It’s just a necessity, a giant PR stunt to show off something that’s not real.
Except maybe it does feel real, and I don’t know what to do with that. And now I’m worried that once we do get married, things could change, mutating in terrible ways my heart won’t understand.
“We can leave it to the professionals. Way less stress,” I say again. “I’ve given them my preferences.”
“Your preferences?” She frowns.
“Yes, Mom. Mine and Ethan’s.”
“Well, I’m glad he’ll be involved. Some men can be so hands off.” Her tone doesn’t match her words at all. She sounds more like she’s gritting her teeth. “He always was a lovely boy, so focused. But he should allow you a little more flexibility.”
“I thought our wedding was supposed to be about us?” I huff loudly.
“He’s a man, sweetheart,” she says. “He doesn’t care what happens, really. No man does.”
While that might be true with Ethan, there’s no denying he knows his duty, and he’s determined to check every single detail.
If this was a real wedding, it might be different, but this one’s all optics to help fulfill a contractual obligation.
Still, it feels good knowing I have him right beside me, supporting me through this, helping make all the major decisions.
“We agreed we wouldn’t decide anything alone,” I say. Technically, that’s not a rule we’ve officially established, but I know it’s true.
Ethan is a control freak. He wouldn’t want me making any executive decisions without his approval.
But that’s okay when he gives me the same respect.
Mom bites into her fish wrap, disappointed.
“Well, fine. Although I must say I think he’s being very heavy-handed.”
“Heavy-handed? He just wants to make sure it’s a wedding we’re happy with.”
“Then I suppose there’s only one thing left to plan.”
I have a bad feeling about this.
She has a manic gleam in her eyes.
“What?” I ask cautiously.
“It’s coming up fast, moving at the pace you are, but if you work hard and really push yourself, you could lose a few pounds in the time you have left. I simply want you to look your best.”
Ohhh God.
The worst part? The very worst?
She makes it sound like she’s throwing open the door on a great opportunity rather than slapping my face.
“Are you serious?”
“It’s what I did,” she explains, apparently blind to the fact her marriage didn’t last. “You’ve still got time, honey. You can do it. And tread lightly with desserts on your honeymoon or you’ll put all that weight back on.”
Freakout. Activated.
I’m standing up before I know what I’m doing.
The only thing I can feel is the ghost of Ethan’s hand on my leg, the way he whispered to me so many times how perfect I am, how beautiful, how he loves my body and he doesn’t need me to change.
