My Professor(82)
My stomach squeezes tight.
“If you hate your life so much, why don’t you change it?”
“Ask yourself the same question.”
“We’re talking about you.”
He smiles. “I’m good at deflecting.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you going to get help?”
“I told you, I don’t have a problem.”
“What does Emmett think?”
“Emmett has enough on his plate without having to worry about me. My father will be in town next week…”
Even I shiver at the thought.
“Want to meet him?” he asks lightly.
I laugh and shake my head because the idea is absolutely absurd, and then once the shock of it burns away, I know my answer is still no. Strange considering how much I longed to meet him when I was a child. I would have given anything to have him join my mother and me at Dunlany, but the events of the last few weeks have proved to me that on occasion, it’s best to leave well enough alone. Frédéric can’t heal the wounds of my past. He can’t bring back my mother. I think back on how Emmett treated me the night I met him—the words I’ll never be able to erase from my memory—and I know I won’t willingly put myself through an experience like that again. It’s not worth the risk.
“I’d rather not, if that’s okay.”
Alexander nods, not pressing the subject.
“Should I get you back to work?” he says before standing.
“Yes. I’m leaving town for a wedding this weekend, but when I get back, I’ll text you. We can go for coffee.”
“Emmett too,” he adds.
“Emmett too.” I nod, already looking forward to it.
Chapter Thirty-One
Emelia
* * *
When I get married, I’ll do it on a spring day at Dunlany. I’ll elope under the oak tree among the flowers, right near my mother, hopefully with the help of Mr. Parmer. I’ll stand across from my fiancé and say I do, and I’ll think of this quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald: “Their lips brushed like young wildflowers in the wild.” Then we’ll sit down right there and share a picnic, open a bottle of champagne, enjoy the simple moment. It won’t be perfect. I’ll forget to chill the champagne. My newly minted husband will accidentally spill some on my dress when he pours us each a glass. The wind will pick up and whip my hair every which way, but then little moments will be better than I could have imagined. My husband will take my hand during the ceremony before he’s instructed to, like he needs an anchor. The clouds will split apart and reveal a bright hot sun, a welcome relief and a sign of good times ahead. I’ll think of my mother and feel her love.
Sonya’s wedding is the polar opposite of what I would want, but it’s so perfectly her that I know she’s having the best day. Everything is a little over the top, starting with the number of people in the wedding party: fourteen bridesmaids and fourteen groomsmen. They could barely fit us all at the altar during the rehearsal yesterday.
“Closer,” the wedding coordinator said with a strained smile. “Everyone scoot in.”
From the moment I arrived until now, it’s been one shindig after another: a welcome lunch, a cocktail hour, a rehearsal dinner, and a bridesmaid brunch. I’ve met so many aunts and uncles I can’t tell anyone apart anymore.
It’s a perfect-storm scenario: an outgoing, gregarious bride from a large family and an outgoing, gregarious groom from an even larger family. Expanding the guest list even more, Wesley’s parents tacked on a whole slew of people they needed to invite for one reason or another: friends from the golf club, acquaintances from work, business relations. This isn’t a wedding so much as a social event for the entire tri-state area.
We’re at a resort in upstate New York that’s nestled in a valley surrounded by an apple orchard, a pumpkin patch, and a private pond. Fall is in the air. Golden yellow and deep red leaves crunch underfoot. There are close to three hundred guests here for the wedding, and even though the resort could still house a few hundred more, Sonya and Wesley have rented the entire place out. No expense has been spared.
I’m overwhelmed and exhausted, and I’m not even the one getting married.
I’m with Sonya in her suite while she gets ready before the ceremony. Connected to the room is another suite housing the makeup and hair team, who’ve been working their way through all the bridesmaids. I finished a little while ago, and now I sit, watching Sonya get the finishing touches done to her makeup.
“You already look stunning,” I tell her, trying not to sound overly cheesy.
“Don’t,” she says, keeping her eyes closed for the makeup artist. “I can hear the emotion in your voice. If you cry, I’ll cry.”
“Okay, let’s talk about something else. Have you heard from Wesley today? Is that allowed?”
“We haven’t talked since last night. At dinner, the guys were refilling his glass every five seconds, so I have no doubt he’s off somewhere having a nice little nap.”
I smile at the image. “He still has a while to get ready. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
She sighs. “Ah, the joys of being a man. He’ll take a five-minute shower, shave, and slap some pomade on his hair, and he’ll look like he’s ready to walk the red carpet.”