The first letters of our names are much larger and in bold. I stare at the A and the P, imagining them to stay Alex and Pestano instead, and the thought makes my stomach swoop.
I toss the “save the date” on the coffee table and call my mom.
It’s a quarter to six. Brian was supposed to be home twenty minutes ago. He’s rarely late, and with each second that passes, I worry that I’m going to lose my nerve and bottle up what I need to say, postponing it until another burst of courage decides to make an appearance. I press one thumb into my pendant and chew on the nail of the other. I would be irritated if I wasn’t so anxious. If I wasn’t sick to my stomach and absolutely terrified.
Maybe now’s not the time. Maybe I should quickly throw on a dress and some heels and take a little more time to think about—
The lock on the door turns, and my stomach jumps into my throat.
Brian rushes inside. I let go of the pendant and wipe my hand on my pants. No more procrastinating.
“Hey, sorry, my meeting ran a little late. I’m not even going to have time to change.” He takes in my jeans and old Penn sweatshirt and frowns. “You’re not ready.”
I lift my chin, making myself appear braver than I feel. “I’m not going.”
“What do you mean you’re not going?” He places his keys on the side table and crosses the distance to press the back of his hand to my forehead. “Do you feel okay?”
His touch is cold. “I feel fine.”
He takes a step back and sighs, his expression one of annoyance. “Julia, we don’t have time for—”
“None of the arrangements have peonies in them.”
He glances at the flowers I grouped on the table and then at me, confused. “What?”
“They’re my favorite flower.”
His confusion shifts to impatience. “I’m sure my mother didn’t know. We can tell her at dinner. She’ll make sure to include them, but we really do need to be going.”
“She sent over mock-ups of the invitations and ‘save the dates.’ Did you know that?” I hand him the templates. “In champagne and rose gold, the colors she chose. Those aren’t the colors I want.”
“Julia.” His exasperation fuels me to continue, confirming that this is the right choice.
“Do you remember the colors I said I wanted?” He doesn’t answer. “Teal and silver,” I remind him. “There’s also a date. November fourteenth. Did you tell her we wanted to get married in November?”
“I mentioned the possibility of moving the date up when she asked me if I’d consider it, yes. I’m sure it’s just her subtle way of telling us—”
“Nothing about your mother is subtle.” My tone is sharp, anger simmering beneath my skin. “And you never stand up to her. Not even on my behalf.”
“You’re being dramatic.” He tries to hand back the invites. But I don’t take them. He tosses them on the table next to the flowers. “She just thinks we need to stop procrastinating and commit to a date, and I agree. I don’t understand why you keep dragging out the engagement. Don’t you want to get married?”
And that’s the question I’ve been struggling with for a lot longer than I’d care to admit. “I thought I did.”
He stands still, his mouth open like he can’t believe what I just said. To be honest, a large part of me can’t believe it, either. But that’s the truth. After confessing everything to my mom, she helped me realize that maybe there’s a reason I haven’t picked a date. It’s the same reason I hesitated when he proposed.
It’s because even though I love him, he’s not the one I want.
Deep down, I think he knows it, too.
He shakes his head and goes to the closet. With my jacket in his hand, he walks over and holds it out for me to take. “You’re being ridiculous. You’re just stressed. We’ll go to dinner and tell my mother—”
“Brian.” I say softly.
He slowly sits on the couch and stares at the invitations. I wait for him to say something, to ask me why or what changed or put up some sort of fight. When he doesn’t, I carefully remove the diamond and place it gently on the coffee table.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
When he doesn’t respond, I quietly slip out of the apartment without my jacket. It’s still gripped tightly in his fist.
