The Week Before the Wedding Page 8

  As they stepped out into the sunshine, he asked, “Are you okay?”

  She refused to look back at Ryan, but she could feel him watching her. “No.”

  Grant lifted her chin with his index finger so she wasn’t looking at the floor. “If you tell me what’s wrong, I can try to fix it.”

  “I’m drowning in testosterone, that’s what’s wrong.” She threw up her hands.

  Grant pulled her into his arms. “Angel, I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable, and the next time you want to bail on something like this, I promise to listen to you. But since we’re already here—”

  “I hate him,” she said into the front of his shirt. “Do you hear me? Hate.”

  “Don’t let him get to you. Just laugh it off.”

  “I can’t. He makes me insane.” She let her voice drop into a stoned surfer drawl and imitated Ryan: “‘What, are your hands too tired?’ I hate him!”

  Grant smiled as she elbowed her way out of the embrace. “You’re the one who married him.”

  “When I was twenty-two and stupid! You want to know why we got married? Because ‘it’ll be fun.’ Yeah.” She raked her fingers through her hair, which had started to frizz in the humidity. “We were idiots.”

  He reached over and smoothed down her hair. “And this time, you don’t expect marriage to be fun?”

  “Not all the time, no. Marriage is serious. It’s hard work. It’s a lifelong commitment.” The grim, hardened edge in her voice surprised her. She sounded like a woman preparing to trek through the Death Zone on Mount Everest with dwindling food supplies and poor weather conditions. But she had a realistic idea of what they would face in the years following the wedding: the challenges, the impossible dilemmas, the doubts. She could never recapture the innocence and enthusiasm she’d had on the eve of her first marriage—and truthfully, she wouldn’t want to.

  She gentled her tone and turned toward the row of orange daylilies bordering the patio. “Would you mind if I took a minute alone?”

  He touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You sure you’re okay?”

  She pressed her face into his hand, then pulled away when she heard Ryan laughing inside. “I’m fine. I just want to, um, make a call.”

  Ryan officially proposed to Emily halfway through a kegger, the night after their college graduation. The dorms were about to close down for the summer, so all the seniors had crowded into a fourth-floor lounge to say good-bye and wallow in nostalgia and pretend they weren’t petrified about entering the real world. He had to ask her twice, shouting to be heard over the pumping sound system. “Let’s get married.”

  Emily almost spit out her beer laughing, then sobered up when she saw the determination in his eyes.

  “I’m serious, Em. Let’s do it.”

  “Shut up!” Now they were both yelling. “We’re too young to get married!”

  He captured both her hands in his and pulled her in until their toes, their hips, their noses were touching. “I love you. I’m always going to love you. We’re going to get married someday—it’s inevitable.”

  “Then who cares if we do it now or ten years from now?”

  “I care.” He moved his hands behind his back so that her arms encircled his waist, then murmured directly into her ear during the two seconds of silence between songs. “Let’s do it.”

  She tilted her head to the side and kissed him. “You’re crazy.”

  “Not as crazy as you.”

  “True.” She paused, stunned to realize that she was actually considering his proposal. “But we can’t just—”

  “Yes, we can.” He dragged her out into the hallway, shut the thick wooden door, and dropped to one knee on the scratchy industrial carpet. “You’re the one who always says fortune favors the bold.”

  “You’ve been reading that book again, haven’t you?” she asked. Ryan had spent the last month poring over Getting to Yes, a negotiation guide that he claimed was like the Bible for high-powered Hollywood producers.

  He grinned and tugged her down until she was kneeling next to him. “I’m trying to make your decision tree limbless. Is it working?”

  “Dude.” She winced. “This carpet is like sandpaper.”

  “Admit it: You know you want me.”

  She threw herself at him, and they both tumbled down. Then she rolled on top of him, rubbed her cheek against his shirt, and closed her eyes while she inhaled his scent. “I always want you.”

  He sat up and cradled her head in his lap. “I promise you, I love you more than anyone else ever will.”

  She gazed into his hazel eyes, then started laughing again. “You’re going to harass the hell out of me until you get to yes, aren’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.” She grabbed his shoulders and planted a loud, sloppy kiss on his lips. “What the hell. I’ll marry you.”

  Ryan looked so stunned by her acceptance that for a moment Emily worried that he’d been kidding, that the proposal had been a test and she had failed. But then he scrambled to his feet, yanked her up, and flung open the door to the lounge.

  “We’re getting married!” he announced. Emily raised her arms like a prizefighter, and everyone cheered.

  Twenty-four hours later, both of them starry-eyed and slightly buzzed from the bottle of champagne they’d splurged on after the five-minute ceremony at city hall, they’d stumbled into a tattoo parlor.

  Emily barely even flinched as the tattoo artist’s needle pierced the tender flesh on her left ring finger.

  “Well, now we’re definitely going to be together forever,” she told Ryan. “I mean, you can always rip up a marriage certificate or sign divorce papers, but tattoos are serious business.” She looked down at the tiny letter “R,” fresh and raw on her skin, and started to giggle. “My mom is going to freak out.”

