Page 96 of Beautifully Messy
He’s the safety of a cage.
I clutch the book to my chest, blinking back tears as my gaze wanders to the front of the shop. James sits with Anna curled against his chest, both of them lost in a book. His smile is wide and easy. Anna throws her arms in the air as they laugh together over the story. Nearby, Vera and Darrell lean in, their smiles warm with affection.
James glances up, as if he can feel me watching. “Hot chocolate next?”
I nod, because I can’t speak. Because that image is the opposite of a cage. It’s… everything.
“I actually want to check out the boutique next door,” Vera says. “I’ll be a minute. Darrell, want to come? You guys go ahead and we’ll catch up.”
James lifts Anna, settling her against his hip. His other hand finds the small of my back. Our eyes meet, and I see the same quiet decision in his gaze, mirroring my own. He wants to stretch this into eternity, too. We meander toward the hot chocolate stand where Scrooge, resplendent in full Dickensian garb, hands out steaming cups. The hot chocolate is legendary: rich, velvety, crowned with clouds of freshly whipped cream and delicate curls of chocolate that melt on your tongue.
“Bah! Humbug!” Scrooge bellows as we approach, his face contorting into a theatrical scowl that doesn’t hide the mirth beneath. He hands us each a cup with a grand flourish, then pauses, studying us with eyes that twinkle.
“Now, don’t forget what old Scrooge learned,” he says. “There’s nothing richer than time spent with the ones who make you feel at home. Merry Christmas to you all.”
I nod my thanks. James’s lips lift, pleased by the illusion Scrooge handed us. This small window into the family he promised we could be. I should ignore the flutter in my chest. I should.
But I’m so damned tired of the lie.
Twenty-Nine
AtChristmasEvedinner,the conversation inevitably turns to the wedding.
I keep my expression pleasant, composed, though every cell in my body is screaming to run. I fix my gaze on my plate, sip my water, and nod at the right moments, while my mind spins with one impossible question:How the hell do I do this?I have three days to overcome somehow thirty-nine years of hurt, wrap up a life with Mason, and figure out how to rebuild everything without harming Anna in the process.
No version of this doesn't hurt.
But maybe that's what real choices look like. They’re messy and painful, but necessary anyway.
“Syd, did you hear Ivy’s question?” Mason lightly touches my arm.
“What did you ask?” I compartmentalize the deadline barreling toward me.
Ivy looks directly at me. “Have you and Mason picked out the reading you’re doing together at the ceremony?”
“No, I haven’t,” I reply, a little too curt, judging by Jules’s raised eyebrow. I soften my tone and continue, “I haven't found anything that feels... right.”
James is seated between Vera and Darrell, carefully positioned away from Ivy. I didn’t witness their introduction, but Vera’s eyes soften as she watches Ivy—like someone watching a car crash, they’re powerless to stop. James glances, his eyes saying exactly what I’m thinking. This is excruciating.
Anna sits beside me. Bell’s tail thumps against my chair as she begs for another bite.
“You don’t have any sisterly words of wisdom to share with me and James as we step into this chapter? As we become husband and wife.” Ivy continues, faux-pleasant.
I bite the inside of my cheek, nodding, pretending to listen while my fingers tighten around the napkin in my lap. My stomach asks me if we can leave. But we can’t. We’ve been trained to perform and endure. One wrong word, and I’ll ruin dinner. Ruin this holiday for everyone.
Jules swoops in. “I read the perfect thing this morning. Let me grab my Kindle.”
Whatever transpired between Margaret and Jules after breakfast is tucked away with all the inconvenient truths we look past. They’re smiling and joking as if this morning didn’t happen.
James chuckles, imagining the kind of material Jules considersperfect. Ivy shoots him a glance so sharp he stops and looks down at his plate.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Margaret cuts in. “I know exactly what kind of smut you read. Let’s go with something more traditional. What aboutWhen You Are Oldby William Yeats? It’s a beautiful poem, perfect for two people to read together.”
Ivy’s already pulling out her phone. “Do you know it, Syd? Let me read it, and we can see if it works. James, Mason, you too. We should all be invested in this reading.”
I feel James’s eyes on me, but I don’t look back. I grip the napkin in my lap as if it might restrain me from doing something I can’t undo because I know the poem. I studied it in undergrad, and there is no fucking way I’m reading that.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
