Hell, most of the women in my family are married off before they’re old enough to drink alcohol. In fact, I’m probably the only woman in my family, at age twenty-six, who isn’t married with a wagonload of kids.
Due to my busy career, I’ve been single for as long as I can remember, although I’ve always dreamed about having this big fairytale wedding. I used to use Nana’s curtains as a makeshift veil and Papa would pretend to walk me down the aisle. I want him to do that for real, hold my hand as I greet my husband-to-be, bless us with a marriage as long and happy as his and Nana’s has been, and see that I’ve finally grown into the woman he always told me I could be. Successful, loved, happy.
Now it’s never going to happen.
As if sensing my tormented thoughts, Dr. Lee adds, “If there’s anything you need to say or anything important left for you to do with your grandfather, I’d do it very soon. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
Gee, thanks for the guilt trip, Doc.
Whatever else the doctor says fades off into the background as I watch Nana and Papa bicker through the glass window, happier now and blissfully unaware of the countdown looming.
In that moment, denial surges and I clench my fists.
This can’t happen. I won’t let it.
Six months to a year?
I can make it work.
Suddenly determined, a feeling of resolution washes over me as a plan formulates in my mind.
Don’t worry, Papa. I’m going to find myself a husband so you can walk me down the aisle on my wedding day before you leave this earth . . . if it’s the last thing I do.
Violet
“I still can’t believe it!” I squeal, wiggling my fingers and watching my engagement ring flash as the overhead lights reflect on the diamond’s faceted surface.
Having already heard this once, or maybe two dozen times, my two best friends sigh but rally with the appropriate oohs and ahhs, even throwing me a bone of another “Congratulations, girl!”
My lifelong bestie, Abigail Andrews, and Archie Hornee, my interior design assistant, are basically saints for putting up with me at this point. “Colin and I are getting married!”
Archie arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and presses a palm to his black T-shirt-covered chest, which is most definitely manscaped. Ever the sarcastic ball of sass, he deadpans, “Dear, we know.” He continues the performance by pulling a Vanna White, slapping a big fake smile on his face and gesturing widely to the roomful of wedding gowns surrounding us. When he finishes, his face goes right back to his usual blank ‘fuck off’ mode.
As if we’d be at a wedding dress shop for any other reason. Lord knows, Abigail and Archie aren’t looking to get married, and obviously not to each other since Abigail lacks a rather important piece of the perfection that Archie is looking for, a never-ending appreciation of his special brand of hilarious, off-the-cuff, don’t-care-about-being-politically-correct, catty-bitchiness.
So nope, not for them, for sure. We’re here for me! I can’t believe it’s really happening.
It’s been five months since Papa’s diagnosis, and what a busy five months it’s been.
Initially, I thought there’d be no way I’d ever get married before his heart gave out. After all, his doctor had painted a grim picture with no happy ending.
But despite the odds, Papa has miraculously held on long enough for me to reconnect with an old high school fling and get engaged after a whirlwind romance where we both said we wanted the whole nine yards—wedding, marriage, kids. Luckily, since Colin and I already had a history, it wasn’t starting at ground zero, and instead, we moved quickly after a short get-to-know-you-now phase. He’s a really good man, and I think we can be happy together.
Serious relationship, party of two . . . here! I think, adding a shimmy to my ass as I raise my hand, peering at the weighty sparkle resting there again.
But despite my excitement, the rows of gorgeous gowns, and two friends with a sharp eye for fashion, I’m currently trying on what has to be my twentieth wedding dress. Ride or Die Bride, an edgy bridal shop that calls itself the Number One Bridal Shop for the Modern Badass Chick, is failing to deliver a dress that is The One.
They’ve got everything from fairy tale princess to woodland nymph to Vegas stripper, mixed in with classic beauties covered in expensive lace and hand-sewn beading. My dress is here, I know it is. But in the three appointments I’ve made, I haven’t found it. Yet.
I need perfection.
It has to be. Everything about my wedding has to be perfect in order to do it right for Papa.
