The furrow of his brow and the hard set of his jaw told me that he wanted to stay angry. He turned away from me. “I stopped drinking.”
In the second that I was too shocked to speak, I did some mental math. Neil had been super cranky for a couple of weeks now. I’d noticed that he’d cut back a lot. He hadn’t been drinking wine at dinner, and he’d only had two drinks at his birthday party, which was usually a boozy celebration.
“You didn’t notice.” It wasn’t petulant of him to say so. It wasn’t like I’d failed to pick up on weight loss or a haircut. This was major.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Maybe that sounded like an allegation, but it was the first thing that burst from my mouth. “I could have helped you. We could have gotten through this part together.”
I drank wine with dinner last night. I asked him if he wanted a beer last weekend.
“I wanted to see if it would be noticeable.” He shrugged it off. “I suppose that’s the answer.”
“No, Neil, it’s noticeable.” Not in the way he probably wanted it to be noticeable. “You’re kind of…”
“Go ahead,” he said cautiously.
“You’re really cranky.” I held up my hands and dropped them. “I thought you were just upset about the book.”
“I am upset about the book.” His eyebrows rose and he blinked a few times as he took in a prolonged breath. “That’s why I stopped now. Doctor Harris has been trying to get me to quit entirely. He wanted me to do that from the beginning. It probably would have been easier.”
“How long have you been…off the sauce?” Ugh, could I have picked a worse way to phrase that?
“My last drink was the whiskey at my birthday party. I thought it would be fitting; new year, new beginning.” He went back to cutting up vegetables. His voice lower, he added, “I’m sorry I’ve been acting the way I have. It’s not an excuse.”
“It kind of is,” I argued, but gently. “Alcohol was one of your coping methods. Now, you’re having to endure stress and little daily frustrations without any kind of emotional release.”
Which was why he’d intentionally provoked the fight with my mother, I suspected. The Neil I knew—the one who hadn’t been going through withdrawal from a powerful, lifelong addiction—wouldn’t have done something so petty and destructive. Especially not where my family was concerned.
Unless this was the way Neil was without alcohol. That was an uncomfortable thought.
No way in hell was I going to start worrying about that this early into his sobriety. I went to his side and put my hand on his wrist carefully, to stop his hands and get his full attention. He turned to me, reluctant and ashamed. I didn’t let my gaze waver from his. “You could have told me. You shouldn’t have had to do this by yourself. Even if you did just want to see what would happen.”
“What happened is I discovered what a complete ass I am when I’m not drinking.” He exhaled audibly through his nose. Seeing Neil discouraged and disappointed in himself was enough to convince me that despite his self-assessment, the guy who’d been stalking around the house, complaining and snapping at me, was absolutely not the real Neil.
He went on, “You shouldn’t have to help me through this, Sophie. You’ve already put in your time.”
It took me a second to make the connection. “Helping you through cancer was not ‘putting in my time’. In sickness and in health, right? That’s not a one-time deal.”
“It still feels…unbalanced, at the very least.” But a corner of his mouth lifted. The gloom appeared to be lifting then his expression fell again. “I’m so sorry. Would you like me to speak with Rebecca?”
I considered. “No. We’re not going to apologize for doing what’s best for us. This is our life.”
“And here I am, driving another wedge between you and your mother.” He scraped the peppers into a prep bowl and reached for some parsley.
“She’ll get over it.” I shocked myself with the levelheaded way I brushed off my mom’s anger. I wanted her approval for this marriage, but if she didn’t give it… Oh well. “If she doesn’t, it doesn’t matter. I want you more than I want my mom to sign off on my life choices.”
“I should know better,” he said with a rueful smile. “I shouldn’t interfere between the two of you. We’re only given one mother. You’re lucky enough to have a good relationship with yours, as I had with mine. It would be unspeakably cruel of me to ruin it for you.”
Leaning against the counter, I studied his profile. There were signs of his grief every time he mentioned his mother. The vertical crease between his eyebrows appeared, and his jaw clenched, a little vein bulging below his ear with each heartbeat. I leaned up to kiss it, startling him.
