“No, Lia,” he says quickly. “Not at all.”
“Do you think I would be more attractive to you without them? Because that’s how it feels, how the comment feels, like . . . like I’m not pretty enough when I wear them.”
“Lia, that’s not what I meant. I think glasses look great on you. They’re just, they’re purple is all, and I would have thought that maybe someone your age would want something more sophisticated.”
My shoulders droop as I mutter, “So I’m not sophisticated enough?”
“No,” he groans while pulling on his neck. “Fuck, I’m not saying this right. Just . . . just forget I said anything at all.”
Forget what he said? He insulted me, and that’s not easy to forget.
I look up at him, insecurity racing through me, and ask, “Do you think I’m good enough for you?”
“What?” His eyes widen. “Of course, Lia. Why would you think that?”
Because I’ve thought that for a while.
Because I think that maybe we aren’t on the same trajectory.
Because the things that are important to you like money and status, are not important to me.
“Because there are moments where you try to change me. Like when we go to meals with your mother, you buy me clothes to wear.”
“That’s because she can be very particular, and I don’t want her giving you a hard time.”
“Or the glasses, or when we’re in public, it’s like you have this standard I have to meet for me to be attached to your arm.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just this past weekend, I said let’s go get ice cream, and I was going to go out in my pajamas, but you told me to change.”
“Lia, I could see your nipples through your white tank top. Do you really think I want people seeing that?” He grips my hips. “That’s just for me.”
I look off toward his office windows. “I don’t know, it just feels like I’m not good enough for you.”
“Lia, stop.” He tips my chin toward him. “Of course you’re good enough. Why else would I propose to you? Now I’m sorry about the glasses. I never should have said that, but please don’t let that unravel you.”
“I’m not unraveling, Brian. I’m just trying to make sure my boyfriend—”
“Fiancé,” he says in a clipped tone.
“Yes, my fiancé. I’m just trying to make sure that he is marrying me for the right reasons.”
“What are you talking about? Where is this coming from? We had a great weekend, and now, all of a sudden, you’re doubting me? Does this”—he smooths his hand over his mouth—“does this have to do with anything Breaker said to you today?”
“Are you serious right now?” I ask, taking a step back from him. “Breaker was nothing but supportive, especially when your mother basically told me I was a bridge troll with glasses and that my opinion about my wedding didn’t matter. Do not blame any of this on Breaker.”
“Shit, you’re right.” He exhales and places both hands on the edge of his desk. “I’m sorry. I’m just wound up and apparently unable to stop myself from saying stupid things.”
That much is obvious.
“Okay, well, I think . . . I think I just need to take a breath.”
“No,” he says, closing the space between us. “Don’t leave.”
“I need some fresh air, Brian.”
“Then let’s go on a walk. Let’s go to the park across the street. Please, Lia. I feel like a dick, and I don’t want you leaving mad.”
I look at his pleading eyes and realize that maybe . . . maybe he is just as stressed as I am. Because if he was truly being mean about the glasses, then he wouldn’t have any remorse, and there is clear remorse written all over his face.
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
He holds his hand out to me, and I take it. Together, we walk out of his office, asking Beverly to take messages until he gets back. Once outside his building, we head to the quaint park across the street.
It’s just a small three-acre lot, a place for people to sit and take a breather. A tiny circular walking path with towering cottonwoods offers a brilliant cover from the bristling sun.
Brian squeezes my hand as he says, “I’m sorry you had a rough day today, and I’m sorry this wedding stuff is so stressful. I know it’s not easy on you.”
“It’s not,” I say. “None of it has been easy. And if I were honest, I wasn’t expecting a proposal.”
“You weren’t?” he asks, completely shocked.
“Not even a little. I mean, come on, Brian, we never even talked about the possibility of getting married, so I was caught off guard when you got down on one knee.”
“But . . . we love each other. I mean, I love you.”
“And I love you, Brian. That’s not the issue. I just . . . I don’t know. I thought we’d move in together, take that for a spin first before there was a ring involved.”
“We sort of live together, at least half of the time. You have a key to my place, a dresser. I just assumed that wasn’t something we had to tackle.” He pauses. “Am I moving too fast for you?”
Yes.
This is all too fast.
Lightning speed.
And I don’t know how I feel. Something is off. Something doesn’t feel right, and I can’t pinpoint it. All I can feel is this sickening churning in my stomach that won’t stop. The church today, the way his mother treats me like a second-class citizen, the ability to insult me without a worry or care, and how none of this was even on my radar—it’s too much.
But I can’t say that to Brian. He’s too sensitive. He’ll take my worries and concerns wrong. He’ll think something is wrong with him when, really, it’s just time moving too fast.
I smile up at him and say, “No, just . . . just stunned is all and still trying to wrap my head around all of it.”
He nods. “I’m sure my mother’s plans aren’t helping.”
“Yeah, she’s going a touch fast.” I hold up my fingers, causing him to laugh.
“She’s been wanting me to propose to you for a bit.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I would have guessed from our rather cold relationship that she wouldn’t want you to propose to me.”
“Mother might be cold and uninviting at times, maybe a touch harsh, but she also can see when I’m happy.” Brian turns toward me. “And you make me happy, Lia. Very happy.”
I smile at him. “You make me happy, too, Brian.”
He pulls me in close, and as we continue to walk down the paved path, his embrace feels different. And maybe it’s because Breaker held me a lot today, but this feels forced, almost like he’s checking off a box.
Hold fiancée, check.
There doesn’t seem to be any passion in the embrace.
Any need to be close.
And I hate to admit it, but the way he has his hand pressing into my arm, bringing me up to his shoulder, it almost feels suffocating.
“She’s been wanting me to propose to you for a bit.” Did Brian propose because his mother suggested it?
This hold, this moment, it doesn’t feel right.
This, him, us . . . for the first time since I’ve met him, it doesn’t feel right.
Chapter Seven
BREAKER