I walked into the house, my house, and saw that everything was still exactly as it was yesterday. Chairs were arranged in the living room in the semicircle I’d been in when I’d freaked out. There were still nail polish bottles on the coffee table. One thing was different, though. My wedding dress had been in my room but was now displayed in the entryway, hanging from the banister so you couldn’t miss it.
Point: Mom.
“Hello?” I called, walking through the foyer and past the living room carnage.
“In the kitchen,” she called back, and I headed for her voice. I found her sitting at the breakfast table. Teapot. Cups. Saucers. Milk. Sugar cubes. And holy fudge, she was wearing her Chanel. The suit she wore when she felt she needed something a little extra.
I hovered in the doorway. “Hi.”
“Hello, dear,” she said softly. Uh-oh. Softly again. Usually her default position. She rose, deposited a quick kiss on my cheek, then poured the tea. “One cube, or two?” she asked. She never encouraged me to have more than a solitary cube. Hmm . . .
“Three please,” I volleyed, and sank into my usual chair.
Point: Chloe.
She clenched her jaw for just the scantest second, and then three sugar cubes were placed carefully into my teacup with silver tongs. We’d traveled to London when I was in sixth grade, and every afternoon we had tea at Fortnum & Mason. It was something we both enjoyed, and tried our best to replicate when we came home. I can remember the two of us giggling as we ate our crustless sandwiches and spoke in the poshest British accent we could muster.
Over the years, however, it started to feel remote; less of a shared pleasure and more of an opportunity for a talking to. And I could see this was where she wanted it to go now. But I had some talking of my own to do first.
“So here’s the thing, Mother,” I began, startling her into sitting down quickly, a surprised expression on her face. Which she masked just as quickly. I pressed on. “I can’t tell you exactly why I ran out of here so fast yesterday, and I realize that I seemed quite crazy. But I’d had an epiphany, a sudden, frightening epiphany, that I couldn’t marry Charles. And I knew if I stayed in this house for one more minute, I’d let everyone talk me out of it.”
I paused to sip my tea, and burned my tongue. “Dammit,” I swore under my breath, making her raise the stoniest eyebrow this side of Mount Rushmore. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, I burned my tongue,” I snapped, this cup-and-saucer game wearing so very thin.
“What a charming vocabulary you seem to have developed all of a sudden,” she replied, fluttering her eyelashes.
“For God’s sake, Mother, its 2014. This isn’t some Edith Wharton novel. No one wears white gloves anymore, no one sends calling cards, and women fucking swear!” I banged my fist on the table, spilling tea and tumbling cubes.
“That’s enough, Chloe. I did not raise you to speak to me in this way—”
“It’s not enough! I was about to get married, possibly have a child by this time next year, but I’m not old enough to curse? I’m a grown-up, for pity’s sake! I need to be able to say what I want and do what I want, and not worry about you frowning at me all the time.” I paused to take a breath, adrenaline rushing through my veins. “Maybe this is exactly what I need—to shake things up a bit, ruffle some feathers!”
“You certainly did that. You can’t imagine the phone calls I had to make yesterday; the conversations I had to have. I had to call your mother-in-law and try to explain that my daughter had run out on her own wedding and I had no idea where she might be!”
“She’s not my mother-in-law!” I yelled.
Now the gloves were off. Her forehead was showing the tiniest glisten; that didn’t happen even when she played badminton.
“Mother, do you realize that every single time you’ve mentioned yesterday, it’s all been about how this affected you? I know how worried you’ve been about appearances, but haven’t you been worried about me? Not even once have you asked me if I’m okay, or if Charles did something to make me flip so quickly.”
Her head snapped up and she looked at me intently. “Did something happen? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
For the first time, I saw concern for me. Is it weird that I almost hated having to tell her no?
“No, not at all. It’d almost be easier to say yes—then my decision would be much more black and white, and not so gray. But, no. He never raised a hand, he never even raised his voice to me.”
“Then why, Chloe? Just tell me why you can’t marry him?”
The million-dollar question. Literally, since Charles was loaded.
“I don’t love him,” I said on an exhale. And there it was.
“That’s it?” she asked, incredulous.