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“Do you think she’s considered for one second if her behavior is cool?” Noel asked, then went on before I could speak. “I’ll answer that since the answer is obvious. No.”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“Correct,” Noel agreed, surprising me. Then he explained, “But there are people who don’t deserve the right thing because they haven’t earned it.”
“You still have to do the right thing, honey,” I said quietly.
“Ugh,” he groaned, which was his form of capitulation.
I changed the subject. “Let’s talk about the wedding for a second.”
“Right, let’s, because I’m way more annoyed about that. Remy has given me carte blanche.”
“Noel—” I began.
“No. You’re nickel and diming things. You can’t be wearing an Oscar de la Renta wedding dress and serving Costco champagne, for God’s sake.”
I hadn’t suggested Costco.
However, what I’d suggested wasn’t far off.
“I—”
“Wyn, this poor girl syndrome thing has to stop.”
I blinked at the road.
Noel kept speaking.
“I’m not going to be stupid about things. You guys are rich but you’re not billionaires. We’re not talking ridiculous. But Remy said you couldn’t have the wedding you wanted the first go ’round, so he wants you to have what you want this time. And that’s not only what you’re getting, it’s also what you’re letting him give to you.”
Letting him give to you.
Letting Remy give it to me.
“I’m doing it again,” I blurted.
“Tell me about it,” he retorted.
“No, I mean pouring the wine back into the bottle.”
“Sorry?”
“I have poor girl syndrome,” I told him.
“Uh, I hate to be common, as you know, but there’s no other response that fits as well as this one. No duh?” he asked. “We’ve only had this conversation fifty thousand times.”
That was an exaggeration.
But that didn’t make his statement untrue.
“It upsets Remy,” I shared.
Noel finally cottoned on to how important this bent to the conversation was.
“He needs to feel like he’s taking care of me,” I went on.
“That’s what you do for the people you love,” Noel said carefully.
“It’s more with him. I need to do better at not pouring the wine back in the bottle.”
“First, gross. Never pour wine back into the bottle. But Wyn, what upsets him is not only that he wants to feel like he’s taking care of you. It’s that, since you haven’t let that go, since you haven’t settled into the life you two built together, a life that’s impressive and by no means one where you have to horde wine or anything, it probably feels like he’s failed at taking care of you all along.”
Oh my God.
Yes.
This.
This was precisely what triggered my husband three years ago.
Noel was still talking.
“However, most importantly, although this is about him, it’s also about you. We all can’t blow every penny we earn, but you don’t do that. Neither of you do. Not even close. But you splurge on a five-thousand-dollar bag without blinking, and don’t use Ziplocs.”
“That’s about the environment,” I fibbed.
It was, but it wasn’t.
“Whatever. You know what I mean. Seriously, pouring wine back into the bottle?”
And…seriously.
That was gross.
“My parents worked very hard when I was growing up, and we still didn’t have much.”
“Okay, so you worked very hard as the next generation, and you have a lot more. Do you hold guilt about that?” Noel inquired.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Is this bigger?” he asked, oddly eagerly. “Do I need to call a Cock and Snacktails?”
Eagerness explained.
The seal had been broken for Noel on that in a big way. I’d been home for four days, and he’d wanted to call three Cock and Snacktails, mostly about me talking to Bea by myself, but once it was because I postponed my mani-pedi (by a day), and he felt I needed a lecture from all my bestest friends on self-care.
He did this, by the way, while giving me a lecture about self-care.
“I think I need to be open about this with my husband, explore it with him, and ask him to work on it with me.”
“I suppose that’s a better idea,” Noel mumbled.
“This means you have carte blanche, honey, within Remy’s budget, that is,” I pointed out in order to improve his mood.
“Oh my God, it does!” he replied. “I gotta go. I have calls to make. Byeeeee.”
And then he was gone, and I was smiling at my windshield.
The smile didn’t last long, primarily because, a few minutes later, I was pulling into Bea’s driveway.
She made me stand at her door probably a full two minutes before she answered the doorbell, and for once, I was on time.
“Wyn,” she greeted coolly, stepping out of the way.
“Hi, Bea,” I greeted much more warmly, hoping to set a tone, or at least push back on hers so she’d fall into mine, and then both of us could find a way to get beyond where we were and learn to be better at what we were.
