. Because despite the distractions from the day, that has stuck in my mind.
“Hello, Miss Fairweather-Fern, how are you?” Brian’s assistant, Beverly, says as I approach.
“I’m good, how are you, Beverly?”
“Just lovely. Congratulations on the engagement. Brian has been talking nonstop about it.”
I smile kindly. “Thank you. We’re very excited.” The lie slips off my tongue with ease. Not so much excited as I’m nervous. Hopefully, excitement comes soon. “Uh, is Brian available? I know I came unannounced, but I hoped I could talk for a moment.”
“He always wants to see you,” Beverly says. “I believe he’s just working right now, not on the phone.”
“Okay, thank you.”
I wave to Beverly and make my way toward his office. She’s always been so kind to me. In her fifties, she is as efficient as they come, detailed, and never lets anything slip, ever. I remember when Brian first hired her, his mother was furious. Said he needed someone younger, not that she should have a say in it. Still, Brian’s intuition has paid off because Beverly has been such a tremendous help to him in getting all his work done throughout the day.
Plus, she’s nice to me, so bonus.
I knock on his door, then push open the frosty glass, poking my head in.
He looks up from his desk, and when he spots me, his face completely lights up with a smile.
“Lia,” he says as he stands. “What a great surprise.” He walks over to me, takes my hand, and pulls me into his office while shutting the door behind me. Before I know what’s happening, he has his hands on my cheeks and tilts my head as his lips land on mine. I place my hands on his chest for balance while he kisses me deeply like we haven’t seen each other in days. Not sure if his mother has talked to him yet. Not sure I would receive the same welcome. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says between kisses.
I move my mouth along with his, sink into his hold, and let all the stress and concerns fall to the side as I allow myself to be right here, at this moment.
After a few more seconds, he groans and pulls away, his eyes looking heady and his breath labored. “Okay, things are going to get out of hand if I keep kissing you.” He smiles and strokes his thumb over my cheek. “Why am I so lucky to see you this afternoon?”
God, he’s being so sweet, I almost feel bad about bringing this up, but if I don’t, it’s going to thoroughly bother me, which will turn into resenting him, and I don’t want to resent him.
“Have you spoken to your mom yet?”
“No, I’ve been busy. She’s called twice, though. Why?”
“Uh, I went to look at the church with your mom this morning.”
He pulls me toward his desk, and he takes a seat on the edge while pulling me between his legs. “How was it? Beautiful, right?”
“Very,” I answer. “But I think we might change it to the gardens at the club.”
“Oh wow, that would be . . . that would be perfect.” He smiles so lovingly that I question myself and what his mother said earlier.
“I think so.” I want to tell him thanks to Breaker but decide that’s probably a sore subject. The last thing I want to do is make him mad or defensive, especially when I’m about to have this conversation with him. “But something happened when I was there at the church.”
“Okay . . . what happened?” he asks skeptically.
“First of all, it was an accident.”
“Now you have me worried. What happened?”
“Well, your mom made me try on her wedding veil because she wanted to see me walk down the aisle wearing it. I was wearing those shoes you got me that are a touch too big, and long story short, I slipped out of them when walking, tumbled into a lit candle, and it rolled off the holder and right onto the veil. It caught on fire, and the only reason I still have hair at this point is because Breaker doused me in holy water.”
Brian doesn’t initially react.
He just stands there, a confused look on his face. After a few moments, he says, “Are you being serious?”
“Yes, I wouldn’t lie about this. Trust me.”
“So you set my mom’s veil on fire?”
“Not on purpose,” I say quickly. “It was all an accident. And that, uh, that wasn’t the only thing that happened.”
“What do you mean that’s not the only thing that happened?”
“Well, you see, after the church, I went and changed because the holy water soaked me, but we had another appointment to pick out invitations, and well, I got a paper cut while flipping through the paper, didn’t realize it, and ended up flicking my blood on your mom’s face and all over the paper.”
“What?” he asks, his eyes wider than ever now. “You flicked your blood at my mom?”
I tug on the lapels of his jacket. “Once again, not on purpose. All a mistake, but I thought I should tell you because I’m sure she called you to beg you to end things with me.”
Brian’s expression lightens as he pulls me into a hug. “Lia, she wouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t know. She was pretty upset.”
