After she introduced us, we’d sat outside on the patio and talked for hours—Max throwing his jacket around my bare shoulders the moment I shuddered from the cool breeze that had begun to blow. After our first date, he’d insisted on walking me to my front door, where he’d given me a warm hug and gently brushed my cheek with his lips. Before I’d closed the door, he’d thanked me for a night of stimulating conversation. Max’s attention had felt so pure, so transparent; he had genuinely seemed interested in what made me me. In the past, I’d always felt as if I had to find a new way to sparkle to keep my date interested, but with Max, I could finally let go of the breath I always seemed to be holding. On our fourth date, I’d pushed aside the Chinese food that had just been delivered and pulled him close, whispering I had something else in mind. He hadn’t argued.
Somehow we’d found our way from there to here. What happened to the people who would watch an episode of Top Chef and then try, usually unsuccessfully, to re-create a dish that didn’t look that hard to make, musing that Padma would criticize us for our lack of salt? Where was the couple that dressed head to toe in Lakers garb and cheered on Kobe in our living room, often laughing that we should probably just buy a ticket to the actual game already? And what had become of the Max and Kate who I had thought were such a perfect fit that I’d had a silly puzzle made from a picture of us and given it to him last Christmas?
I wondered if Max had started to pull away during the wedding planning. I was more opinionated than Max was in general—especially when it came to the details of our nuptials—but that didn’t mean I wasn’t willing to take his feelings into consideration. In the days after he proposed, I had asked him a million questions as I scoured TheKnot.com with a fierceness that rivaled my approach to preparing for final exams in college, searching for the style of wedding we might want—backyard country or hotel chic? I’d wanted to know: Did he prefer I walk down the aisle to a popular song or to a harp? Did he think we should have a band or a DJ at the reception? Ahi or salmon for dinner? But had I only asked him to weigh in because I knew he’d wave me off, that he’d tell me that he trusted me to make the decisions? I knew my behavior was often commanding, and I’d always thought that was something he found endearing, but now my newfound gift of hindsight left me questioning if I had ever known anything at all.
“I think I might know where we went wrong,” I said to Jules as I rocketed up out of my desk chair.
“What? Where?” She’d asked.
“I need to give him control—let him plan the wedding however he wants. Make him feel more involved!”
“But it’s only a month away.”
“I don’t care. Whatever he wants, he can have it. I’ll change anything.”
“Even yourself ?” Jules said carefully.
“Yes, if that’s what it’s going to take. Just trust me, Jules. I got this,” I said as I’d hung up the phone and grabbed my purse, deciding if I was going to suffer through drinks with Max and his girlfriend tonight, I’d better look damn good doing it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You ready yet?” Max calls up to me.
Will I ever be ready for this?
I wonder again how I will be able to stomach sitting at the same table with Max and Courtney tonight. It had been hard enough hearing that Max thought he was in love with her, but now I’ll be watching their clandestine relationship unfold right in front of me. I’ll have to sit in silence as they tease each other, something I used to view as harmless, but now every smile shared between them, every accidental brush of their hands, every look—will feel like a spike into my heart. And even though they may not be in love yet, I know it’s coming, and the process of waiting will feel like a Band-Aid being slowly peeled off my tender skin. Unless I can stop it.
“Just a sec,” I yell to Max as I post my status on Facebook, deciding that what I’ve wished for isn’t that bad. My broken heart might never be mended, but Courtney’s hair will grow back. Right? I can hear Jules cheering me on, reminding me that the future of my relationship is at stake. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that Max is a sucker for long hair, does it? she’d said when she’d heard my plan.
Twenty minutes later, my head is pounding, practically drowning out the music booming through the speakers as I scan the crowded lounge for Courtney, waiting to see the results of the status I’d written:
I’m shocked that Courtney chopped off all her hair.
“Is that her over there?” Max asks, and I swivel my head in the direction he’s pointing in.
“Wow,” I say under my breath as I spot her—her sandy-colored hair has been hacked off into a pixie cut. I feel queasy as I look over at Max, who’s staring at her with his mouth slightly open. She looks even better than she did before. How the fuck is that even possible?