  “You’re lucky,” Ryan said. “You got in on the ground floor. Once I get some experience and start my own production company, you’ll get to go to premieres with me, walk the red carpet…. Being my wife is going to be awesome.”

  “It’s already awesome.” She sighed with pleasure, then wriggled in pain as the tattoo artist finished up with the needle. “I want to add something to our vows. Promise me we’ll never change.”

  “Never,” he swore. “We will always be in love. We will always have fun together.”

  “For ever and ever.”

  “Till death do us part.”

  They kissed. They groped. They made out in the tattoo chair until the management asked them to leave.

  And they lived happily ever after…for about five months.

  In retrospect, Emily blamed the implosion of their relationship on the dog.

  A few months after she and Ryan inked each other’s names on their ring fingers, Emily started to have doubts. She loved Ryan. She loved curling up next to him every night; she loved riding on the back of his motorcycle and breathing in the scent of worn leather and freshly mown grass while they cruised around the lake; but when they weren’t having sex or breaking the posted speed limit, there were…problems.

  Like his apparent inability to wash even a single plate or use a coaster under his soda cans.

  Like his stubborn, unwavering belief that the path to becoming a big-shot producer involved a series of internships that required ninety-hour work weeks and no paycheck.

  Which led to the biggest problem of all:

  His refusal to admit that the “cozy” apartment they’d leased after graduation was, in fact, a squalid little rat trap hardly big enough for one person, let alone two.

  And these problems grew and multiplied like the spiders in the bathroom and the cockroaches beneath the fridge.

  One evening, after a ten-hour shift of typing and Xeroxing for the financial firm she temped for, Emily came home to find food congealed on a stack of dishes next to the sink.

  She placed her briefcase on the chipped laminate countertop with a bit more force than necessary. “Little known fact: This
handle attached to the faucet? It turns the water on. You can actually rinse out a bowl. Incredible but true.”

  Ryan, sprawled out on the couch, didn’t even open his eyes. “I’ll do it in a minute.”

  “No, you won’t.” She turned the water on full blast. “You’ll be asleep in a minute.”

  “Baby…”

  “Don’t ‘baby’ me.” She snatched up the dish soap, only to realize the plastic squeeze bottle was empty. “I had a really hard day today, and I don’t need to come home and—”

  “I had a hard day, too. I’ve had about sixteen hard days in a row. This film is FUBAR.”

  “Well, then, may I make a suggestion? Maybe you could get a job that actually pays you.”

  He groaned. “Not that again.”

  “Yes, Ryan. That. Again. I am sick of being the only responsible one around here.”

  He lifted up his head and gave her that charming, rakish grin. “You? Responsible?”

  “I am responsible. You’re making me be responsible,” she accused. “For the bills, for the groceries, for the laundry, for everything.”

  “It’s only for a little while. I’m getting my foot in the door with all these industry people, and pretty soon one of them will hire me full-time. And then we’ll move out to California—”

  “Define ‘pretty soon.’ I want an actual date.”

  “I can’t give you that.”

  “Then get over here and wash your own damn dishes.”

  “Fine.” He struggled to his feet, glaring at her with eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. “Damn, Emily. You used to be fun.”

  “What’s fun about living like this? And PS, we’re short on rent money.”

  Rowf!

  The demanding little bark derailed the lecture Emily was about to launch into. “What was that?”

  “Yeah, I was going to tell you when you stopped yelling at me,” Ryan said. “The script supervisor was giving away a few puppies, and, um…”

  Rowf! Rowfrowfrowfrowfrowf!

  Emily followed the sound of frenzied barking to the bedroom door, which she opened with a mounting sense of dread.

  An adorable, fluffy tan puppy crouched on the other side of the door, staring up at her expectantly.

  Directly behind the dog were the shredded remnants of the curtains. The metal rod dangled from the wall at a precarious angle.

  “Oh my God.” Emily clapped her hand to her mouth.

  “You love dogs,” Ryan reminded her.

  “What were you thinking?” Her eyes filled with hot, angry tears. “We can’t take care of a dog!”

  “Calm down. It’s just a little puppy.”

  “Who’s already mangled the curtains and cost us our security deposit. I can’t believe you didn’t talk to me about this!” She put her hands on her hips. “Who’s going to walk her? Who’s going to come home at lunch and let her out? Who’s going to take her to obedience classes?”

  Ryan surveyed the tangled wreckage of clothes, books, DVD cases, and blankets strewn across the bedroom floor. “Uh…”

  “You don’t even clean up after yourself. And what about vet bills? Checkups, shots? We’re already living on ramen and rice.”

  Ryan gaped at her. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you just relax? Everything will work out.”

  For a moment, Emily could see herself through his eyes, and she hated what she saw: a joyless shrew with pursed lips and no sense of humor.

  And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to relax and relent, because she was already at her breaking point. She was back in her childhood, sick to her stomach with anxiety over debts she couldn’t pay and a partner she couldn’t rely on.

  As much as she loved Ryan, being married to him was not what she’d expected. Probably because she hadn’t expected anything. She’d just made a snap decision, and now she was going to have to deal with the consequences for the rest of her life.