“Don’t frighten a man with a knife in his hand, Sophie,” he admonished, but he smiled.
Back to normal, as quickly as that. I didn’t flatter myself to think that everything had been smoothed over for him by a five-minute talk with me. He had to get himself together for Emma and Michael, who were due in minutes. He didn’t want to spend the entire evening uncomfortably dwelling on an argument or his troubles.
When he’d been going through chemotherapy, I’d always ask for an end date, or a milestone. Once he’s able to come off the ventilator. Once he’s strong enough to eat. Once his cell count is this number, or he hasn’t run a fever in x-amount of hours. There was no timeline of symptoms for this disease, for healing these wounds. This could go on and on, remissions and relapses, forever. Or he could gradually get better.
When I said for better or for worse a few weeks from now, I still wouldn’t know which it would be. And that scared the hell out of me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By the end of April, the oppressive gloom of winter had somewhat lifted. With the wedding creeping up on us faster and faster, my schedule had started looking a lot less like a fashion magazine editor’s and a lot more like a trophy-wife-to-be’s.
Not that I’d let work slack any. I was still putting in totally crazy hours at the office. I’d only been home two nights in the past week, and only because I’d felt guilty for abandoning Neil with my mom.
No matter how busy things were at work—our online subscriptions were soaring, so we couldn’t stop producing steady, engaging content now—I still had to tend to the business of being a bride. It wasn’t as much of a chore as I sometimes made it out to be; when it came time for my dress fitting, I was pretty psyched.
“I can go with you,” Neil offered, sipping his morning coffee and looking at me over the rim of the mug like I was the silliest person in the world. “It isn’t as though we’ve strictly adhered to tradition thus far.”
I leaned over the kitchen counter and squinted at the number on the food scale. “We’re being more traditional than you think. But that’s one tradition I am not going to mess with. I cannot wait to see your face when I’m walking down that aisle.”
“I can’t wait to see you walking down the aisle.” He came over and put his arms around my waist. “I can’t wait for you to be Mrs. Neil Elwood.”
“Mmm, no.” I put my arms around his neck and shook my head, enjoying the sassy weight of my swinging ponytail behind me. “I will be Ms. Sophie Scaife, and I will be married to Mr. Neil Elwood.”
He sighed. This was a losing battle he wouldn’t quit fighting. “No chance of a Ms. Sophie Scaife-Elwood?”
“None at all. I’m not a conglomerate.” I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him.
He leaned back and frowned at the turkey on the scale. “That’s not all you’re having for breakfast?”
I waved him off. “No. This is what I’m having after the fitting. I’m not eating beforehand.”
“You have to eat something,” he insisted. He scanned the counter, and his eyes brightened. “Ah.” He snatched up a tomato and handed it to me. “Eat it in the car.”
“There are apples right over there,” I pointed out.
He went to them and playfully tossed me one. “Promise me you won’t thin
k negatively about your body at this fitting.”
“I cannot promise that.” I turned back to my two ounces of deli turkey and put the apple on the counter beside the scale. “What prompted that remark, anyway?”
His expression slowly faded from fun and sexy to sad and serious. “I’ve been noticing some…” He paused in frustration. “Since your mother arrived, I’ve noticed you’re being a bit…overcautious, we’ll say. About food.”
I frowned. “No, I haven’t.”
“What did you eat for lunch yesterday?”
The question came so fast, it bumped me back a step. “I don’t remember. Do you remember what you ate for lunch yesterday?”
“Raw spinach tossed with goat cheese and cherry tomatoes in a pear vinaigrette,” he rattled off without a second to think.
“Well, most normal people don’t have that kind of memory,” I snapped. “Plus, I’ve been really busy at work. It’s not like I have time to sit down and have a full lunch.”
“All right,” he conceded. “What do you remember eating yesterday?”
