“You don’t think I might have wanted a say in the type of flowers we have at our wedding?” I reply. “What about you? Don’t you want a say?”
Nicholas blinks at me. There’s an emotion hiding in his eyes, and I try to identify it before he turns his head to a sharper angle and it vanishes.
“It’s already settled. She picked carnations, since you were so ridiculously adamant that it not be roses. Or do you think it’s not too late to make changes? Think hard, Naomi. Anything you want to back out of?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What do you think I mean by that?”
My eyes narrow. “Are you suggesting I back out of the carnations even though you literally just said that we’re already settled on the carnations?”
“Maybe I’m not talking about carnations at all.”
My spine snaps straight and I hold his stare, picking that emotion back to his surface. And I realize.
He’s fraying my ropes.
“Oh?”
Nicholas lifts his shoulder. Lets it drop. “We could talk about anything. What do you say, Naomi? Anything you want to get off your chest?” He waits patiently for a response, but all I can do is stare at him. My mind is going a zillion miles an hour, zinging from revelation to revelation. I can’t believe I’ve been so dense.
All along I’ve thought Mrs. Rose has been pulling the strings, but it’s been Nicholas, using Deborah’s nails-on-a-chalkboard powers to drive me to the point where I’ll call this off. I’ll be the crazy ex-girlfriend who snapped; I’ll be at fault for everything and responsible for the steep costs of a broken engagement and lavish wedding. Everyone will feel bad for him because of what he had to undergo, jilted at the altar.
I can see him now, chin held high. I just want her to be happy, he’ll say. A garden of Roses will sigh breathlessly and wonder how any angel could be so composed in such a dreadful situation. He’ll screw up his eyes and think about that time a guy in a truck clipped his car, and squeeze out a single tear.
For the space of a heartbeat, I see our situation through his eyes. If I end this and he gets to pretend to mourn the death of our relationship, he can easily milk that for at least a year. A year of Deborah not riding his ass over giving her grandchildren because “the wounds are still fresh.” Everyone around him will bend over backward to accommodate him. If he ends it, on the other hand, I’ll come out of this looking golden. I won’t be at fault; no one will call me a fraud. If anything, I’ll gain sympathy points. People will say How could he let you go? and If you ever need to talk to someone, I’m here.
When you build a life with someone, so many of your building blocks prop up your partner, and you’re propped up by theirs, until your foundations merge and walking away risks destabilization for you both. We have joint checking and savings accounts. Our phones are on the same plan. Both of our names are on the lease, and it stands to reason that whoever bails forfeits the house. His parents have invested in me, grooming me into Mrs. Rose material. We have obligations together. Long-term plans. I can’t cut a line between Nicholas and me and float away free, because we have tangles.
Yes. I look at him and for once, I can see outside my own cloud of resentment long enough to see that he’s got one of his own. He’s perceptive, all right. He’s already known for some time what I’m feeling. I’m not a good actress after all.
Our love percentage plummets to zero and a tremor shudders through the floor. Tiles and furniture tip into a crevice that snakes all the way down to the earth’s core, separating kitchen and living room, him and me. The truth is plain, unfolding before us, but as usual I am late to catch on because I’ve been holding it all in and trying to rationalize away my gut instincts. Focused on myself, so wrapped up in trying to hide that I don’t even notice which moves he’s making.
My engagement to Nicholas Rose is a game of chicken.
It’s day one of being clued in on the fact that I’m locked in a battle of wills, and I’m lagging behind. Nicholas has enjoyed a leisurely stretch of uninterrupted time surveying our battlefield while I grapple blindly like a video game character stuck in a glitch. He’s been strolling along, hands clasped behind his back, burying land mines with finesse. He’s going to win this, like he wins everything. I think of his gold Maserati and my Saturn sharing curb space.
I groan and nearly give in when I sit up in bed and pluck off the Skittle he’s left half-melted to my arm, leaving behind colorful mermaid scales. Nicholas doesn’t work today but he’s gone somewhere else after dropping off those stupid cookies, probably off to braid his mother’s hair. Does he even eat the Skittles or does he simply dump them there, trying to piss me off?
I’m tempted to pack my bags and go right now, but that would be playing into what he wants. If anyone’s going to pay Deborah back for three hundred customized champagne flutes with N & N on them, it’s going to be him, out of guilt, after he dumps me. Afterward, I’ll hock my engagement ring and take a well-deserved honeymoon by myself in celebration. A singlemoon.
I’m thinking of ways I can get him to break first, like withholding sex, but truly I don’t think that would faze him. It’s been nine weeks since the last time he unenthusiastically gave me the business. If it weren’t for the perks of shorter, infrequent periods, my strict adherence to a birth control regimen would be for no purpose whatsoever.
Maybe I can set up a fake online profile to catfish him. When he falls for it I can point at my handiwork and get righteously angry. I’ll storm off. His mother will burst into tears. I’ll take a picture of the moment and have it framed.
I’m going to blame the Skittles for what happens next.
I troop into the bathroom with a pair of scissors, pull down a hank of hair over my forehead, and snip it off before I can lose my nerve. The eyes in my reflection are wide and maniacal and I love it. I love the Naomi who can do things like this and not give a shit. Nicholas doesn’t like bangs? Fantastic. I don’t like Nicholas.
I notice my new bangs are slightly crooked, so I snip them to even them out. I end up overcorrecting so I have to snip again, and what I’m left with is not at all like Brandy’s cute hairstyle.
I’m left with a sight that makes me mutter, “Ah, fudge.”
It’s even worse than being a kid and your frugal mom, who only goes to the salon to get her own hair done, puts a bowl over your head and cuts beneath the rim. I look like I got my hair cut by bending too close to a shredder. And there are two layers to the bangs, somehow. If I try to even them out any more it’ll be chewed off almost to the scalp.
I stand in my empty house for a minute and listen to the whoosh of car tires spraying through leftover rain, estimating how far ahead of me Nicholas is, how many moves I need to make in order to catch up. I peer outside and observe a suspicious development: my flat tire has pumped up back to life. Either someone changed it for me or I imagined the whole ordeal. Right now, the latter seems more likely.
I see that he didn’t wash the dishes like he promised, and I almost admire the evil touch. Neglecting to wash dishes is one thing. Voluntarily saying you’re going to do it and then not doing it is an act of hostility.