by Bromberg, K
“And for good reason.” He grimaces when he realizes his tone is harsher than he’d intended, his own anger at Mitch shining through. “Look. I know it’s been hard for you. You basically had to start all over. A new place to live, your friends all siding with him and treating you like you never existed, working endless hours in the bakery, being lonely . . . all of it. But you’re doing it. You’re starting a new life. Have a business up and running and—”
“Barely,” I mutter as I scrub away the frustration on my face with my hands and in the process smear icing all over my cheeks.
“It’s a lot more than most people would be doing seven months after a long-term breakup.”
I inhale deeply and nod my head as I pull up my proverbial bootstraps. This was my doing. My choice. Walking away when I could have stayed. Realizing that even though Mitch and I had been together for six years, the spark had died long before. Sure there is more to a relationship than just the want to throw him up against the wall the minute he gets home and have wild reckless sex with him, but then again, that spark was never there to begin with.
Growing up with parents who had loved so fiercely, yet constantly referred to the numerous goals, dreams, and wants they gave up because Ryder and I took precedence, gave me pause to what I’d be giving up by marrying into Mitch’s family. Because the compromise would have been solely on my part. Not his.
Regardless of my reasons, no one on the outside can fathom why I chose to walk away. I mean, he was Mitch Layton, perfect in every way imaginable—polite, successful, Ralph Lauren-handsome—and even with all that perfection, I can still recall looking in the mirror in the weeks before our wedding and thinking while all that was nice, I didn’t want to live a life always wondering if nice was enough.
I pull my mind from the thoughts and look back at my brother, to the intricate and colorful ink on his forearms. Study the images that are typically hidden beneath the crisply starched dress shirts he wears for work as he lifts the invitation to read it again. “I’m sorry this affected you, too. That my breaking up with him—”
“I told you not to bring it up again. This was not your doing.”
“Spoken like a true friend.” I chuckle and pick up the piping tube again. More like my only one—and sadly it’s because he’s my brother so he has to be—given the circle of friends Mitch and I had over the years seemed to side with him after the breakup. The weekly lunch dates suddenly were rescheduled by text saying, “I’ll call you when I get free time,” and the monthly girls-only dinners for some reason stopped happening. Even my manicurist, who did Mitch’s mom’s nails, suddenly had no openings for my long-standing appointments.
“Does he actually think you’ll show up?”
“He invited me, didn’t he? Or maybe it was the bride-to-be who did? Who knows? Who cares?”
“Do you know her?”
“Never heard of her before.”
“Whoever it was probably just wanted to rub your nose in it. He’s arrogant enough. Thinks he’s such a prize. So why not make you worry and wonder if you made a huge mistake leaving him since someone else would snatch him up so quickly? What a fucking joke.”
I love that he immediately came to the same conclusion that I did about Mitch’s intention behind sending me an invitation. At the same time, I silently loathe that since I’ve received it, I’ve been going over my reasons for calling off our wedding more than I should be.
I refuse to acknowledge it has anything to do with Mitch or the invitation.
It’s perfectly normal to have doubts. Like middle of the night stare at the ceiling when I can’t sleep wondering if the grass is greener on the other side doubts. You don’t make major changes in your life without having them.
And walking away from the man you’ve loved and been with for most of your adult life qualifies as a major change, so it’s justifiable to have some level of uncertainty.
“Agreed,” I muse as I lace another row of beads on the next cupcake. “But wouldn’t you feel the same way if someone did that to you?” My brother just stares at me, the snarl on his face betraying the calm in his eyes. “I get why you’re pissed at him—and I am too for what he did to you—but when it comes to me, Ryder, he has a right to be mad. I was the one who called it off without warning.”
“Oh, I remember, all right,” he says over his shoulder as he heads back to the desk. And I know he does. How could he forget holding me while I sobbed when I realized I couldn’t go through with the wedding? Or how he was the voice of reason through all of my hysterics, talking me down from the ledge and urging me to listen to my heart? And then later, holding my hand while I picked up the phone and told Mitch I needed to talk to him. “You want to really know what pissed me off more than anything? You broke off an almost seven-year relationship with him and not once did he get angry or rage or sit on your doorstep and beg you to reconsider. He didn’t fight for you, and you’re worth fighting for. Instead, he acted like the passive-aggressive asshole he is by sending you an invitation to his new wedding.”
I shrug, loving that he thinks I’m worth fighting for, and at the same time understand the fact that Mitch not fighting for me, was an answer in itself. “If you were in his shoes, how would you have handled it?”
“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 yo
u 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 a
fter 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.