by K. Bromberg
“Me?” He laughs with a sheepish grin that suggests what he’s about to tell me may or may not have happened in the past. “After the girl refused to talk to me, I would have gotten shitfaced. It wouldn’t have been pretty. Then I probably would’ve pounded on her door all night long until she was so sick of it, she’d have to face me. And if she wouldn’t and I had to gather some sort of self-respect, I would’ve probably gone out, drank some more, slept with the first willing candidate because . . . well because, if I ask someone to marry me, I mean it. And now I’ve just wasted six years of my life, am pissed as hell, and would want some way to feel better about myself. So yeah . . . not classy but that’s what I would have done.”
I snort. “Sounds about right, and yet for the life of me I can’t see Mitch acting like that—the going out and screwing the first thing he laid eyes on part.”
His sarcastic laugh rings around the empty bakery. “Hate to break it to you, sis, but obviously he did or else he wouldn’t be getting married this quickly.”
And I can’t hide the fact that the notion stings. But at least it solidifies one of two things: he either felt the same way about our relationship as I did, or he fell in love with Rebound Sarah because I bruised his ego and she made him feel good again.
“Maybe he wants to prove he’s over me despite the comments I’ve overheard that she’s a carbon copy of me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as those words stop his trek back into the office. The notion that Mitch is marrying another tall, aqua-eyed, blonde-haired woman with olive skin hits him.
He laughs, sarcasm ringing in it as I hear the shuffle of papers on my messy desk in the back room. “Where’s the RSVP card? I’ll send it back and let him know just what I think about how smart you were to dump his ass. Pretentious prick.”
Luckily Ryder can’t see me from where he stands because I’m certain my scrunched up nose and the falter in my icing would give away what I did.
“Saylor?”
“Hmm?” Indifference.
And there must be something in how I respond that catches the tiny inflection in my tone.
“Please tell me you’re not actually considering going.”
“No. Of course not.” Eyes on the next cupcake. My fingers squeezing another row of pearls around the edge. My feet shifting to abate the weight of his scrutinizing stare.
“Where’s the card then?”
“I must have lost it. Or thrown it out.” Dodge. Avoid. Ignore. “Oh. Maybe it fell on the floor and is under the desk—”
“You’ve always been a horrible liar.” I can hear the confused disbelief in his tone as he takes a few steps toward me. I immediately let go of my hair wound around my finger. My tell. “The question is, what exactly are you lying about?”
“Nothing. Drop it.”
“Did you return the RSVP, Saylor?”
“Yes. No. It’s not what you think . . .” I blow out an exasperated sigh while he stares, waiting for me to continue. I hate that I feel like a child about to get scolded for doing something stupid. “I marked the card out of spite. I had no intention of going at all . . . but then DeeDee picked it up and mailed it in by accident and . . . well, now they think I’m coming. With a date no less.”
“That’s classic.” He laughs but the sound fades as he narrows his eyes and his thoughts connect. “Hold up. So you marked the card out of spite. I can buy that. But if you had no intention of ever going, then why did you put it in the envelope? That kind of tells me the thought somewhat crossed your mind.”
“I don’t know.” I shrug, trying to figure out where he’s going with this. “I just did. There was no hidden meaning behind it, Ryder.” He’s starting to piss me off. I know he’s reading into this, thinking more of it than he should, and I just want him to go away so I can decorate in peace.
But he doesn’t. He just stands there and continues to stare like I’ve done something wrong.
“You do realize Mitch sent you the invitation as a joke, right? That neither of them actually want you at their wedding.”
I roll my eyes and huff. “I’m not a child. Or an idiot. I know they don’t want me there and I assure you, I don’t want to be there.”
“You sure about that?”
My head snaps up to meet the questioning in his eyes. “Am I sure about what?” There’s a bite of anger in my voice. A tinge of why are you questioning me?
“I’m just trying to figure out if you’re having second thoughts.”
I snort. “If I did it’s a bit late since it seems he’s getting married.”
“Mm-hmm.” There’s something condescending in the way he says it, and it makes me grit my teeth.
“And mm-hmm means what?” My hands are on my hips now, my temper starting to flare.
“I find it interesting that you haven’t said shit to me about getting the invitation. So that tells me it has gotten to you more than you’re letting on. If it didn’t bug you or if you weren’t having second thoughts, then you would have said something.”
“I didn’t tell you because it isn’t a big deal.”
“Mm-hmm.”
There’s that response again.
“Just say whatever it is you’re not saying, Ryd. I’m not in the mood for whatever reverse psychology game you’re playing here.”
“It would be totally normal for you to have doubts you know.”
“Agreed, but what do doubts have to do with this?” I point to the invitation on the table between us.
“I’m just making sure you’re not planning on doing anything stupid you’ll regret, that’s all.”
“Excuse me?”
“Like you showing up to the wedding type of stupid.” He lifts his eyebrows as he says the words and snaps the last thread holding my temper at bay.