“I’m so happy for you!” Abigail declares, rushing forward and pulling me into a fierce hug. A moment later, I feel another set of arms wrap around me, Archie’s, and I’m encased in a group hug.
“Hey, guys!” I gasp as I feel my bridal shapewear corset, a marvelous invention that gives me the perfect hourglass figure, squeeze me to within an inch of my life. Any more and I swear it’ll crush my ovaries. “I know you’re both excited for me, but I can’t breathe!”
No one told me trying on wedding dresses and getting the right shape could be this painful. I thought it was come in, try on a few dresses, and after a few twirls and happy tears, be done.
“Shit, sorry!” Abi and Archie exclaim in near unison. As Archie jumps back, Abi tries to loosen my corset but fails as there’s too much dress fabric in the way. “I forgot how tight we had to pull it to get you into this thing.”
“I’d blame it on the pa-pa-pa-pasta!” Archie sings, doing a not half-bad riff on Blame It by Jamie Foxx, while measuring my curves through fingers held in a square like he’s a cameraman looking for my good side. His puckered lips and sharp brow remind me of Zoolander, and I’m waiting for him to say something about ‘Blue Steel’, but it doesn’t come.
Still, I can’t help but burst into laughter at his antics then gasp as the corset tightens even further. Shit, is this damn corset alive? “Hey!” I rasp, leveling a stern finger Archie’s way and defending the curves I was blessed with through a particularly short and fierce round of puberty. “I’m half Italian. Pasta, pizza, lasagna, and red wine are a way of life for me, okay?”
With zero apology, he traces my shape reflecting in the mirror, which is admittedly a little fuller looking in this unflattering white taffeta ballgown that’s a definite no-go. “No one’s commenting on your curvy figure, love. There damn sure ain’t nothing wrong with a little a junk in the trunk. Just look at Kim Kardashian.” He waits a moment and then adds under his breath, but still loud enough for Abi and me to hear, “Only in America can someone turn an ass and a sex tape into a multi-billion-dollar family empire!”
The next gown is wrong too, and the one after that is even worse.
It’s a sparkly number that somehow makes me look like a constipated fairytale princess. Too New Jersey, if that makes any damn sense, and as a half-Italian, avoiding any Jersey Shore comparisons is vital to me.
Which probably means I’ll have to come back another time to try on even more gowns. Abi and Archie might kill me if I make them sit through this again, but I need their help and want someone to celebrate with when I do find The One.
Because I will.
Against all odds, I found a husband-to-be, a venue with an opening for our short-notice ceremony and big reception, and I will find a dress that makes me feel special for my big day.
Abi adjusts my bra straps, beaming at my reflection even though she already told me this dress is ridiculous and Archie made a rather harsh comment about my being ready for Wedding Day: 90s Vegas Style with the amount of bling thrown on this thing.
“When do you want to come check out the invitations?” Abi chirps. She co-owns a local specialty floral boutique and is handling all of my flower arrangements personally. But as my maid of honor, she offered to do the invitations as well.
Shit.
“Oh, yeah, sorry! I’ve been so busy with work and dress hunting, I totally forgot about that! When do you want me
to come by the boutique to see them? Colin and I have a breakfast date tomorrow morning to talk about the wedding, so we could rearrange and come by the shop instead. But Archie and I have a job lined up right after—”
“With Bitch-ella, the Ice Queen,” Archie interrupts with a mutter that I can’t really disagree with, but I give him a side-eye that begs him to at least try to be professional about the client.
“So, we’d have to be fast,” I finish.
Abi purses her lips thoughtfully as she places her hands on my hips, moving my body slightly to the side and staring at my shape in the mirror. “No way. You two do a breakfast date, and we can figure out a time when it’s not a rush. Tomorrow’s Friday, so maybe we can do it after work and then grab drinks?”
I nod, ignoring the flutters of butterflies in my stomach. I don’t know why I’m so nervous all of a sudden. I mean, yes, there’s a lot to do and not much time to do it in, but everything’s going to plan, just like I hoped.
