My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,149
gone completely rigid, my latte frozen inches away from my lips and my half-eaten bagel in front of me.
Colin Radcliffe. My fiancé. My ex-fiancé, I correct with a wince. Fucking rat is what my mind is yelling loudly.
Dressed in a gray, freshly pressed, tailored suit, Colin’s blond hair is styled and parted, and he’s gazing at me with expectancy, as if I’m supposed to burst into hysterics, crying and making a scene worthy of Hamlet.
But I’m frozen, thinking WTF?
Why?
And . . . why now?
But wondering the whys won’t do me any good. Colin’s obviously thought this through and wants to end it all.
Doesn’t matter that I just spent weeks trying to find the perfect wedding dress.
Doesn’t matter how much I want the fairytale wedding.
Doesn’t matter that my Papa won’t get to walk me down the aisle. Maybe never.
None of it matters to him.
In a hit that’s even more impactful than Colin’s words, I realize that none of my thoughts on this betrayal have anything to do with us, our relationship, or our love. Love?
Do I even love Colin?
Stupid me thought I’d make it work using a checklist for our compatibility.
Both career-oriented people. Check.
Former lovers. Check.
Both matured and ready to settle down. Check and check.
Boy, was I wrong on that last one.
“Violet?” Colin presses again, this time reaching across the table and placing his hands atop mine.
Suddenly, I feel queasy, and I have to fight back the urge to throw up in his lap.
“I know this has to come as a shock to you, but I’ll cover the lost deposit on the wedding hall and every other expense associated with our engagement so you don’t have to worry.”
Just like I thought, he’s already planned his exit strategy, as if our wedding, our marriage, was some business transaction. For him, maybe it was. For me? I don’t know, I realize. Maybe this is what the buzzing butterflies have been trying to tell me?
“Why?” I ask simply, battling down the surge of nausea.
Colin licks his lips, lips that I once enjoyed on my neck, on my breasts, on my most sacred of places.
“Violet, you know I adore you, and you’re beautiful, smart, and kind, but . . . I don’t think I’m ready for marriage.” He stares at me again, rubbing my hands as if waiting for the crying hysterics he knows must be coming.
He definitely wants a show, just not too much of one. That perfect balance of greedy hunger for drama, tampered with the knowledge that he doesn’t want to look bad.
That’s why he picked the coffee shop, I realize. Cold and calculated. The Radcliffe way. In public, he knows I’m not going to go fully emotional, batshit crazy or really even make a scene. It’s not my style.
But he does want to see me shatter into a million tiny pieces, and he wants an audience while he does his dirty work.
I’ve been ignoring it, something I could easily do with our quick whirlwind relationship, but I can see it clearly now that he’s serving it up on a platter like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Everything is a façade with him. Image and reputation reign supreme.
I bet he thought I’d fit some corporate wife checkbox. Which would be so hurtful, except that I guess I was doing the same thing with my own checkboxes.
This was doomed from the start.
When I don’t muster even a single teardrop or argument, he continues, “We’re both so young, and hell, we haven’t even had sex in over three weeks.” His tone is accusatory, like it’s my fault we’ve been so tired that sex has seemed like one more thing on the ever-growing to-do list.
He keeps digging at the wound, pouring salt in a steady stream into the bloody mess of our relationship. “We’re both so busy with our jobs. You have that decorating thing you do that you love so much, and it takes up so much of your time, and I’m really busy at Dad’s company, kicking ass and making deals. I . . . I just think we’re at two different crossroads in our lives.”
The decorating thing that I do? Fuck off.
Out of all the things he said, insulting my job pisses me off the most.
And I could argue against so many of his points, letting him know that everything he said was bullshit.
But I’m not going to because, simply put, I don’t have time for this shit.
And I realize . . . I don’t care. Not about Colin.