“Why do you keep harping on about this? Get off my back, will you? Do you think I have a secret plan to sneak off to the wedding? Cash in the travel voucher the resort gave me as a credit for my own cancelled wedding and just show up because all of a sudden I’m worried that I’ve made a huge mistake? What do you think I’m going to do, spy through the hedges during the ceremony so I can satisfy my morbid curiosity over what the future Mrs. Layton looks like all the while silently thanking God that it isn’t me walking down the aisle to him?”
“Say, that’s not what I meant by—”
“Better yet. I think I should go.” My temper is lit and I couldn’t stop the words from rushing out if I tried. “In fact, I’ll hire some totally hot stud from an escort service to take me. I mean, I put plus-one, after all. So when we walk into the reception, it’ll be obvious he’s so madly in love with me that those assholes—the people I thought were my friends, yet were nowhere to be found when I needed them the most—can see us. Why not, right? If I showed up head over heels in love with some hot guy, then God willing, they’d all see that I’m not at home in the corner licking my wounds because I realized I made a mistake like they all think I am.” I finally stop, chest heaving, hands fisted, and anger over being questioned weighing heavy in the space between us. Ryder’s eyes remain locked on mine yet he doesn’t say a word. “So if that’s what you mean by doing something stupid, then no worries Ryder, I’ve got stupid covered. Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.”
I slam the piping bag down for emphasis. A huge blob of the teal-colored frosting shoots out from the force and squirts across the distance onto the butcher block. I stare at it for a moment, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time over the situation. At Ryder thinking I actually want to get back together with Mitch and at myself for going off on him and letting my temper get the best of me.
It’s not his fault. It’s mine. It’s the overload of emotion that I’ve held in since my breakup with Mitch. It’s the knowing that everything I just pretended to make up—wanting to see what Rebound Sarah looks like, wanting to see Mitch and feel relief that I had walked away, wanting to prove to our old friends that I’m better off now—are thoughts I’ve actually had
over the past few weeks. Validations I don’t need but have crept into my mind nonetheless.
“Say.” There’s nothing but empathy in his voice, and yet I can’t look at him. Can’t lose it when I’ve been trying so hard to keep everything—my life, my emotions, my sanity—together to prove to everyone, including him, that I made the best decision.
Needing a minute to collect myself, I hang my head, draw in a deep breath, and tell myself it’s okay to feel a bit unhinged. That leaving the life I once had and essentially starting over again would leave most people feeling crazy.
“No. I’m okay.” I clear my throat and focus on scrubbing the colored icing from the countertop so he can’t see the tears welling in my eyes. All the while, I wait for him to say more. Know he wants to. And yet when only silence weighs down the air around us, I’m forced to look up.
Ryder’s head is angled to the side as he stares at me with nothing but compassion in his eyes.
“That’s not what I meant, Say. I just meant that doubts and curiosity are a normal thing to have. That there’s nothing wrong if you do and I didn’t want you to feel you had to hide them from me.”
I chuckle nervously, not wanting to discuss this. “Thanks, I’m sorry. I guess I went off the deep end there.”
“It was entertaining picturing you peeking through the bushes with leaves in your hair.”
I glare at him. “Funny.”
His expression softens but the intensity in his eyes remains. “For the record, you didn’t make a mistake leaving Mitch. Not one that I can see, anyway.” I appreciate the show of solidarity. His support of my decision.
The tears I’ve held back, threaten once again. “Thank you. I appreciate hearing that more than you know. Can we just forget about it? I don’t plan on going to his wedding. I never did. It was just a mishap the RSVP got mailed.”
“Okay, deal. But I have to admit, I kind of like knowing he’s worried that you’re actually going to show up. Serves him right for sending it to you.”
“What I really need to do is get back to work. The clock is ticking, and these cupcakes need to be frosted.” I pick up the piping tube without looking at him, survey the hundred cupcakes left to ice, and appreciate the need to focus on getting them done and delivered rather than Mitch and his copycat wedding.
My wedding.
Thankfully Ryder leaves me be and returns to the little alcove off the kitchen. A heavy sigh of discord still comes every couple minutes when he finds something else I must have done wrong on the little spreadsheet he made me. But there is definitely a reason he’s the numbers guy between the two of us and I bake for a living.
I decorate to the beat of the music. A little Maroon 5 to lighten my mood as I add designs to cupcake after cupcake, stopping after every ten or so to flex my hands and stretch my fingers when they cramp. My mind veers to Mitch. I can’t help it. It’s almost as if it would be easier for people to understand if there was some huge smoking gun that ended our relationship, but there wasn’t.
He was perfect in every way. Polite. Successful. Kind. You name every characteristic of who you’d want to marry, and his country club mug shot would be posted right beside it.
But too much perfection is sometimes a bad thing. Especially when I’m far from perfect myself. How did I ever think I could marry him and live up to his and his family’s ridiculous societal standards and ideals of what is expected of a wife?
We were the classic case of it’s not you, it’s me. And I wear the big, shiny crown taking the blame on that like there is no tomorrow.
But as perfect as he was, there had been a lack of passion. And not just the kind that happens when you’ve been with someone for years, but rather the kind that never was there to begin with. The kind I overlooked from day one because if a guy treats you as well as Mitch treated me, and is as good a catch as our friends with wide-eyes full of jealousy kept telling me he was, then you’re supposed to overlook that, right?
