“I didn’t realize flowers could scream,” I tease. “But sure. Let’s go with the ivory and purple. Sorry—lilac.”
I force a smile, quickly running out of energy to amuse myself by resisting her at every turn.
Maybe it’s childish.
Okay, let’s be honest—it is childish.
I’m a twenty-four-year-old college educated young woman about to be married. I’ve been to both finishing school and a debutante ball. I spent an entire year living abroad in Europe when I was seventeen. I can speak three languages fluently and am currently working on a fourth. But since no one else dares to give my mother an ounce of any kind of guff and I’m her only child, that duty lands solely on me.
“You two mind if I step out and grab an iced coffee?” I fight a yawn. The closer we get to the “big day,” the more sleep evades me. I’m lucky if I got four mediocre hours last night. “Addison, can I grab you anything? Mom?”
Annoyance flickers in my mother’s intense deep blue glare, but she says nothing. She doesn’t drink coffee anyway (it stains her snow-white smile), but I had to offer or else I’d never hear the end of it on the car ride home.
“I’m fine, but thank you, Campbell,” Addison says.
“Don’t be long, please.” Mom turns back to the florist, motioning with her hands as she describes her vision for my bouquet.
The jangle of the bells on the door as I exit sounds like freedom, and I drag in a lungful of damp late February air as I hit the snow-melted sidewalk. Maine winters are particularly never-ending, but today feels like the tiniest preview of spring.
The line at the coffee shop next door is at least seven people deep, maybe eight. I let an older woman go ahead of me before holding the door for a tired-looking mom pushing identical twin girls in a double stroller. She offers to let me go ahead of her once we’re inside, but I insist on taking my place at the very end of the line. Even if I weren’t stalling, I’d still let her go first.
Motherhood (unless you have a staff of ten on your payroll) looks hard as hell—twins or not. I imagine she needs all the caffeine in existence and then some.
Ten minutes later, I’m walking out, iced caramel latte in hand, when my phone chimes. I don’t need to look down to know it’s probably my mother wondering what’s taking so long.
But I check anyway.
Only it isn’t a series of question marks like I expected.
SLADE: Flight got cancelled. Coming in tomorrow at six.
I refuse to believe His Royal American Highness is flying commercial when he has a private jet at his disposal 24/7. Private flights get delayed all the time, but cancelled? Doubtful.
ME: [thumbs up emoji]
I’ve learned over the years, the fewer words we exchange, the better—especially when it comes to anything in written or texted format.
Thank goodness for emojis … doing the Lord’s work.
When I return to the flower shop, I find Addison and my mother in the back, paging through some photo album with ornate gold edges. The two of them are so deep in conversation about centerpieces they don’t notice me for a solid three minutes—long enough for me to mentally sing the newest Taylor Swift song in my head.
“Oh, Campbell, when did you get back?” Mom chuckles, her manicured hand splayed over her chest like she wasn’t just shooting me daggers fifteen minutes earlier. “We were just discussing centerpieces, and I think we should do a whole spray of lilacs at the bridal table and then smaller versions at the tables in the front, you know, where family and our guests of honor will be sitting.”
Addison nods, feverishly jotting notes in a pale yellow notepad. She flips to a clean page and continues scribbling as my mother waxes on about her ideas for the bridesmaid bouquets. Her handwriting is tiny but elegant, much like my mother.
“Sounds good,” I say before taking a sip of my iced latte. “Oh. Slade changed his flight to tomorrow.”
Her red lips flatten and she peers my way, squinting as if she’s attempting to read between lines that aren’t there. But she will find neither excitement nor relief on my face.
For years we went round and round on this whole arranged marriage thing. I even showed her how awful Slade’s letters were, illustrated how miserable we’d be together, painted pictures of how wonderful my life would be if it were filled with real love and babies born to two loving parents … but nothing I said or did convinced her or my father to budge.
If anything, the more I resisted, the more they doubled down on their convictions, keeping me under their thumb even more and micromanaging my whereabouts and controlling my extracurriculars in any way possible. They even went so far as to send me to all girls’ schools to ensure I wouldn’t be tempted to meet a boy and run off with him. When it came time for college, my choices were narrowed down to a handful of the only all-female universities in the country.
Fighting my parents will always be a losing battle.
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason for that,” Mom says, her voice as pleasant as watermelon mint punch on a hot summer’s day. “I heard we might be getting some snow tonight? Always better safe than sorry.”
Judging by the sun blinding the clear Maine sky and melting all the snow, I’m doubtful on that forecast. Regardless, I couldn’t care less what his reasons are for postponing his trip. If anything, I’m secretly celebrating the fact that I don’t have to entertain his insufferable presence tonight.
“Excuse me, Addison. I’m terribly sorry. I just need to make a quick phone call to the house.” Mom trots off with her cell in hand, her coiffed blonde bob bouncing with each hurried stride. I imagine she’s calling the chef to tell him the family dinner we were supposed to have with my beloved will now be tomorrow night. If she’s lucky, he hasn’t already started on the beef Wellington and baked Alaska—Slade’s two favorite dishes.
Slade’s visits before were always few and far between, but now that we’re full speed ahead on the wedding, his presence is required for various meetings and parties thrown by our families. I’ve seen him more in the last six months than I had in the last six years, and from now until August, he’ll be making monthly trips here.
At some point soon, I’ll start flying back with him as we set up our new life together in his hometown of Palm Beach, Florida where I’ll, no doubt, stick out like the sorest of sore thumbs.
“Are you excited?” Addison asks while we wait for my mom’s return. She scrunches her shoulders in and flashes me an awkward smile that tells me she hates small talk just as much as me. I wish I could tell her she doesn’t have to do any of this … make small talk or treat me like a regular bride.
But alas, I can’t.
In fact, the whole arranged marriage thing is protected with an ironclad NDA baked into a brassbound pre-nup. All it’s missing is a notarization from the devil himself—though our longtime family attorney is close enough.
Regardless, it kills me knowing that everyone around us—from my closest friends to my darling sweet elderly ladies I volunteer with—thinks I’m head over heels in love with Slade, that I would choose him on purpose.
All they know is “we’re old family friends” and “our parents are thrilled that we’re marrying.”