I scanned my brain. I hadn’t been eating much, he was right. But it was just because work had been so hectic. “I ate, like, half a bag of baby carrots in the car on the way home.”
“And when you got in last night, you told me you’d just eaten, and you weren’t hungry for dinner,” he reminded me.
Damn. I felt myself growing defensive, much in the way I expected the Hulk felt himself growing angry. It only made me more defensive. “Look, I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and I don’t want to eat. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal, to me. I’m your partner, I’m supposed to take care of you, the way you take care of me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as though he were resting the weight of his head on his curled fingers. When he looked up, he said, “You’re not eating. I’ve noticed that you’re not eating, and I know it’s about the wedding, and it’s terrifying me.”
My mouth dropped open in shock, and my chest jerked with a few futile attempts to speak. Even though what he’d said made sense, I hadn’t been conscious of what I was doing, and somehow, that made me feel attacked. “You’re being…stupid.”
“Am I?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re skipping meals at work, and I know you’re skipping meals at home. You’re carefully weighing your food—you’ve never done that before—and now, you’re getting defensive because I noticed. I raised a teenage daughter, Sophie. I’ve read Reviving Ophelia.”
“Yeah, and I’m not a teenager, and you’re not my father, so please don’t go creepily applying your frantic dad self-help bullshit to me!” I snapped.
My quick leap to anger startled both of us, and we stood staring at each other until Neil said, cautiously, “I know that having your mother here is stressful. I’ve heard her comments about your weight and how all the women in your family tend to…grow in volume, as it were.”
I snorted at that.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but we weren’t out of serious confrontation territory yet. “I know that you know that I would love you no matter how much you weigh. But we’ve both worked in the fashion industry, and we know what that can do to a person’s self-image. And, now, your mother is here, and that’s putting extra pressure on you.”
“I know. I know.” I shook my head and caught sight of the deli meat waiting patiently on the scale. My guilt and embarrassment intensified. “Don’t worry about me, okay? I hadn’t consciously decided to do any of these things as a weight-loss plan. Now that you’ve brought it to my attention, I’m kind of freaked out. I promise I’ll be more mindful.”
“And I promise to keep pointing these things out to you.” It was as much a pledge of solidarity as it was a warning. Neil wasn’t just an overprotective father. He was a just-protective-enough fiancé, too.
“You know, I guess you could come to the fitting,” I decided. “If you stayed outside and didn’t see me in the dress.”
“It’s better that I stay behind,” he said as I put my turkey into a baggie. He took his coffee to the kitchen table. “Doctor Harris will be stopping by this afternoon. I wouldn’t want you to have to rush me back.”
I dropped the turkey and the apple into my purse. “He’s coming out here?”
“He lives in East Hampton. We set up a house call arrangement.” Neil stretched his arms over his head and groaned loudly. “I may never have to leave again.”
“Achievement unlocked,” I teased. “Enjoy it while it lasts. It gets boring fast.”
“Well, I could always go pick up the dry cleaning. But any further than that and I draw the line. Your mother is still going with you, isn’t she?” he asked cautiously.
“Yes, she is,” I reassured him. “Besides, she wouldn’t barge in or eavesdrop on your therapy.”
“I know.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I’ll just feel more comfortable knowing I’m alone.”
A low rumble outside got my attention. “Is that a truck?”
“Hmm?” He glanced toward the window. “Oh, yes. I decided it was time we overhauled that strange little French building. Make it into a guest house, perhaps.”
The previous owners had been obsessed with France—or an American idea of France, at least—and they’d had a scale replica of the Pavillon Français erected on the grounds. Neil had given me the most amazing birthday celebration for two there, a movie night where he’d finally, finally watched Beauty and The Beast with me. It was a shame to mess with it.
“Aw, I kind of like that little place,” I said, masking my disappointment with teasing. “Don’t change too much about it, okay?”
“No, just adding a few small improvements.” He was being deliberately obtuse, so I assumed he had some kind of surprise planned.
Mom knocked on the kitchen door, and I called, “It’s unlocked!”