But there was more than that. He never understood why I’d prefer to be up to my elbows in a vat of cake batter with pink frosting smeared in my hair, rather than with the Junior League celebrating the coming of spring at some kind of social event that was more of an excuse to buy a fancy new dress and red-soled shoes. Or how tea with his mother—where she talked endlessly about superficial topics—was enough to bore me to sleep, but to me spending a few hours volunteering at the local ASPCA, cleaning dog kennels and giving extra attention to the lonely fur-babies, was an afternoon well spent.
Because God forbid we had a dog of our own. To Mitch, dogs meant fur, and fur meant mess, and I was already messy enough with my frosting and sprinkles for him.
It wasn’t the difference in our upbringings, because opposites often attract, but rather it was so much more of the day-to-day wants and needs.
His want for me to stay at home rather than work, versus my need to go out and create something for my own self-satisfaction. Our weekly bout of scheduled sex got the job done but never fulfilled that need within me to have the earth-shattering orgasm some of my girlfriends had bragged about. That want within me to smile automatically when I received a midday text from him rather than cringe wondering what I had done wrong this time.
I shake my head and recall the day the realization hit me out of nowhere. I was spending so much time obsessing about every single detail of our wedding, trying to make everything perfect, because if the wedding was perfect then the marriage was going to be too, right?
However, I wasn’t blind to my own bullshit. I had been so focused on selecting vows and table centerpieces and favor choices that when I had a day to sit and do nothing while Mitch was off on one of his boys’ country club weekends, it hit me like a ton of bricks.
“A part of me—one I’m really hating right now—thinks you’re brilliant.”
Ryder’s words pull me from the thoughts that have run a marathon in my head over the past six months. When I look toward him, my smile comes easily for the first time in the past hour. “It took you, what? Almost twenty-eight years to figure out what I’ve known all along—that I’m the smarter one?”
“Dream on.” He rolls his eyes.
“Then what are you talking about?”
“For the record, I still think your idea is horrible, but you might be onto something.”
“My idea? What are you talking about?”
“You’ve had the business for what? Ten months now?”
“Since it’s officially been up and running here at the store, more like eight. Why? What am I missing?” I set the piping bag down and lean back against the counter behind me.
“During that time, has it ever crossed your mind that the machine that is the Layton family may be influencing your sales?” I chortle out a laugh, immediately discrediting him. “No. I’m serious, Say. I know this is a big town and it’s just one family, but they are well known around here. Mitch’s uncle is a congressman and his father owns half the town. I think it makes more sense than not that they—”
“I doubt the Laytons are making a point in their busy lives to sabotage Sweet Cheeks. They’ve got small countries to run or something.”
“That’s not what I’m implying.”
“Get to the point then.” Patience. Gone.
“All I’m saying is, when there’s a breakup, people back away from the person they think is to blame, right? They typically side with the one they feel has been wronged.”
I eye him suspiciously. “Should I assume you’re referring to me as being the one to blame?” Crossing my arms, I hate that his comment miffs me.
“Yes. And no.” He takes a step closer and dips a finger in one of my empty frosting tubs and licks the dab. “Mitch’s friends have already proven to be shallow and judgmental. Proof being the way they basically cut you out of their lives after you broke it off. So . . . what if we turn the tide?”
“Dude. I love you. I’m sure you have a point to make. But, seriously? I’m not following your reasoning and have wha
t feels like a million cupcakes left to frost, so can you please get to whatever you’re getting to so I can finish them?”
“It’s all about perception.”
I snort and roll my eyes at him. “And how is whatever brilliant thing I said going to make my business suddenly successful by changing the perception of my ex-friends? After how they’ve treated me, I would never really want to be friends with them again anyway.”
“Your little rant gave me an idea.”
What? “I was joking, Ryder.” Unease tickles the back of my neck.
“Just hear me out.” He holds his hands up in front of him. His chill out, Saylor look is on his face. “Let’s say you do show up at the wedding with someone who is better looking, more influential, more something in their eyes than their precious friend Mitch. There’s no doubt in my mind that they’d look at you in a different light.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I sputter the words out and immediately chastise myself for automatically defending the very people who hurt me.
“To us it is, yes. We were taught not to pledge allegiance to the friend with the biggest bank account but after how they’ve acted, it seems they do.”
“Fine. Sure. If that’s the case, then it’s a good thing I no longer associate with them.” I turn my attention back to the cupcakes, not wanting to waste another thought on them or wherever he’s going with this.
“You’re completely missing what I’m saying.”
“Then just say it.”
“I think you should go to the wedding. Do exactly what you joked about.” He smacks his hands on the butcher block for emphasis. “Walk in there with your head held high and act like leaving Mitch was the best damn decision you’ve ever made, even if seeing him feels like you’ve been punched in the gut. The fact that you’ve traveled thousands of miles and have enough balls to be there should make a huge statement in itself without you ever having to say a word.”
He’s lost it. Like totally lost it. “You forgot one thing. I don’t have balls.” I try to lighten the mood. Derail the topic.