Campbell—
If you were my cat, I’d let you go on purpose.
Slade (age 10)
PS—My cat came back … not that you care.
Slade—
It must have been hungry.
Or stupid.
Campbell (age 9)
5
Slade
“Oh, Slade, there you are.” Blythe stops me in the hall, placing her hand on my sweaty shoulder as I return from my 5:30 AM jog. Running in this weather is brutal and my lungs feel like blocks of ice, but I’m invigorated, got my morning dose of sunlight, and now I’m ready to take on the day, and that’s all that matters. “We’re having breakfast in an hour in the dining room. I know you do the whole intermittent fasting thing, but will you at least join us for coffee? I was hoping we could discuss the itinerary for the rest of your stay?”
“Of course.” It’s not like I have anything else to do.
“Wonderful.” Blythe’s smiling gaze lingers on me a moment longer before she lets me go. “See you soon.”
Continuing down the hall, I pass Campbell’s bedroom. The door is half-open for once, so I steal a glimpse inside for the first time ever. The busy floral wallpaper and walnut-stained Americana furnishings makes the space look like it was ripped out of a Ralph Lauren ad campaign circa 1996. A desk in the corner is littered with framed photos, notebooks, and various ribbons—all serving as reminders that while I’ve known this woman almost my entire life, I still hardly know anything about her.
A glass curio cabinet in the far corner houses an expensive-looking doll collection—a strange thing for a twenty-four-year-old woman to fall asleep next to every night, but I have a feeling Blythe designed every square inch of this space, so I don’t hold it against Campbell.
If anything, I feel sorry for her.
Every day of her existence has been micromanaged and orchestrated and dictated.
It’s the one thing we have in common.
The only thing, truly.
“See something you like?” Campbell’s voice sends a start to my heart. Between all the busy-ness going on in her room, I hadn’t noticed her standing amongst it all.
“Yeah,” I quip back. “Was just admiring your porcelain doll collection.”
She fights a smirk, though her cheeks flush a pale shade of rose, as if she’s both humored and embarrassed. I take a moment to drink her in. Even with her glossy blonde hair piled into a mess on top of her head and crumbs of sleep in her eyes, she’s still a work of art—prettier than any doll on any shelf could ever be.
“Will your collection be joining us in Palm Beach?” I ask.
“That’s up to your future mother-in-law. I have a feeling she’ll say the humidity will be bad for their curls, though she really likes you, so maybe if you ask nicely, she’ll concede?”
I’m leaning against her doorway, which I hadn’t realized I was doing until now. Crossing the threshold feels like an unnatural move, so I don’t take another step. Six months from now we’ll be sharing a bed—and our bodies. The irony of this moment isn’t lost on me, but I don’t have time to stand around and give it another thought.
Without a word, I head to my suite to take a shower and prepare for breakfast—and a day chock full of dreaded wedding planning activities.
I’ve never understood the antiquated concept of marriage or why people continually keep this ridiculous tradition alive when more than half of all marriages fail catastrophically anyway.
If I were a betting man, I’d bet against marriage every time.
Unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury with our union. I meant what I said last night when I told her this was going to be the hardest thing either of us would ever do. Fortunately for me, I can do hard things. I can’t speak for Campbell, though her optimism is admirable.
Foolish.
But admirable.
.
Campbell—
I’m only sending you this birthday card because my mom said I had to. I hope you have an awful birthday. I hope your cake is salty and the ice cream melts into a big puddle of sludge. If I got you a gift, it would be a bag of smelly trash wrapped with a puke green bow.
Slade (age 11)
Slade—
You’re just mad you weren’t invited to my party.
Campbell (age 10)
6
Campbell
“Are you sure you want to register for that?” Slade points at the gaudy fiesta-style chip-n-dip platter in my hand as we peruse yet another shop for our bridal registry.
“Are you implying that I have bad taste?” I keep a straight face knowing damn well it’s the ugliest chip-n-dip platter in existence.
He cocks his head, lifting a brow. “Well, I’m not implying that you have good taste.”
“How great would this look at our annual Cinco de Mayo pool party though?”
“Pretty sure I didn’t agree to an annual Cinco de Mayo pool party.”
“Oh, but you did. I slipped it into the pre-nup,” I say. “Article twelve, section three—festivities and celebrations.”
“Must have missed that part.” Gently he takes the dish from my hand and places it back on the shelf. “I get the impression you’re just trying to waste time while your mom picks out our wedding china, but let me remind you we still have five more stores to hit after this.”
I hate how well he can ‘read’ me.
It’s cruel, really.
He picks up on more nuances than some of my closest friends ever have.
“You have a point,” I say.
At breakfast this morning, my mother informed us we’d be spending the day in Portland completing our wedding registry. Never mind that Slade’s house already has everything a person could want or need and then some. Most of the things we’re registering for will likely be donated anyway, so I’m keeping an eye out for practical items.
I’ve only been to Slade’s personal estate in Palm Beach once, and I wasn’t exactly making myself at home. Beside the place being ice cold thanks to a plethora of air conditioning units running around the clock, it was wide open, expansive, and reminded me more of a modern art gallery than a place a person would find comfort at the end of the day.
“My darlings, what do you think of these?” My mother appears out of nowhere, holding up two plates: one with a baby blue floral pattern around the edge and the other with scalloped gold edges. “You can’t go wrong with either, in my opinion. True classics. Though, Slade, I know you favor a more modern aesthetic, so I’m happy to look for more options.”
Slade and I exchange looks, both of us silently daring the other to speak first.
Anything I say to her will go in one ear and out the other, so I lift my brows and wait for him to pick.
“To be completely honest, Blythe, I can’t imagine we’ll use the china at all. Even then, it feels a bit superfluous to ask for twenty place settings. I’d hate to have our guests waste their hard-earned money on something that’ll be collecting dust in a drawer somewhere.” He softens his expression as if it could possibly soften the blow he’s just landed in my mother’s speechless direction.