Chương 2
I could have told everybody who had paid the deposits.
The venue.
The florist.
The photographer.
The quartet.
The catering package that included miniature crab cakes my mother had insisted were essential because the Caldwells were “food people.”
I had signed all of it.
The contracts had arrived by email over four months, each accompanied by a message from Mom that made refusal feel petty.
Just put your card down temporarily.
Your father’s moving money around.
Brooke is overwhelmed.
You’re the stable one.
We’ll reimburse you before the balances come due.
I believed none of it.
I had still done it.
That was the part I could not blame on them.
I had spent years volunteering for the exact role I claimed to resent.
My mother watched me carefully, perhaps expecting the familiar surrender.
She had seen it many times.
Athena would sigh.
Athena would complain.
Athena would eventually fix the problem.
I bent and placed Brooke’s gift on the stone step.
The torn corner of the paper lifted in the breeze.
“Give her that.”
My mother blinked.
“You’re leaving?”
“You told me to.”
“Well, don’t be dramatic.”
That almost made me smile.
Marjorie looked increasingly uncomfortable.
“I really think there’s been some misunderstanding.”
“There hasn’t,” I said.
My mother’s face hardened.
“Athena.”
I picked up the handle of my suitcase.
My hand was shaking enough that the wheels rattled when I pulled it upright.
I hated that she could see that.
I hated more that I still wanted her to stop me.
Some childish part of me expected her to reach out and say she had gone too far.
She did not.
I walked across the gravel.
By the time I reached my rental car, the quartet had begun the processional music.
I stood with my key fob in my hand and listened.
The melody floated through the open barn doors, soft and familiar.
A woman I did not know hurried past carrying a tray of champagne flutes.
“Bride’s running ten minutes late,” she told another server.
The other woman rolled her eyes.
“Of course she is.”
They disappeared around the side of the building.
Life continued.
That was almost insulting.
The world should have noticed something had broken.
Instead, people adjusted napkins and checked microphones and worried about ice melting in buckets.
I opened the car door.
My phone buzzed.
For one stupid second, hope flared.
Brooke.
It was a fraud alert from my bank asking whether I had approved a charge for £67.40 at an airport shop in Chicago.
I had.
I confirmed it.
Then I sat behind the steering wheel without starting the engine.
Through the windshield, I could see the upper half of the barn and the strings of lights beneath the eaves.
My eyes burned, but I refused to cry in the parking lot.
That refusal lasted perhaps twenty seconds.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my mouth.
The first sob came out ugly and small.
I was not crying because I had missed a wedding.
I was crying because I had crossed an ocean to discover a fact that had apparently been obvious to everyone except me.
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was Brooke.
For a second I could not breathe.
The message contained only six words.
Mom says you came.
Sorry.
I stared at it until the screen dimmed.
Then another message appeared.
Please don’t ruin today over this.
I read that one twice.
Somewhere inside the barn, people began applauding.
Brooke must have reached the aisle.
I started the car.
The air conditioner blasted hot air before turning cold.
On the passenger seat lay the printed reservation for the Magnolia Inn and an envelope containing the speech I had written in case Brooke unexpectedly asked me to say something at the reception.
I had written it on the flight from Chicago.
Three pages about growing up together.
About the time Brooke broke her wrist falling from the maple tree and made me swear not to tell Mom she had climbed higher after being forbidden.
About how she used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
About how proud I was of the woman she had become.
I picked up the pages.
For one wild second, I considered tearing them apart.
Instead, I folded them once and put them in the glove compartment.
Even angry, I had always been slow to destroy things.
My hotel room at the Magnolia Inn smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old carpet.
I left my suitcase unopened near the dresser.
I kicked off my shoes, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the wallpaper until the pattern blurred.
At six thirty, while Brooke and Garrett were probably cutting their cake, I ordered a cheeseburger from room service.
At six forty-five, I canceled it because I felt sick.
At seven ten, I ordered it again.
The waiter who delivered it was a college-aged man with a small tattoo of a bird behind his ear.
“You getting married?” he asked, glancing at my dress.
“Not tonight.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
He handed me the receipt.
I tipped him too much.
When the door closed, I ate three fries and opened my laptop.
I had not planned revenge.
I was not even thinking clearly enough for revenge.
I wanted something practical to do.
Something with rules.
Something that could be answered without anyone telling me I was too sensitive.
I searched my inbox for Meadow Creek.
The first contract appeared immediately.
Meadow Creek Barn and Events.
Primary contract holder: Athena Sinclair.
Total contracted amount: $12,800.
Deposit paid: $3,500.
Remaining balance payable after completion of event services.
My pulse slowed.
I opened another email.
Southern Comfort Catering.
Then Blue Bonnet Floral Design.
Then Whitaker Photography.
Different totals.
Different terms.
Same name.
Mine.
I had assumed the family would transfer the remaining money before the final charges processed.
May you like
That assumption was nowhere in the contracts.
My mother’s promises existed in text messages.
