Page 21 of The Mood Board

Chapter 9

Liam

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BAILEY HAD BEEN WORKINGwhile we watched a movie, sketching a design that I knew she would later put into the modeling software. But what was initially a client’s dining room, the sketch had morphed into something else. At first, I wasn’t sure what, but as the lines and shading came together, I realized it was the tablescape for our wedding.

Even before we had chosen the venue, I knew Bailey had dreamed of an outdoor wedding under the shade of trees draped in white lights. She had painted a picture for me with words: evening turning the sky first shades of oranges and reds, then blues. Our guests would eat with us at a long table strewn with candles, lanterns, and greenery—elegant, simple, and enchanting. Soft music would play in the background as we shared the joy of the evening, surrounded by people we loved and who loved us back. With her description, I could hear the music, voices talking, the laughter, see the lights, smell the grass and flowers, and feel the breeze. I could feel how full my heart would be, the happiness swelling until I felt I would burst with it.

In my head, it was magical, and I knew it was for my fiancée, too.

But long after she had finished it, Bailey stared at the completed image. So long, I realized I wasn’t paying attention to the movie anymore but focusing on her. I knew something was wrong—it had been for weeks. She insisted she was okay or just stressed, no matter how much I asked, but I knew that wasn’t the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway.

As I watched, Bailey put the pencil back to the paper to sketch more detail, more branches to trees, a detail on her dress, more greenery on the table surrounding a hurricane lantern, another candle.

What made her feel this way, and why was she keeping it from me? We had been blissfully happy since our engagement. We’d had our arguments, of course, and challenging moments personally and with our respective businesses. But Bailey had told me that for the first time in her adult life, she knew that ups would follow the downs, that she was, we were, secure, and when the dust settled, I would still be standing there, just as she would be for me. There were no games, no guessing, no wondering, no heart being repeatedly broken.

Whatever she was feeling didn’t fall in line with that.

“Bailey, are you okay?”

She jumped as though I had startled her out of her deep thoughts, and as reality slowly seeped back, she looked from me to the TV and realized I had paused the movie. What had she been thinking about that had her so lost in her own mind?

“What?” she asked, swallowing.

“Are you okay?” I turned, bringing one leg up on the couch to face her. “You’ve been off lately. I thought it was the letter at first, but you’ve been prickly and moody and quiet.”

I watched her, hoping I communicated my earnest concern, and she didn’t take what I had said as criticism. But I wasn’t sure when she looked away, unable to hold my gaze any longer.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“You don’t have to apologize.” I reached out and took her hand. “Bailey, look at me, please.”

She raised her gaze reluctantly to mine as though she was too ashamed at the thoughts swirling in her head.

“What’s going on? Is all of this about the letter?”

“It is,” she replied quietly. “I’m anxious about what might happen. I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, and the waiting is driving me crazy.”

“You know I have it handled, right?” I asked. “Or, at least, the lawyers do, and our accountants. They say there’s a good probability nothing else will happen, and if it does, they’ll deal with it. There’s nothing this person can do, anyway—I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m squeaky clean.”

I grinned, and despite her mood, Bailey cracked a smile that dropped away almost immediately.

“I know,” she said. But it didn’t sound like she believed it, and she looked back down at the couch as she traced a pattern in the fabric with a finger.

I remained quiet, giving Bailey a chance to share whatever was on her mind without a push from me, only talking when the silence grew too long.

“That’s not all, is it?” I finally asked gently.

For a long, long moment, Bailey didn’t reply, obviously trying—and failing—to figure out how to tell me what was on her mind. Did she know how to explain how she felt? Did she know why? Was she afraid I would look at her differently if I knew and understood and saw parts of her that perhaps she didn’t want me to see?

Because I hadn’t seen this part of her before. I had caught glimpses, but nothing like this. I wasn’t sure she had seen this part of herself before, either. I just wished I knew what was behind it.

This was the difficult part of being in a relationship—getting to know one another, every part of the other person: the good, the bad, the ugly, and the truly beautiful. And from what my father said, it took a lifetime.

Early on in my relationship with Bailey, he had told me that I would spend my life getting to know her, which was a good thing. It would take time to get to know each other, our moods, our likes and dislikes, the physical and mental places we liked to be touched and those we didn’t. Even years later, we would still find things to be surprised about.

And then we would change—it was inevitable. People changed, including two people in a relationship. If we were lucky, we would grow together, he had told me, like Mom and he had. We would encourage each other, grow together, become new people together, over and over again. We would meet each other again and again and learn about each other again and again. Some days it would be easy, and other days it wouldn’t.