Page 49 of Monsters, Vows, and Growls
“She can hold her own,” I said, instantly regretting it.
Ella’s eyes flashed. “Wow. So because she’s loud and snarky, that makes it okay?”
“No. Damn it, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then whatdidyou mean, Patrick?”
I let out a slow breath. “I meant… your mom makes me feel like I’m wrong for existing. Gabe makes Carol feel like she’s annoying.”
“He's not just annoying to her,” she said tightly. “Hehurtsher.”
That pulled me up short.
“Hurts her how?”
Ella shook her head. “I don’t know. But it’s there. Every time he looks at her. Like something happened and neither of them will talk about it, so they just keep cutting each other down.”
I stayed quiet for a second, letting that sink in. Because she wasn’t wrong. And that made it harder.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally. “I know this is complicated.”
She nodded. “It is.”
“But Gabe’s still coming.”
“And so is my mom.”
We stared at each other—both stubborn, both unwilling to back down, both silently daring the other to blink first.
Then, slowly, Ella sighed and reached for my hand.
“This doesn’t have to be a fight,” she said softly. “We’re not our families.”
“No,” I agreed. “We’re better.”
She smiled, just a little. “Still going to sit them next to each other?”
I barked a laugh. “God, no. I want tosurvivethe wedding.”
She tugged me close again, resting her forehead against mine. “So we’re okay?”
I kissed her gently. “We’re always okay.”
Even when we weren’t.
We’d get back here. Every time. I would prove to her that I would never push her away, and if that meant having her harpy of a mother there, then I would put up with it. Somehow. Because I loved Ella with all my heart, and I would do anything for her.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.I’d iced a thousand cakes. Caramelized sugar to glass. Deboned a duck under pressure. But somehow, trying to attach a tiny pearl pin to the back of my hair felt like brain surgery in a hurricane.
“Deep breaths, bridezilla,” Carol said behind me, gently plucking the pin from my trembling fingers and doing it herself in three seconds flat.
“I’m not a bridezilla,” I muttered, staring at my reflection. “I’m just emotionally compromised and sweating through my silk.”
Carol gave me a look in the mirror. “You’re glowing. And if you call that sweating, I’d like to introduce you to what happened under my boobs during your last cake tasting.”
That made me laugh, just a little, which helped.
The bridal suite at the venue smelled like fresh peonies and hairspray. The old barn-turned-event-space had been transformed into a forest fairy tale — soft string lights, pine-scented candles, rich autumn blooms in every corner. It was perfect.