Papa.
Colin.
The wedding.
I should be on cloud nine. Yet, these butterflies don’t feel like good, happy flutters. More like a tornado of responsibility, expectations, and nerves.
Abi turns me, eyeing me thoughtfully. “You good? Everything all right, Vi?”
I don’t want to bring down the mood or start examining the questions in my head too closely, so I play pretend, telling myself that slightly cold feet are normal. After all, getting married is a big deal and not one to take lightly.
“I’m fine. It’s just this damn corset!” I say with a grimace, grabbing my sides. “After I meet with Colin tomorrow, everything should be good to go.” I look between the both of them, spreading my arms out to the side and twirling across the showroom stage in my dress one last time. “Final verdict?”
“Not my favorite,” Abi says, shaking her head.
“I agree,” Archie co-signs. “It’s totally giving me Tangled, meets the Little Mermaid, meets Cinderella vibe, but like they all became dancers on the Vegas strip. Emphasis on the strip.”
“Gee, thanks, Arch,” I mutter sourly. But funnily enough, I agree with his assessment, although my terms were a little less . . . animated and crude.
Archie winks at me. “You’re welcome, sweet cheeks.”
“Don’t worry, Vi. We’re going to keep looking and find the perfect dress that’ll knock Colin flat on his ass!” Abigail’s assertion settles me slightly, helping me focus on the issue at hand . . . my dress. If I can just find that, everything else will be smooth sailing.
“Yeah, turn that frown upside down!” Archie adds, pushing at my cheeks with two fingers. He looks deep into my eyes, and I’m expecting some sweet words of wisdom, but I should know better with Archie. “Just think, before you know it, Colin won’t have to bag it up anymore, and you’ll get to feel the real thing. How big we talking here?” He holds his fingers a few inches apart, spreading them to indicate a bigger and bigger appendage, but it’s seeing the whites of his eyes growing as I don’t stop him that does me in.
“Oh, God, you’re too much!” I groan, forcing his hand down and chuckling.
Come on, girl. Everything is going to work out. It has to.
* * *
“I’m calling off the engagement.”
The words hit me like a freight train, a grenade launched directly into my heart.
When Colin told me he wanted to meet with me this morning, I was under the impression it was to discuss the details of our wedding, plan who we were inviting, what DJ we were going to use, etc.
Never in a million years did I think it would be to dump me.
“Violet?” Colin asks, noticing that I’ve gone completely rigid, my latte frozen inches away from my lips and my half-eaten bagel in front of me.
Colin Radcliffe. My fiancé. My ex-fiancé, I correct with a wince. Fucking rat is what my mind is yelling loudly.
Dressed in a gray, freshly pressed, tailored suit, Colin’s blond hair is styled and parted, and he’s gazing at me with expectancy, as if I’m supposed to burst into hysterics, crying and making a scene worthy of Hamlet.
But I’m frozen, thinking WTF?
Why?
And . . . why now?
But wondering the whys won’t do me any good. Colin’s obviously thought this through and wants to end it all.
Doesn’t matter that I just spent weeks trying to find the perfect wedding dress.
Doesn’t matter how much I want the fairytale wedding.
Doesn’t matter that my Papa won’t get to walk me down the aisle. Maybe never.
None of it matters to him.
In a hit that’s even more impactful than Colin’s words, I realize that none of my thoughts on this betrayal have anything to do with us, our relationship, or our love. Love?
Do I even love Colin?
Stupid me thought I’d make it work using a checklist for our compatibility.
Both career-oriented people. Check.
Former lovers. Check.
Both matured and ready to settle down. Check and check.
Boy, was I wrong on that last one.
“Violet?” Colin presses again, this time reaching across the table and placing his hands atop mine.
Suddenly, I feel queasy, and I have to fight back the urge to throw up in his lap.
“I know this has to come as a shock to you, but I’ll cover the lost deposit on the wedding hall and every other expense associated with our engagement so you don’t have to worry.”