Our doors were normally unlocked during the day, though it drove Neil crazy. After growing up in a town where everyone left their houses open, even when they were away, I’d fallen back into the habit I’d abandoned within twelve hours of moving to New York. I blamed the acreage; not being able to see another house from ours, after living in the city for so long, made me feel like we were on our own little island.
Besides, we had security guards.
Mom pushed through the door in a flutter of cheetah print faux-fur poncho, her giant leatherette maroon purse hanging heavily at her side. Her hair was pushed back from her face with a pair of rhinestone-studded sunglasses. “Are we ready? Are you excited?”
“Not as excited as you are, I guess!” I mocked her with cartoonish enthusiasm. “Did somebody do a whole bunch of MDMA this morning?”
“I don’t know what that is.” Mom waved her hand at me and dug through her purse, taking inventory. “I’ve got a camera, I’ve got hand sanitizer, baby wipes, deodorant—”
“Mom, Mom,” I said, stopping her with a laugh. “We don’t need a bunch of equipment. We’re going to try a dress on.”
“Have you ever tried on a wedding dress, Sophie?” Mom demanded.
I had to concede that I had not. “No.”
“Well, neither have I, so we don’t know what we’ll need, do we?” She looked up as she tucked the flap of her purse back in place. “Good morning, Neil.”
He raised his coffee cup. “Rebecca.”
“Sweatpants again, then?” She punctuated her sentence with a faint grimace and a tilt of her head before turning to me. “So, shall we?”
I gave Neil a quick kiss, and he wrapped an arm around my waist for a squeeze. “Have a good time,” he said, giving me a peck on the ear before he released me.
After we’d gone out the door, I hissed, “Could you stop it about the sweatpants?”
She raised her hands and let them flop on her wrists. “I’m supposed to see someone just giving up on real pants and not say anything about it?”
“The man started like two magazines and ran a global med
ia empire for twenty-five years. Give him a break.” When I said it aloud, that didn’t sound like a very long time, but it wasn’t like that twenty-five years had been a constant walk in the park. “Besides, he almost died. If he wanted to wear clown shoes every day, I wouldn’t care, just as long as he’s alive.”
Tony had parked the car across the driveway’s wide, round end, and he opened the door for us as we approached. “Good morning, ladies.”
Mom laughed him off, her face blushing bright red. That was…interesting. I smirked to myself and went around the car to get in, and let Tony give Mom the princess treatment.
As we drove into the city, Mom’s excitement slowly grew. She was practically bouncing by the time we pulled up to the curb. To see her radiating such happy anticipation over my wedding, the wedding she’d been against for so long, made my eyes wet. I blinked back my tears and opened the door. “Come on. You get to meet a real New York fashion designer.”
When I’d first picked a designer for my custom, one-of-a-kind dress, I’d had many options. Being engaged to a billionaire opened a lot of doors. That billionaire owning the fashion magazine knocked on a lot more. But it was my status as co-editor-in-chief of Mode that had brought Pia Malik’s name to my ears. She wasn’t a big star, but she would be, someday. We’d just run a feature spread showcasing her spring collection, and I’d ended up buying almost every piece.
Pia shared a studio with three other designers on the top floor of a converted warehouse in Queens. We rang the buzzer, and Deja answered the door.
“Hey there, late to your own fitting,” she said, giving me a huge, celebratory hug. “I cannot wait. This bitch won’t let us see the dress until you do.”
“Bitch yourself,” Pia said with a laugh. She and Deja moved in similar social circles, which was how she’d come to our attention as a designer in the first place. Pia’s long, straight hair swung behind her in a shimmering curtain of jet-black silk. Her makeup was minimal as always, sharp slashes of eyeliner accentuating her slightly up-tilted eyes, just a hint of Smashbox Soft Lights on her creamy brown skin. She was the kind of beautiful that made you disappointed in yourself, no matter how good-looking you might be. And I didn’t think I was a slouch in the looks department.
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