“Are you okay, Mom?” Ansley asks, her forehead wrinkled in concern.
“Of course, sweetheart.” I swallow and pull tightly on the ragged edges of my anger. “I was just trying to figure out whether we need to peel more potatoes.”
* * *
• • •
Hours later, when Christmas dinner is ready, Nate slices the turkey and ham onto the serving platters, bowing as if expecting applause for this lone contribution to the meal. I keep myself from snorting by picturing Meena rolling her eyes.
“You know, Jude,” he says when I pass him a plate with wedges of homemade pumpkin and pecan pie for dessert, “I think this may be our best Christmas ever.”
The smile freezes on my face, and I clamp my lips shut. Christmas is a day for making happy memories, not spewing hard truths. If I open my mouth now, I’m afraid I’ll tell him and our children what I really think. And exactly how I feel.
This is not the time to rain my hurt and anger and disappointment down all over him. This Christmas needs to be one we’ll all remember as happy. Because after the kids leave, Nate and I are going to have our own very personal come-to-Jesus meeting.
For the first time, I realize that if that doesn’t set things straight, this could be our very last Christmas together.
Six
Erin
The morning after Christmas used to feel anticlimactic, with all the excitement of the holiday over (if you didn’t count the after-Christmas sales that my parents treated like a call to battle) and too much time to kill until we went back to school.
But this December 26 I’m barely a week away from finally turning the dream I’ve been dreaming all these years into reality. Once I walk down the aisle at the historic Primrose Cottage to become Mrs. Joshua Stevens, Josh and I will finally get to eat, sleep, and live together. This beautiful condo that we chose and decorated will become our home.
I pull the covers up around us and snuggle in against the heat that Josh always generates. Happiness floods through me. He’s the only guy I’ve ever loved. The only one I’ve slept with.
I finger the delicate rose-gold necklace with its graffiti-style heart and arrow Josh gave me for Christmas and that I slept in and that I never plan to take off. It’s the only thing I’m wearing, and each time it moves against my bare skin, I actually feel like the sex goddess Josh calls me.
I rub my face against his chest, and its cover of dark hair tickles my nose. His scent is both heady and comforting. The way he moves, his reactions, are as familiar as my own. I don’t know whether humans imprint the same way animals do, but everything about him feels exactly right.
I keep my eyes closed because once I open them it’ll really be morning and I’ll feel like I have to get out of bed and do something, when all I want to do is lie here next to Josh. Maybe Sleeping Beauty wasn’t really poisoned but just sleeping in until Prince Charming arrived. Feeling wicked and bold, I climb on top of him and let the necklace and my breasts brush against him.
He moans softly and hardens beneath me. He may be the only person I’ve ever slept with, but I’ve learned the things he likes, and I know how to tell just how much he likes it. But this time when I start to move against him, he puts his hands on my waist to stop me.
“Hold on.”
I laugh because I know he has to be kidding. He’s always wanting me to be bolder, to take the initiative. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” His eyes are open now, and he looks way too serious for someone who talked me into all those wicked things last night. “But I . . .” He lifts me off him and sets me gently on the bed. “I, uh, I need to pee. Be right back.”
I pillow my head in my hands and look up into the tray ceiling, letting myself imagine him waiting for me, looking lovingly up the aisle as I make my way toward him. When he comes back, he’s wearing sweatpants that hang low on his hips. “Here.” He hands me one of his T-shirts. “Put this on.”
I sit up, confused. He has never, ever asked me to put clothes on. I’m not very experienced, but I know it’s not good when a man, especially your fiancé, asks you to get dressed. “Okay, now you’re starting to freak me out. What’s going on?”
“Please. Just . . . sit up. Here.” He takes the T-shirt back and yanks it down over my head, holding it there until I push my arms through the short sleeves, which hang to my wrists.
“Okay.” He swallows. “I um, let’s . . . maybe we should go in the kitchen. You’d probably like a cup of coffee, right?”
Before I can answer, he reaches for my hand and pulls me out of bed. In the kitchen, he leads me to a barstool, then puts a K-Cup in the machine. When he sets the steaming mug in front of me, he stays on the other side of the counter and doesn’t meet my eye. I shiver, but not because I’m only wearing his T-shirt.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting . . . that I need to tell you.”
Butterflies start kickboxing in my stomach. I don’t want to hear whatever put that hitch in his voice.
Now he meets my eyes, and his are filled with panic, which is something a big-league pitcher never shows.
If he’s about to confess he cheated on me, I don’t want to hear it. Not today. Maybe not ever. Confession might be good for the soul, but I don’t think it’s good for a relationship. And it’s definitely not good for a bride to hear from her groom one week before their wedding.
“No.” I put out a hand to stop him. “Don’t.” I shake my head. “Because once you say it . . . you’ll never be able to take it back. And I’ll never be able to unhear it.”
When he clasps my hands between his, I tell myself it’s okay. That we all make mistakes. Though I’m pretty sure cheating is technically more of a sin than a mistake.
“I’m sorrier than I can ever say.” His voice shakes with emotion. “But . . .”
“Oh, God.” I close my eyes and tell myself that it doesn’t matter who she was. I don’t need details. And I don’t want to know her name. All I have to do is listen to his apology so that I can forgive him. And at some point, I’ll find a way to get over it. Unless it’s someone I know. Or a close friend. Or . . .
His hands crush mine. My heart is a drum trying to beat its way out of my chest.
“I can’t marry you,” he blurts. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“What?” My eyes fly open. I drag a breath of air into my lungs, but with all the blood whooshing in my ears, I must not have heard him right. “What did you say?”
“I said, I can’t go through with the wedding. I’m not ready to get married.”