“She was probably upset, but she does like you. I’m sure an apology is all that’s needed.”
Yeah, that’s what I thought too.
“Either way,” he continues. “I’m sure it’s fine. Are you okay, though? Almost setting your hair on fire and bleeding heavily doesn’t sound like a fun day in wedding planning.”
“Yeah, pretty traumatic, but that wasn’t the real reason I came over here.”
“It wasn’t?” he asks. “Jesus, if that’s not the reason, then I think I should mentally prepare myself.”
I slip one hand under his jacket as I say, “Uh, probably.” I’m not a confrontational person, but I know this needs to be addressed. “So when we were at the church, before the fire, your mom said something to me that didn’t really settle well.”
“Whatever it was, I’m sure she didn’t mean it,” he says, jumping to her defense right away. Needless to say, it bugs me that he never jumps to my defense, especially not in front of my future mother-in-law. “She’s stressed with all the planning. I’m positive she’ll say a lot in the next coming weeks that won’t settle well. Don’t take offense to it.”
Lovely.
Can’t wait for that.
“No, this was something you said . . . about me.”
His brow furrows, and he tilts his head to the side. “What did she say?”
I drop my hands from his and say, “Well, she said that you don’t like my glasses and that they’re childish, that I would be better without them.”
I wait for his backtracking.
For his denial.
For any sort of indication he didn’t say that.
But he doesn’t.
“Did you . . . did you say that to her?” I ask.
He glances away and then nods. “I did. She was talking about the wedding pictures and how your glasses might mess them up, and I said that maybe you’d consider contacts since the purple glasses were kind of childish.”
“Oh,” I reply, feeling really stupid. It’s not every day your fiancé tells you you’re childish. It’s not something you want to hear either.
“Lia, I don’t want you to take offense to that.”
My head snaps up. “How could I not take offense to that, Brian? I’ve had these glasses forever. They’re the ones my mom helped me pick out. They’re special to me. They mean something.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that,” he says. “I just thought it was one of your . . . quirks. You know, like how you ironically wear shirts with characters from Harry Potter.”
“I don’t wear those ironically. I wear them because I like them.”
“Well, either way, I didn’t realize there was any meaning behind the glasses. I’m sorry, Lia.”
I don’t know what to say.
Thank you for apologizing seems so sterile and robotic.
It’s okay is not appropriate because it’s not okay.
So instead of saying something, I just stay silent.
“Lia.” He tugs on my hand. “I said I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I say, staring at our connected hands. “Just embarrassed, I guess.”
“There’s no need to be embarrassed. I should never have said anything. That was really shitty.”
“Do you think they make me look ugly?”
“No, Lia,” he says quickly. “Not at all.”
“Do you think I would be more attractive to you without them? Because that’s how it feels, how the comment feels, like . . . like I’m not pretty enough when I wear them.”
“Lia, that’s not what I meant. I think glasses look great on you. They’re just, they’re purple is all, and I would have thought that maybe someone your age would want something more sophisticated.”
My shoulders droop as I mutter, “So I’m not sophisticated enough?”
“No,” he groans while pulling on his neck. “Fuck, I’m not saying this right. Just . . . just forget I said anything at all.”
Forget what he said? He insulted me, and that’s not easy to forget.
I look up at him, insecurity racing through me, and ask, “Do you think I’m good enough for you?”
“What?” His eyes widen. “Of course, Lia. Why would you think that?”
Because I’ve thought that for a while.
Because I think that maybe we aren’t on the same trajectory.
Because the things that are important to you like money and status, are not important to me.
“Because there are moments where you try to change me. Like when we go to meals with your mother, you buy me clothes to wear.”
“That’s because she can be very particular, and I don’t want her giving you a hard time.”
“Or the glasses, or when we’re in public, it’s like you have this standard I have to meet for me to be attached to your arm.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just this past weekend, I said let’s go get ice cream, and I was going to go out in my pajamas, but you told me to change.”
“Lia, I could see your nipples through your white tank top. Do you really think I want people seeing that?” He grips my hips. “That’s just for me.”
I look off toward his office windows. “I don’t know, it just feels like I’m not good enough for you.”
“Lia, stop.” He tips my chin toward him. “Of course you’re good enough. Why else would I propose to you? Now I’m sorry about the glasses. I never should have said that, but please don’t let that unravel you.”
