“It totally stays,” I say, then grin wickedly at her. “In fact, let’s have a dozen packed up to take with us on the honeymoon.”
We’re laughing, and Sally’s asking me about the honeymoon, and I’m telling her that it’s a secret even from me—a Damien Stark surprise—when my mother clicks her way over on her nail-point heels. She stops in front of me, effectively ending my moment of bridal bonding with Sally.
“Chocolate, yellow, white,” she says. “A pound cake. A cheesecake. If you insist on doing cupcakes at least stick with traditional flavors.”
“I don’t know,” I say, taking a second bite of the cupcake I’m working on. “This one—butternut?—is to die for.”
“It’s very popular,” Sally says. “But try the strawberry.”
My mother reaches over and snatches the fork out of my hand. For a moment, I’m fool enough to think that she’s going to get in the spirit and try the cake. But all she does is point the tines at me. “Honestly, Nichole,” she says, in a tone that leaves no doubt that I have committed some heinous sin. “Are you trying to ruin your wedding? Have you thought about your waist? Your hips? Not to mention your skin!”
She turns to Sally, who is clearly struggling to wipe the expression of appalled shock off her face. “Bless her little heart,” my mother says, in a tone that practically drips sugar, “but my Nichole isn’t a girl who can eat cake and then get into something as form-fitting as a wedding gown.”
“Nikki is a lovely young woman,” Sally says firmly. “And I’m sure she’s going to look stunning at her wedding.”
“Of course she will,” my mother says, her voice sounding farther and farther from me. It’s as if I’m sliding back, moving down some tunnel, away from her, away from Sally, away from everything.
“That’s why I’m here,” Mother adds, her tone entirely reasonable. “My daughter knows she has no self-control about things that are bad for her—cakes, candy, men,” she adds in a stage whisper. “I’ve always been there to help her keep her eye on the prize.”
“I see,” Sally says, and I have a feeling she sees more than my mother wants.
As for me, even from the depths of this well into which I’ve fallen, I am seething. I want to leap out of my chair and tell my mother that she’s never helped me, she’s only manipulated me. That she’s not interested in what I want, but only what I look like and how I act and if I’m presenting an image that stands up to the Fairchild name—a name that’s not worth what it used to be since she took over—and decimated—the oil business that she inherited when my grandfather passed away.
I want to say all of that, but I don’t. I just sit there, my plastic smile on my face, hating myself for not moving. For not telling her to get the hell back to Texas.
But what I hate even more is the fact that I’m now clutching the second fork in my hand, and it’s under the table, and the tines are pressing hard into my leg through the thin material of my skirt. I don’t want to—I know I need to stop, to stand up, to simply get the hell out of there if that’s what it takes—but whatever strength has been building in me over the last few months has scattered like dandelion fluff under the assault of a ferocious wind.
“Nikki,” Sally begins, and I can’t tell if the concern in her voice is because of my mother’s speech or if she sees some hint of my struggle on my face. It doesn’t matter, though, because her words are cut off by the electronic door chime.
I look up, then draw in a breath. The tunnel disappears and my vision returns. The fork tumbles from my hand to the floor, and I realize I’ve stood up.
It’s Damien—and he is moving like a bullet toward me.
I head around the table, unconcerned about anything else. He stops in front of me, his face hard, his eyes warm but worried. “Turns out I could work the cake thing into my schedule, after all.”
I try not to smile, but the corners of my mouth twitch, and I feel tears of relief prick my eyes. “I’m glad.”