“Get in the car, Jordana.”
I close my eyes and exhale. I hate when he calls me by my full name but stopped correcting him when it was clear after the first few weeks of dating that I was wasting my breath. “I’m not going to call you a boy’s name.”
“I’m in, I’m in—Wait, I forgot my water bottle!”
“You should have thought of that earlier. You’re always making us fucking late.”
“It’s two o’clock. You said to be ready at three.”
He climbs into the driver seat, and we pull out of the underground garage of the condo. Bryan slams his hand on the steering wheel. “Why would I say three o’clock? That doesn’t even make sense . . . All I ask is for you to be on time.”
I swear, he told me three o’clock, I know he did.
I hadn’t finished packing before he was tossing my bag in the trunk at two o’clock. I’m parched, and my lips are dry, but it’s not worth the fight. Not when we’re on the way to our “party for the wedding party,” where we’re expected to show up head over heels for each other.
I can’t believe we’re going to another one of these events. It’s overkill. We’ve already had two engagement soirees; how many does one couple need? With each party, my future grows darker, like this marriage is looming over me like a raincloud.
Most women light up when they speak about their weddings and can’t wait to marry the love of their life, then there are women like me. Not thrilled but willing. It’s not uncommon for industry tycoons and finance moguls to orchestrate marriages for their offspring. Technically, Bryan and I met in college, but our parents know each other and served on the same board of directors back in the day.
Much of our lives are decided before we’re even born. From the subject we major in to who we walk down the aisle to—in my case, Bryan Davenport. It’s a “smart move.” He’s fine. Neutral. Predictable. Sometimes he has a temper, and our sex life isn’t over-the-moon spectacular, but that’s nothing unusual. Our relationship is normal. Our parents set us up, and this is the natural progression of the plan. While I don’t always agree or like their choices, I love my family and know they have my best interest at heart. Most people marry for love—and most divorces happen within five years. Love is overrated. Life is meant to be filled with hobbies, like traveling, Netflix, and reading. When it comes to love, the book is always better.
“How was your day at work?” he asks, checking his emails while driving.
“It was good. Jennifer and I went out to lunch today.”
“Where did you go?”
“Waterhaus.” It’s one of the nicer restaurants in the area. I wanted to take my coworker out to celebrate her two-year anniversary with the company we work for, H&H Holdings. Bryan Davenport Sr., a.k.a. my future father-in-law, is the CEO.
“Hm,” he tuts. Now what? “My parents aren’t paying for that lunch.” I resist rolling my eyes, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Every time he refers to H&H as his parents, I internally cringe. God forbid a multimillion-dollar-parent company foot the bill on a couple salmon Caesar salads with dressing on the side.
My response is already on my tongue, but I’m careful not to cut him off. “I didn’t charge it to the company card, I paid for it out of pocket.”
“Well, do you think that’s the best use of our money?”
Is he fucking serious? Combined, we have more money than we could ever possibly spend in a lifetime. He’s all about living the lavish lifestyle until I’m the one swiping the credit card. I’ve regretted allowing him access to my accounts since the day he made me do it. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal, however, I didn’t realize he’d be scrutinizing every measly purchase.
“Who else went to lunch?”
“Just Jennifer and me.”
He mumbles, “Yeah, right . . .”
He’s in a bad mood. Ugh, it’s going to be a long weekend at the cabin—if you can call a sprawling hunting lodge on eighty acres a “cabin.”
My phone dings, I flip it over to see a text from Carl, a colleague on my team. Tapping the screen, I respond with our project update and let him know I won’t have great cell reception for the rest of the weekend and to contact Jennifer if he has other questions.
“Who are you texting?”
“Carl from work,” I mutter as my fingers tap out a message regarding the contract status for the Redding Group, a new H&H acquisition.
“Why’s he texting you?”
“He wanted to know where we left off with the Redding financials. Why? Are you worried about Carl?” It’s a slight jab, but Carlton is a colleague twenty years my senior who’s happily married, not that it matters.
“Hell no, I’m not worried about him! Why would you even say that? He could never give you what I can, and he knows it too.” He smirks. Gross. “What did you tell him?”
I hold back a sarcastic response about sending nudes.
“I forwarded him the last update I had and told him we were heading up north for the weekend.”
“Great!” He scoffs, hitting the steering wheel again and glares at me, taking his eyes off the road. “So now he knows not to text you all weekend since your fiancé will be around. Do you think you’re being sneaky? Why would you say it like that?”
“What are you even talking about?!” Even for him, this is paranoid. Does he want me to have an affair with Carl just so he can be right?
“This, Jordana. This! You don’t know how to talk to people! You don’t think!” He stabs his finger into his temple. “You’re so lucky I put up with you. I don’t know any other man who would tolerate your behavior. Why do I put myself through this? God, if people only knew—”
“There’s nothing going on between us, I’m sorry!”
“How would I know if you’re always telling men when it’s safe to text and when it isn’t? Maybe someday you’ll learn how to show me the same amount of respect I show you. I mean, are you the stupid one or am I?”
I stare straight ahead at the road.
“Who’s stupid, Jordana. You or me?”
Does he really expect me to answer?
This time he raises his voice louder. “Am I stupid for putting up with you?”
“No,” I whisper, hunching in my seat.
“So, you admit you’re the idiot. Glad you got that figured out. Start using your brain.” He shakes his head and sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help you. If we’re going to get married, we need to learn how to communicate.”
