You Deserve Each Other(7)

“Speaking of Mom,” he says, clearing his throat. “She was telling me how she talked to the seamstress about the flower girl’s dress, making sure the measurements were right. And we were both so glad, we were just so glad, that they’re able to help us out.” I feel my soul shrivel up like dust and go poof. “Everyone knows it’s usually the bride’s parents who pay for everything, so we’re lucky Mom and Dad have been so helpful.”

Yes, so helpful. An image of my wedding dress pops into my head, one size too small because my future mother-in-law wants me to be ambitious, A-line and starchy, whiter than her husband’s new veneers. I wanted cream and rose with an empire waist, which she said made me look four months pregnant. Nicholas told her we’re saving ourselves for marriage because she’s ridiculously old-fashioned and has to be coddled and lied to, and when she told me I looked pregnant I was sorely tempted to say it was twins.

I walked out of the bridal shop that day traumatized and broke, three thousand dollars charged to my credit card. To keep my integrity I insisted we split the costs, so Mrs. Rose paid the other three thousand. Six thousand dollars for one dress. I’m haunted by the scarlet word stamped in bold on the plastic sack that suffocates six thousand dollars’ worth of material that will make it impossible for me to eat during the reception (which was the part I was most looking forward to): NON-REFUNDABLE.

Also, they offered their daughter Heather, who lives out of state and who I will meet for the first time on the day of my wedding, the role of maid of honor. When this made me upset, I was told that she’s going to be my sister-in-law, so who else should the role go to? Brandy, my closest friend, was crushed when I told her.

Something else Heather gets for my wedding is a cream-and-rose empire-waist gown, just like all the other bridesmaids who hail from his side of the family.

Nicholas wants me to suck it up and endure being trampled just like he’s learned to do, and raising a stink even to defend myself would be inconvenient for him. I’ve endured so much awfulness for the sake of keeping the peace that I ought to qualify for sainthood. I haven’t voiced my resistance or my anger but I know he feels it, because he sure does love to avoid me these days. He dawdles at work after hours. He’s at his parents’ house more than our own. When he is home, it’s like he can’t wait for our minimal togetherness time to be over so he can scurry off to his study and hunch over the computer until bedtime. In my head I’ve named his computer Karen, after Plankton’s computer wife on SpongeBob.

Nicholas’s parents have money out the wazoo and they’ve thrown a lot of it at this wedding. I don’t care what Nicholas says, they’re not doing it to be nice or because they like me. I’m the uterus that will be carrying future Roses, interchangeable with Nicholas’s ex-girlfriends.

Every step of the way, his parents have reminded me of how lucky I am to have their help, and how high the costs have been. I don’t need the best champagne in the country served at my wedding. I’d be fine with wine from a box. No, no, only the best for their Nicky.

Don’t you worry, Nicky. Mommy and Daddy will take care of it. I know Naomi’s parents can’t. Mr. Westfield was pushed out of his job, wasn’t he? And Mrs. Westfield is just a school-teacher! How quaint. Mr. and Mrs. Westfield can barely afford the gas and the cost of their plates, the poor dears. Now remember, Naomi, don’t slouch. Find a different expression, please. Maybe you should change your face altogether. Is that the color eyes you’re going with? You’re sure? You’re wearing heels, aren’t you? No, not those heels. Those are stripper heels. You’re going to be a Rose, dear. That name means something. Sit up straight. Don’t fidget with your ring. You’re just like a daughter to us, we love you so much. Come stand directly behind us in this family portrait and suck in your stomach.

There’s a smorgasbord of bullshit here to detest, but I think the thing I hate the most about Mr. and Mrs. Rose is that they still call their son Nicky. He won’t even let me call him Nick. When they’re not calling him Nicky and kissing his cheeks like he’s five years old, they’re calling him Dr. Rose and photocopying his dentist certificates to hang in their own study. They’re vicarious dentists and lecture their friends about gum disease.

I can’t possibly back out now. Everyone would be gossiping about me, spreading rumors. I’d look like a failure and an idiot. I’d have wasted thousands of dollars. There’s no exit strategy, so I’m holding my breath and winging it.

I look at Nicholas and realize I am actually marrying this man. Forty percent because I love him and sixty percent because I’m too afraid to call it off. Everyone, including his parents, said we’d never make it down the aisle. I have so much pride that I’ll do it just to prove them wrong.

“Fine, then, don’t help me,” Nicholas huffs, hurling an irritated look at me. I’ve ruined his evening. Stupendous. “I’ll be rushed for time and I’m already stressed out, but what else is new?”

“Preach, sister,” I mutter under my breath. He grumbles and bangs more cabinets, which gives me an oddly satisfying feeling. Misery loves company, after all. If I’m going to be thinking vindictive thoughts all night, I might as well drag him down into the trenches with me.





When we park in front of Brandy’s, Nicholas sees Zach on the porch and eyes me sideways.