Just like I thought, he’s already planned his exit strategy, as if our wedding, our marriage, was some business transaction. For him, maybe it was. For me? I don’t know, I realize. Maybe this is what the buzzing butterflies have been trying to tell me?
“Why?” I ask simply, battling down the surge of nausea.
Colin licks his lips, lips that I once enjoyed on my neck, on my breasts, on my most sacred of places.
“Violet, you know I adore you, and you’re beautiful, smart, and kind, but . . . I don’t think I’m ready for marriage.” He stares at me again, rubbing my hands as if waiting for the crying hysterics he knows must be coming.
He definitely wants a show, just not too much of one. That perfect balance of greedy hunger for drama, tampered with the knowledge that he doesn’t want to look bad.
That’s why he picked the coffee shop, I realize. Cold and calculated. The Radcliffe way. In public, he knows I’m not going to go fully emotional, batshit crazy or really even make a scene. It’s not my style.
But he does want to see me shatter into a million tiny pieces, and he wants an audience while he does his dirty work.
I’ve been ignoring it, something I could easily do with our quick whirlwind relationship, but I can see it clearly now that he’s serving it up on a platter like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Everything is a façade with him. Image and reputation reign supreme.
I bet he thought I’d fit some corporate wife checkbox. Which would be so hurtful, except that I guess I was doing the same thing with my own checkboxes.
This was doomed from the start.
When I don’t muster even a single teardrop or argument, he continues, “We’re both so young, and hell, we haven’t even had sex in over three weeks.” His tone is accusatory, like it’s my fault we’ve been so tired that sex has seemed like one more thing on the ever-growing to-do list.
He keeps digging at the wound, pouring salt in a steady stream into the bloody mess of our relationship. “We’re both so busy with our jobs. You have that decorating thing you do that you love so much, and it takes up so much of your time, and I’m really busy at Dad’s company, kicking ass and making deals. I . . . I just think we’re at two different crossroads in our lives.”
The decorating thing that I do? Fuck off.
Out of all the things he said, insulting my job pisses me off the most.
And I could argue against so many of his points, letting him know that everything he said was bullshit.
But I’m not going to because, simply put, I don’t have time for this shit.
And I realize . . . I don’t care. Not about Colin.
I’m such an idiot. But it was all for a good reason.
Sorry, Papa. I tried.
“Fine,” I say simply, pulling my hands away from his before taking off my engagement ring. “Here. You can take this back, too. I don’t want it.”
I place the ring on the table and slide it across toward him, resisting the urge to throw it in his face or shove it up his nose, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of an emotional outburst. The huge diamond rock in the center sparkles against the light, catching the eye of several women sitting around us.
I swear some of their heads turn like The Exorcist to get a better look as they realize what’s happening, their eyes as big as saucers as they gawk at the size of the ring.
One of the women even leans so far forward to get a better look that she jostles her steaming hot coffee, spilling it on her hand. But instead of crying out at what I know has to hurt, she quietly blots at it, blowing cool air across her hand so she doesn’t miss a single moment of the Colin and Violet Breakup Show.
“You know,” I say as I grab my purse and slide on my Gucci shades, ignoring the commotion of googly-eyed stares and growing whispers from women around us, “It was really good to reconnect after so long, Colin. And we tried to make it work. It didn’t. Thanks for everything.”
My words are clipped and to the point.
If he’s going to break off our engagement like this, I see no reason to drag it out with some long ass monologue that’ll amount to nothing in the end, anyway.
Finished, I begin to rise from my chair, but Colin grabs my arm, holding me in place, his jaw slack in surprise.
One of the women watching suddenly decides that’s her cue and claps her hands sharply, interrupting our scene with one of her own. “Boy, you’d best let that girl’s arm go. You had your moment, and a queen like that is better off without a twat-stain like you.”
Several people gasp at her language and volume, but Archie has me corrupted to not even blink at that level of crudeness. Thankful for the support, I look over to her and offer a weak smile of appreciation. For his part, Colin scowls but loosens his grip. Still, he’s not done.
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