Don’t react, it only makes these conversations last longer. My head is spinning. I want to stop fighting and move past this.
For the rest of the car ride, we remain silent. The less we say, the better, and the less he’ll have to criticize. But I can’t help but wonder if he’s right. Was it weird to text Carl I was going away for the weekend with my fiancé? Is that some rule I don’t know about? Did I give the wrong impression? Fuck.
I lay my head back, and the endless pines that line the long two-way highway blur as we whiz by. Closing my eyes, I enjoy the warm strobe of shadows and sunlight on my eyelids. There aren’t many weeks of sunshine left.
When we arrive, he retrieves our bags from the trunk, slams it, and turns to me.
“Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
He grits his teeth. “Because I said so.”
I hand it over; he already knows the password. He swipes and scrolls through my text messages, then wrinkles his nose when he doesn’t find anything.
I don’t know what makes me say it . . . “Let me see your phone.”
Bryan scoffs and shakes his head. “No.”
“You get to look at my phone, why can’t I look at yours?”
“Because I’m not the one doing shady shit. You are.”
I roll my eyes, and he drops my phone in the gravel drive, picks up our suitcases, and carries them toward the house.
Holding my breath, I retrieve my phone from the ground and breathe a sigh of relief when the screen isn’t cracked. That should be the least of my problems, but it’s the little things.
Bursting in the front door, Bryan weaves his fingers with mine and dons a big fake smile. “We’re here!”
The massive family cabin has been transformed into an upscale party. White panels of fabric are draped between the exposed log beams above. Strands of Edison bulbs span the room. They’re trying to make it look more rustic despite this being an eight-thousand square-foot luxury lodge.
An open bar with two attendants has been set up on one end, and cocktail tables are evenly placed, each featuring a centerpiece made of greenery and fresh flowers. The large stone fireplace that reaches the ceiling at the other end of the room has had the logs replaced with about fifty tall white pillar candles in various sizes. The mantle is adorned with greenery that matches the centerpieces.
I recognize a few of the staff from the hospitality service they use for the quarterly H&H stockholder meetings. I would put money on some of his father’s business partners being here too. It’s supposed to be a wedding-party-only event, but leave it to the Davenports to find an excuse to do a little dealmaking on the side.
Our families cheer at our arrival, and I do my best to match my fiancé’s artificial joy. At the bar, a cork pops from a bottle of champagne, and they pour the bubbly. He raises our joined hands like I’m some trophy. Why shouldn’t he? After all, we’re the happy bride and groom-to-be.
“Can you believe I get to marry this girl? Look at her, isn’t she gorgeous?” he announces to the room before planting a kiss on my cheek.
I force a grin and make sure the corners of my eyes crinkle for good measure.
“Luckiest man in the world!” Some guests sigh and aww. He leans in and whispers, “This weekend is about us, let’s just enjoy ourselves.” At least he’s not angry anymore.
The speedy click-clack of high heels grows louder, and when I look in the direction, a real smile takes over my face when I see Veronica, my best friend and maid of honor, running toward us. Well, as fast as she can while teetering in sky-high heels. Thank God she’s here.
“My turn! I’m stealing her!” She wraps me up in a hug and tugs me toward the open bar, shoving a flute of champagne in my hand. “You look phenomenal in this dress. Holy shit.”
I laugh and bump her hip. “Same to you. Purple is your color.”
She twirls and does a little shimmy. “To us being irresistible.”
“Cheers.” Our crystal flutes clink.
“I’m starving,” I say, looking around. “How’s the catering? Will they be passing the hors d’oeuvres soon?”
“Yes, but none for you. Only eight weeks left until the wedding, and we can’t risk you losing your measurements. But don’t worry, I made you a salad with a delicious lemon vinaigrette.”
I love Veronica, but her lemon vinaigrette tastes like lemon-scented Pledge. It’s a secret I’ll take to the grave. She’s my closest confidant, well, my only confidant. When you come from wealth, true friends are scarce. People only want to get close so they can get something out of you, which leads to never letting anyone in.
I groan. This stupid fucking wedding diet is gonna kill me. I’m always hungry. How am I gonna last eight more weeks of starvation? Why can’t they make the dress fit me as I am now? Why do I have to drop into single-digit sizes? It’s ridiculous and archaic.
She takes a sip and smiles. “So . . . how are things going?”
I sigh. “We kinda got into another fight.”
She rolls her eyes. “Now what?”
“Same shit, different shovel. His trust issues are out of control. Telling me I’m flirting when—I swear, Roni—I’m just talking to people!”
“Are you sure? You know I have your back, but sometimes you can come off a little flirty . . .”
What? “How?!”
“Don’t get defensive! It’s a tone thing. I know you don’t mean anything by it, but maybe the men you speak to don’t. I dunno, forget it. I’m probably wrong.”
Well, shit, now that’s gonna be sitting on the backburner of my brain for the rest of my life. I’ll never be able to have a normal conversation with another person as long as I live because I will constantly second-guess my speech. Was my hello friendly or more than friendly? Goddamn it.
“I guess it’s something I’ll pay more attention to. But I really don’t think that’s happening.”
“You’re probably right. You know Bry? He loves to overreact.”
Bry? I swallow my thoughts and take a sip of my champagne instead.
She waves her hand, as if to erase the conversation. “Let’s have fun tonight. We’re celebrating, right?”
I raise my glass again and nod.