  For the rest of your life. The words echoed through her mind, punctuated by the pounding of a gavel. A life sentence with a cell mate who left his wet clothes in the washing machine until they began to mildew, and who “forgot” to change the bedsheets, and who left her scrambling to play catch-up with overdue bills and snowballing credit card debt.

  Ryan picked up the puppy and tried to get her to hold it. “Look at that face. Come on.”

  She crossed her arms, refusing to accept the puppy. “Did you even check to see if we’re allowed to have pets?”

  “Whoops. I knew I forgot something. But don’t worry, I’ll talk to the building manager. You know I’ll get him to yes.”

  “Because rules don’t apply to you.”

  He nodded. “Rules are for people who don’t know how to negotiate.” He scratched the dog’s ears and asked, “What should we name her?”

  Emily stalked out of the bedroom and into the hallway. “Take her back.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. We can’t do this, Ryan. She’s cute, and I know you meant well, but I can’t handle one more thing right now. And if we give her a name, I’ll get attached, and I just…Please, take her back.”

  “How about Mina? You know, like Mina Harker from Dracula?”

  “Open your ears. We are not. Naming. Her.”

  “How about Blair as in the Blair Witch?”

  “I’m leaving.” When she slammed the door behind her, she heard a picture frame fall off the wall.

  She walked around the city for hours, hunching into her parka as the night air turned frigid. It felt heavenly to be out of that apartment—away from the clutter and the grimy little shower and the twinges of panic that she would be trapped here forever.

  Georgia had often remarked that marriage was hard. “You have to work at it,” she’d warned Emily. “You really have to want to stay married.” Emily had rolled her eyes and chalked up Georgia’s serial matrimony to a lack of restraint and patience. She’d vowed that she wouldn’t settle for anything less than happily ever after.

  Just a few months ago, she’d felt certain she’d found her fairy-tale ending. She and Ryan had promised to love each other forever, and she knew that they would. They’d also promised they’d never change.

  And he hadn’t—but she had.

  “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me, Dean Jacobi.” The day after she walked out on Ryan, Emily strode into the business school’s administrative office wearing a navy suit, offering a firm handshake to the massive mountain of a man seated behind the wide mahogany desk.

  The dean, bald and heavy-browed, barely glanced up from the paperwork in front of him. “My pleasure, Ms. McKellips.” He looked down at the note scribbled in his appointment book. “My assistant tells me you’d like to discuss admittance to our MBA program.”

  “That’s right.” Emily sat down, crossing her ankles and projecting what she hoped was an air of supreme confidence.

  “Our deadline for admission was nearly a month ago.”

  Emily nodded. “I’m aware of that. But I’m hoping I might still be allowed to submit my application materials.” She opened the sleek Italian leather briefcase her stepfather had sent her as a graduation gift. “I brought along my résumé and transcript. I also have excellent recommendations.” She slid the papers across the desk.

  The dean didn’t even glance at them. “Have you taken the Graduate Management Admissions Test?”

  “Well. No, not exactly. But I’ve spent the last few months”—weeks, really, but who was counting?—“interning at an accounting firm downtown.” She made coffee and photocopies as an office temp, but “interning” sounded much more professional.

  The dean pushed back his chair. “Our successful applicants typically score above the eighty-fifth percentile on the GMAT. In addition, we give priority to applicants who have at least two years of real-world business experience, including budget management.” He stared her down, clearly waiting for her to collect her things and exit gracefully.

  But she couldn’t go. She had already wasted t
oo much time, made too many mistakes to surrender without a fight. Her job and her relationship were both at a dead end, and she needed a way up and out. “I understand, sir. I do. And I know I’m not your typical applicant.”

  “Nor did you apply before the deadline,” he reminded her. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm and interest in our program, I’d strongly recommend that you spend the next few years getting some more hands-on experience, and reapply when you’re ready.”

  Emily took a deep breath and tried to imagine how Ryan would handle this negotiation. How would he make the decision tree limbless?

  How would he get to yes?

  She straightened her shoulders and waited until the silence of his dismissal stretched into a long, excruciating pause. Finally, the dean glanced back at her.

  “Ms. McKellips?”

  “I’m ready to start the MBA program now, sir.”

  He finally looked at her, really looked, and whatever he saw made his expression switch from mild irritation to the beginnings of amusement.

  “You’re a tough woman to get rid of.”

  “You have no idea,” she assured him. “I understand that you’re busy and that this is a very competitive program, but I can’t leave here with a no.”

  The creases in the dean’s forehead deepened. “Excuse me?”

  She kept her composure. “I’m willing to do the work, sir—whatever they can throw at me. I’ll be the best damn business student to ever come through this program.”

  A faint smile played on his lips. “Are you trying to negotiate with me? Because I should tell you that I’ve taught multiple courses on the art of negotiation. People pay me a lot of money to negotiate on their behalf, Ms. McKellips.”

  She maintained eye contact and repeated, “I can’t leave here with a no.”

  His expression flickered, and she knew she had him. She had gotten to yes.

  “You’re not getting into this program as an MBA student,” the dean insisted. “But, I suppose, if you’re willing to sit in as an unofficial postbaccalaureate student, you could audit a few classes.”