“What’s wrong with waiting a year?” I ask, respectively. “That will give us time to make sure everything is perfect.”
“Brian’s niece will be far too tall to be the flower girl a year from now. You must think about the pictures, Ophelia.”
Ah, yes, the pictures. Heaven forbid a tall flower girl show up and ruin everything.
“The wedding must be this year and must be in five weeks. That’s our only option.” She lifts her water glass to her pursed lips, letting us know the decision is final.
“Five weeks, well . . . I guess we can make it work,” Brian says, folding like a cheap lawn chair. “It will be fun, right, Ophelia?” He only uses my full name around his mother, and I hate it because it sounds weird coming from his mouth. The only person I’ve ever liked using my full name was Breaker because he uses it when it’s a special moment, not because his mother forces him.
Mother and son both stare me down. They’re waiting for an answer, one that is hard to come up with, given how my throat seems to be squeezing tight on me.
“Uh, sorry.” I take a deep breath. “This whole wedding thing is just hard, you know? I thought I’d be doing this with my parents by my side.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Beaver says as she coldly taps my hand. “That’s what you have me for. Now.” She snaps her finger behind her, beckoning whatever butler waits in the depths of the wall for her to summon. The butler appears with a thick, leather-bound folder and gently places it in front of Mrs. Beaver. “This will be your planning book,” she says, turning it toward me. “It has everything in it that needs to be chosen. Of course, given that your parents are no longer with us, I’ve taken it upon myself to give you a few options for the type of weddings to choose from.”
She flips open the folder and pushes it toward me.
“The venue is obviously the club. Our family has had receptions here for years. That will not change.”
Great, glad to have a say in that.
“As for the flowers, colors, and theme, there’s some leeway in those decisions.”
“Leeway?” I ask, my voice coming off more irritated than anything.
Getting married in five weeks is a little much, but being only granted a little leeway? Now that’s something I don’t know if I’m cool with.
“Yes, well, we do have some very powerful people attending. We need to keep up appearances for that reason alone.”
“But what about what Brian and I want?” I ask. “This is our wedding, after all.”
Mrs. Beaver’s jaw grows tight as she sharpens her smile, turning it into a razor blade, ready to cut down any dream with a smart-witted remark. “Ophelia, you must understand the importance of marrying into the Beaver family. This isn’t some ordinary wedding; this is a show of status. This is a way for our family to exhibit the many accomplishments we’ve made to gain the status we have. Every intricate detail will be chosen based on obtaining our place in our circle. I understand you come from humble beginnings, but you will be a Beaver soon, and certain expectations are to be upheld.”
Leaning toward me, Brian says, “It’s just a party, Ophelia. What does it really matter what kind of flowers are picked out?”
“It matters to me,” I say, feeling myself growing emotional. And let me tell you, the Beavers do not do emotions.
“Now, now.” Mrs. Beaver pats my hand again. “No need to cause a scene.” She flips the folder closed. “I can see you have some thoughts about the wedding, and I don’t want to steamroll your special day. How about this . . . we take it one decision at a time? We can meet, explore options, and you can choose from there.”
“That’s really kind of you, Mother,” Brian says. I almost didn’t hear him from how far up his mother’s ass he is.
“Well, if anything, I’m an understanding woman,” Mrs. Beaver says. “I don’t want your bride to be upset with her new family. So what do you say, Ophelia? Think you can manage meetings with me? Make some decisions?”
I swallow down the tightness of my throat and nod my head because what option do I really have? Mrs. Beaver wants the wedding in five weeks. Brian is not going to stand up for us because he’s still suckling at the teat of approval, so it seems I don’t have any other option than to go along with this plan.
“Yes,” I answer. “I think that would be nice.”
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Beaver says without an ounce of excitement. She snaps her finger again in an instant, and salads are placed in front of us. “Now, let’s eat.”
She lifts her fork and gently cuts into her salmon while Brian holds my hand and smiles brightly at me.
The things we do for love.
“Thank you again, Lia,” Brian says as he walks me up to my apartment. After a prolonged time at the club, we spent another two hours walking around the venue while a wedding planner showed us the spaces. As expected, Mrs. Beaver took the lead. She had her own opinion on the reception and where the cocktail hour needed to be, as well as the dinner. The dance floor would be modest, with just enough room for people to slow dance—according to her, there would be no bumping and grinding at our wedding—and then she pointed out the bride’s room where I would be making dress changes.
When I asked how many dresses she planned on me changing into, she said at least three, as if it was the most preposterous question she’s ever heard.
Three dresses? How does one person even have the bandwidth to pick three different wedding dresses? Mrs. Beaver pointed out there’s the ceremony dress, the reception dress, and then of course the parting dress—the dress I put on just to leave the building. So many useless expenses. By the time we left, it was past five, and I was rushing to get back home.
I took an Uber to the club because Brian always likes to drive me, and as I figured, he wanted to drive me today.
“Thank you for what?” I ask him as I reach my door and turn toward him.
“I know the big wedding thing isn’t what you were probably looking for, but it’s important to my mother.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” I press my lips together. Tugging on the lapel of his suit jacket, I say, “Are you sure this is all necessary? Do we really have to have such a grandiose wedding? Maybe we can elope or something?”
He snorts. “Lia, my mother would absolutely kill me. I’m her baby boy, the last one to get married out of her children. She will not allow me to elope.”
“You know, Brian,” I say in a seductive voice while moving my hand up his chest. “The great thing about being an adult is that you can make your own decisions.”
He lightly presses me against my door and smooths his hand up my thigh. “Yes, but when the decision doesn’t really bother me, I’m not going to put up a fight about it.”
“But don’t I matter?” I ask.
He cups my cheek. “Of course you matter, Lia. But I also know that wedding stuff isn’t that important to you.”