Brian got it for me maybe a month ago. He told me we were going out for some fun, and he took me shopping. Wanted to celebrate a check he’d just received by buying me some new dresses.
For one, I’m not a huge fan of dresses, especially dresses that conform to every inch of my body, leaving very little room to breathe or walk in. Also, this dress has flowers all over it, and I’m not against flowers, it’s just . . . these are little flowers, and it reminds me of something a teenager from the nineties would wear. And thirdly, it’s short. By God, is it short. The wind blows right up the bottom, giving me Marilyn Monroe vibes with every step.
But Brian bought it for me and asked if I would wear it, so here I am.
“Lia, wow,” Brian says as he walks up from behind. “You look stunning.”
I turn just in time for him to pull me into a hug, his hand falling to my lower back as he squeezes me.
His signature cologne—fresh and woodsy—surrounds me first, followed by his tight grip, and then the subtle hint of his lips pressed against my cheek.
When I pull away, I smile up at his handsome face.
I remember the first time I met him. I was out having drinks with my friend Tanya, who doesn’t get out much because she’s a mother of twins. She told me there was a guy who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off me, sitting directly behind me. When I turned around to look, Brian was sitting in a booth, beer in hand, his gaze on me. Our eyes locked, and he took that moment to come up to me. He saw that I was hanging out with my friend, so he didn’t want to intrude. Instead, he had me put my phone number in his phone so he could text me to get a cup of coffee.
He texted me the next day.
And that was that.
After a year and a half of being together, he’s still as handsome as ever.
“You look really good,” I say, tugging on the black suit he paired with a dark-blue button-up shirt.
“Thank you.” His hand clutches mine, and he says, “You ready for this? Mother is very excited.”
Yup. Mother. That’s what he calls his mom. It’s so formal. When he first used the term, I laughed because I thought it was a joke, but it wasn’t. Mother and Father are his parents. To me, they’re Mr. and Mrs. Beaver.
Brian Manchester Beaver.
Quite the name.
If I decide to hyphenate his name, I would be Ophelia Fairweather-Fern-Beaver.
Taking the last name Beaver doesn’t really scream something I want to do, but I also know that I would insult Brian if I didn’t. I don’t know. It’s a conundrum I’m trying not to think about too much.
I smile up at Brian. “Very ready.”
He lifts my hand and kisses the engagement ring I made sure to put on before I left my apartment. “This looks so good on you.”
Does it?
Or does it look like I’m opening my own personal attack of Misfit Toys for the wintertime?
“Come on.”
He tugs me toward the doors of The Pier 1905 Club. Situated on the cliffs of Malibu, it’s a historic club known only to the rich and famous. The first time I was here, I was so intimidated that I told Brian I wasn’t feeling well and bolted early. After the fifth time I met with Brian and his parents here, I’ve grown accustomed to the heavy snobbery in the air. Hence the dress I squeezed into, the nail polish that miraculously dried before I arrived, and the heels I’m wearing with little straps that cling around my ankles. If Breaker saw me right now, I’m pretty sure he’d barely recognize me.
The gold-plated doors part for us by silent doormen, bringing us into the opulent lobby shrouded in light-blue linens and gold and white marble tiles. The theme of the entire club is rich beach. That’s all I need to say.
“Mr. Beaver, your mother is expecting you,” the host says as we turn toward the dining area.
“She has to get here at least half an hour early,” I mutter under my breath.
Brian chuckles. “She always likes to be the first to arrive.”
That much is obvious. She wants to be the first to arrive so she can dish out backhanded jabs about time management—despite being fifteen minutes early.
“Right this way,” the host says as he guides us through the dining room.
Just like every other time we’ve met with Mother, we’re guided to the back of the dining area and out to the balcony, where Mrs. Beaver always occupies a corner table.
And just like every other time, she sits in a white floppy hat, staring directly at the entrance. In addition to her hands crossed in front of her, her internal scowl matches her disapproving lips.
I love Brian. So much.
But his mom, pretty sure she’s the devil incarnate on a pair of four-inch heels.
When we reach the table, she doesn’t bother standing. Instead, Brian bends and places a kiss on her cheek. “Mother, you look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she says, her voice dripping with hundred-dollar bills.
You know when someone talks like they’re rich—clenched throat, tight lips, disapproving tone in every word? Well, that is Mrs. Beaver, even when she’s happy.
When Brian steps to the side, I move forward and offer a curt nod—the way she likes it—and say, “Hello, Mrs. Beaver. It’s so nice seeing you today.”
Her gaze falls to my shoes first. I thank God I got a pedicure the other day so she doesn’t comment about how dry my feet look. Then she works all the way up my dress to my face. With a gentle tug of her lips—that’s her way of smiling—she says, “Ophelia, it’s nice to see you. Please take a seat. We have much to talk about.”
Looks like she approves of the dress because there was no pop of her forehead vein or subtle clamp of her jaw. Finally, I got it right.
Brian pulls out a chair for me, and I sit before picking up my napkin from the table and folding it across my lap.
“It’s a beautiful day,” I say as Mrs. Beaver lifts my hand and examines my ring.
“Brian, dear, did you get insurance on this?”
“Yes, Mother. As well as a monthly cleaning.”
Mrs. Beaver nods in approval. “Good.” And then she drops my hand before adjusting the napkin on her lap. “I took the liberty of ordering all of us the salmon salad.”
Ugh . . . salmon. I had it once, and now that’s all she orders.
“I didn’t want to waste any time looking over a menu. We have a lot to talk about, a lot of planning to do.”
“Planning?” I ask, confused.
“Yes, Ophelia. You’re an engaged woman now. That means we need to start planning the wedding.”
“Oh, so soon?”
Her sharp gaze snaps up to me. “What do you mean, so soon? Ophelia, we only have one month until the end of summer. The club has a spot open on a Saturday night in five weeks, so yes, so soon.”
“Wait, you want us to get married in five weeks?” I ask, my eyes nearly bugging out.
Brian’s hand slides over my hand in reassurance. “Mother, that does seem rather quick.”
Mrs. Beaver now glances toward her son, her steely eyes wilting my fiancé right in his seat. “Brian, do you expect to wait a whole year? The Beavers only get married in the summer. You know this, it’s tradition, and since you proposed late, we only have about five weeks to work with.”