“I’m not unraveling, Brian. I’m just trying to make sure my boyfriend—”
“Fiancé,” he says in a clipped tone.
“Yes, my fiancé. I’m just trying to make sure that he is marrying me for the right reasons.”
“What are you talking about? Where is this coming from? We had a great weekend, and now, all of a sudden, you’re doubting me? Does this”—he smooths his hand over his mouth—“does this have to do with anything Breaker said to you today?”
“Are you serious right now?” I ask, taking a step back from him. “Breaker was nothing but supportive, especially when your mother basically told me I was a bridge troll with glasses and that my opinion about my wedding didn’t matter. Do not blame any of this on Breaker.”
“Shit, you’re right.” He exhales and places both hands on the edge of his desk. “I’m sorry. I’m just wound up and apparently unable to stop myself from saying stupid things.”
That much is obvious.
“Okay, well, I think . . . I think I just need to take a breath.”
“No,” he says, closing the space between us. “Don’t leave.”
“I need some fresh air, Brian.”
“Then let’s go on a walk. Let’s go to the park across the street. Please, Lia. I feel like a dick, and I don’t want you leaving mad.”
I look at his pleading eyes and realize that maybe . . . maybe he is just as stressed as I am. Because if he was truly being mean about the glasses, then he wouldn’t have any remorse, and there is clear remorse written all over his face.
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
He holds his hand out to me, and I take it. Together, we walk out of his office, asking Beverly to take messages until he gets back. Once outside his building, we head to the quaint park across the street.
It’s just a small three-acre lot, a place for people to sit and take a breather. A tiny circular walking path with towering cottonwoods offers a brilliant cover from the bristling sun.
Brian squeezes my hand as he says, “I’m sorry you had a rough day today, and I’m sorry this wedding stuff is so stressful. I know it’s not easy on you.”
“It’s not,” I say. “None of it has been easy. And if I were honest, I wasn’t expecting a proposal.”
“You weren’t?” he asks, completely shocked.
“Not even a little. I mean, come on, Brian, we never even talked about the possibility of getting married, so I was caught off guard when you got down on one knee.”
“But . . . we love each other. I mean, I love you.”
“And I love you, Brian. That’s not the issue. I just . . . I don’t know. I thought we’d move in together, take that for a spin first before there was a ring involved.”
“We sort of live together, at least half of the time. You have a key to my place, a dresser. I just assumed that wasn’t something we had to tackle.” He pauses. “Am I moving too fast for you?”
Yes.
This is all too fast.
Lightning speed.
And I don’t know how I feel. Something is off. Something doesn’t feel right, and I can’t pinpoint it. All I can feel is this sickening churning in my stomach that won’t stop. The church today, the way his mother treats me like a second-class citizen, the ability to insult me without a worry or care, and how none of this was even on my radar—it’s too much.
But I can’t say that to Brian. He’s too sensitive. He’ll take my worries and concerns wrong. He’ll think something is wrong with him when, really, it’s just time moving too fast.
I smile up at him and say, “No, just . . . just stunned is all and still trying to wrap my head around all of it.”
He nods. “I’m sure my mother’s plans aren’t helping.”
“Yeah, she’s going a touch fast.” I hold up my fingers, causing him to laugh.
“She’s been wanting me to propose to you for a bit.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I would have guessed from our rather cold relationship that she wouldn’t want you to propose to me.”
“Mother might be cold and uninviting at times, maybe a touch harsh, but she also can see when I’m happy.” Brian turns toward me. “And you make me happy, Lia. Very happy.”
I smile at him. “You make me happy, too, Brian.”
He pulls me in close, and as we continue to walk down the paved path, his embrace feels different. And maybe it’s because Breaker held me a lot today, but this feels forced, almost like he’s checking off a box.
Hold fiancée, check.
There doesn’t seem to be any passion in the embrace.
Any need to be close.
And I hate to admit it, but the way he has his hand pressing into my arm, bringing me up to his shoulder, it almost feels suffocating.
“She’s been wanting me to propose to you for a bit.” Did Brian propose because his mother suggested it?
This hold, this moment, it doesn’t feel right.
This, him, us . . . for the first time since I’ve met him, it doesn’t feel right.
