Page 67 of Holiday Wedding
“Gallivanting!” I gasp, shocked he used that word. “Are you serious right now?Youtold me to go to this conference. You said it would be fine.”
“I said to go away for a week. Not two.”
His exaggeration makes me even more enraged. “I’ll be home tomorrow!”
“No, you won’t,” he argues. “It’s a blizzard here. I can’t see out the window. Half the city has lost power. It’ll take days to clean this up.”
My stomach drops, sinking down into my feet. “Days? We don’t have days.”
“Why do you think I’m freaking out? Our families have flown in. My cousins came all the way from Ireland. They’re here, and you’re not. Do you understand what a disaster this is?”
“It’s not my fault. I can’t control the weather.” I’m gripping the edge of the toilet lid, my knuckles white. I try to calm my racing heart, but my emotions are difficult to rein in. Maybe it’s the stress of traveling or the impending wedding. This is all too much. I want to hang up on him. Go back to a time when this conversation never happened.
“This is pointless to argue about,” I say, unable to admit he might be right about all of it. “I’ll be at the airport in the morning and be home by nightfall.” If I believe it with enough conviction, surely it will happen.
“You won’t, but whatever.” Bitterness leaks out of the phone.
I dig in my heels. I’ll make that plane fly me home tomorrow even if I have to pilot it myself. Just to prove him wrong.
“I guess we’ll see.”
“Guess so,” he says, sullen. “Listen, I have to be at the restaurant early to take a delivery. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“Fine. Well, good night then,” I snap.
“Yeah, good night.” There’s a long pause where I hold my breath, waiting. Finally, more softly, he says, “I love you.”
I relax my grip. We haven’t gone a single evening without saying that to each other since we reunited. It’s a talisman, those three little words. They weave a magic spell of protection over our relationship. Holds it together so we don’t break apart, but tonight I’m not sure it’s enough.
I tell him, “Love you, too.”
It’s not until after I’ve hung up that I realize neither of us said our usual “forever and always.”
?
I lean against the bathroom wall and then slide down it until I’m sitting on the floor with my phone held loosely in my hand. I stare at nothing for several minutes.
Caleb and I rarely fight, never anything like the conversation we just had.
After a minute, I dial a number I memorized years ago. It rings for so long that I almost hang up, but finally Mom answers.
“Gwen?”
“Hey, did I wake you? Sorry, I know it’s late on the East Coast.” I rub my eyes, tired.
“No, honey, I’m up. I’m still on California time,” she says, with concern in her voice. I rarely call past bedtime. “What’s going on?”
I hesitate, deliberating. My mother and I don’t have a perfect relationship, but at the end of the day, when I’m sad or scared, I want my mom. “I had a fight with Caleb.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry, honey. Can you tell me about it?”
Again, I pause. Complaining about Caleb feels like a betrayal, but the truth is, I’m struggling. Alvina said to lean on my support system, so that’s what I’m going to do.
“He’s upset that I’m stranded and not able to help with the wedding.” I stand up. Sitting on the hard tiled floor is uncomfortable.
“I think everything’s shaping up fine,” Mom reassures me. “We got all the flowers and tuxes done.”
“I know, but he’s worried I won’t make it home in time.” I tuck the phone under my chin and wash my hands. They’re sticky from the chocolate ice cream Alvina and I ordered for comfort food earlier tonight.
