“No. I don’t want Julian’s money. Jesus, Marston, what do you think of me?”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult. You’ve struggled so much, and I could see the appeal of letting him—”
“Well, you’re wrong. That’s not the life I want.”
I swallow hard. I want to pull her into my arms so badly that my hands are shaking. “So it’s really love, then? You spent one night with me and then came back here to kick-start your life with him? What the fuck, Brinley? How’s that supposed to make me feel?”
She stares at me, that angry spark in her eyes flaring brighter. “How is this about you?”
“Can you really not remember, or is that just some bullshit you’re shoveling because you don’t want to be held accountable for the decisions you made that night?”
Her whole face hardens, and when she opens her mouth, I brace myself for a verbal lashing. I want it. Anything that will help me understand.
Instead, she snaps her mouth shut and walks away.
* * *
Brinley
“You okay, Mommy?” Cami asks as we walk into the condo.
I toss my keys on the foyer table and hang my purse from the hook. “Yeah, baby. Why?”
“You were quiet the whole way home.” She frowns. “Was it okay that I showed Marston how to make lemon poppyseed pinwheels?”
The knot of worry in my chest loosens as I take in her worried green eyes. I smooth back her hair. “That was just fine. I’m sorry I’m being so quiet. I have a lot on my mind.”
“About the wedding?” she asks quietly.
I swallow. One of my biggest concerns with this whole marriage is how it will affect Cami. I wouldn’t have considered it if she and Julian didn’t have a great rapport or if I thought our marriage would negatively impact her life at all. Before I agreed to Julian’s proposal, I sat down with Cami, and we talked about what it would mean for us. I needed her to be on board too, or I couldn’t do it. She was excited about the prospect of having a stepdad, and that seemed like enough. But still, Julian and I always said that if things didn’t click for us as a married couple, we’d get divorced after Cami left for college, and I can’t deny that a divorce would affect her—especially after living with him for that long. “A little,” I admit. My phone buzzes in my purse, but I ignore it. “Do you ever think about it?”
She nods. “I think it’ll be good for you not to be alone all the time.”
My heart. “Honey, you don’t need to worry about me.”
“I know. You’re fierce and you can handle anything,” she says, parroting the words I’ve told her so many times when she’s struggled. “But I thought Julian might make it so you don’t have to work so hard.”
I pull her into a hug and stoop to bury my face in her dark hair. “I kind of love working hard,” I whisper. “It feels good to know I can do it on my own.”
Not one for long snuggles these days, she withdraws from my arms and meets my eyes. “Whatever you decide, Mama, we’re gonna be just fine. We always have been.”
I nod and swallow hard, hoping those tears I feel rising can be pushed back down. “You’re a pretty cool kid, you know that?”
She grins. “I know.” Just like that, she turns and runs into the living room, the conversation over.
I grab my phone and wander toward the kitchen as I unlock it to read the text I missed.
Marston: I’m sorry. I fucked up that conversation. For the record, I hate that you can’t remember.
There’s a video attached to the message, and I glance toward the living room before tapping play. Cami has her sketchbook in her lap and is already pulling up her favorite YouTube channel.
The video is low resolution, probably condensed before it was sent, but I can make out Marston and me at the front of a softly lit chapel. Marston’s holding my hands, and a tall man in a dark suit stands before us.
I gasp, realizing what I’m seeing. This is our wedding. I’m simultaneously desperate to watch and scared that seeing it will confuse me even more.
Marston looks to whoever’s holding the phone. “Ready?” he asks.
“We’re rolling,” the woman behind the camera says. “You both look great.”
“Marston,” the officiant says, “would you like to start with your vows?”
“Let me go first?” I ask, my voice nearly squeaking. “I don’t want to forget what I planned.”
I squint at the pixelated video, trying to determine how drunk I am. The excitement in my voice might be tipsiness, but I imagined myself stumbling down the aisle with Marston, and I don’t sound drunk. Whatever made me decide to say these vows and put on his ring, I can’t blame it all on the alcohol, which doesn’t make any sense to me. What was I thinking? How did I ever think we could work?