WHEN THE SHOE FITS BUT IT'S THE WRONG COLOR
Another day. Another brunch. More wedding planning.
Cece is poring over invitation templates. I'm absentmindedly flipping through a fabric swatch book. And Harold and Carole are arguing over whether or not it's considered cheap and tacky to only have one champagne selection at the wedding reception. Here's looking at you, Dom Perignon.
"We can do the pink label for the toast. What do you think, Cece?" Carole asks, not looking up from the champagne catalogue.
"Oo, yes. Love that rosé. With strawberries."
"Honey, not everyone wants to chew their champagne," Carole says. "Brooks, what do you think?"
"Sure." I shrug, having barely a clue what I'm being asked.
My fingers fumble over the fabric squares. Charcoal tweed, navy wool, emerald velvet -who knew there were so many options for a groom's tuxedo. I do my best to picture myself in all of them, waiting at the end of an aisle, anxious to see my bride walking towards me.
I realize, guiltily, that it's not the tuxedo I can't place. It's the bride.
I've wanted to marry Cece since I met her. But then asking her made it suddenly real. The wedding planning has escalated it to a new level of real. Then, with Brody and Lauren's wedding coming up so close -everything just feels so finite.
Everything about this life fits. It's perfect. Like, if the shoe fits was born for this. Except, what do you do when it fits, but it's the wrong color?
Like, this is it. This is my life now. Sunday brunches in the Palisades. Cece being in the spotlight. Tabloids intruding into my life.
"Okay, I've narrowed the invitation packets down to three," Cece announces, standing from her chair. "Mom, let me know what you think. Brooks, you too. Every vote counts."
I watch her skirt flap around the corner of the terrace as she excuses herself to the bathroom. My gaze drops back to the trellis behind the breakfast table, to the bees hovering over the honeysuckle.
"Well, I think this is the most classic. White linen paper with recycled fibers. Gold foil writing. What do you think?" Carole passes the invitation in her hand over to Harold.
"Yes, lovely." He nods, almost as disinterested as I am.
"Brooks," Carole says, looking up at me. "Were you able to get an estimated count for your side of the party yet?"
"I am still waiting on a number from my mom. It will likely be small. We don't have a huge family. Mostly friends." My stomach drops.
I picture Travis and Nate and Alex. Trix and Meg. All at my wedding.
"No worries. We still have some time. The venue doesn't have a limit." Carole waves her hand like she's dismissing her cares.
"Okay, what did you all decide?" Cece asks, emerging back onto the patio.
I'm in a little shock and a lot of discomfort -in absolute awe of what I need to do. What I know I need to do to this incredible, sexy, and perfect woman sitting next to me.
I need to break her heart. In the hopes of ever truly mending mine.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur, as I contemplate the best way to go about doing some Earth-shattering.
The answer is easy: There is no easy way.
Part of me knows how cruel it is to allow Cece to keep picking out invitations and Champagne flutes and centerpieces. Then I think if it would be even worse to do it right now. In front of her parents. Mid-brunch.
It will be easier later, I convince myself. So, once Harold and Carole walk us out front and bid us farewell, I have no more excuses.
Not in the car. I think. No where to run. To hide. She'll cry. You'll cry. Inside at least.
So, we endure a relatively silent car ride, apart from The Lumineers blasting in the charged space between us.
Cece starts reading off discarded headlines and jokes and more speculation from our recent rumor scare. She's laughing at them, in an effort to shroud the whole situation in some lightheartedness. I appreciate it, but it won't make this any less uncomfortable.
Instead, my mind drifts out the open window, my thoughts doing their best to escape with the wind. I think of being home next month -of Brody's wedding in NYC -of seeing everyone again. And yes, I think of her.
"Miranda is asking to meet for salads. Want to join?" Cece looks over at me from the passenger seat. She smiles in her big Versace sunnies.
"No, that's okay." I shake my head.
Fuck.
Can't do this before she's about to have dinner with her friend.
"Alright," she says, not looking up from her phone. "She wants to meet at that place over on Sixth. I think we went there before, right?"
"Mhmm."
Sure. Maybe.
"Hey you should see what the boys are up to. Maybe have a guys' night."
"Yea, maybe I will." Lying through gritted teeth.
"Oh, I could see if M wants to make it a group thing," she suggest brightly.
Poor Cece.
TF is wrong with me.
"No, really. You guys go out and have girl time. I need to be in the store extra early tomorrow anyway." All these lies are just flooding through my mouth gate. Dam broken.
"Okay, if we stay out too late, I'll just crash at her place. Don't want to wake you," Cece says.
"Okay."
My car has never felt like such a familiar yet foreign space to me. The energy coming from me is something I can't place. Imposter Syndrome working overtime right now.
My car even smells different.
I drop Cece out front of the café and wave to Randa. Exchanging pleasantries should be reserved for psychological warfare.
On the drive back to my place, I play hypothetical conversations in my mind. Mulling over the possibilities like moves in a chess match.
No matter what lies I spew (to myself or Cece), what reasons I give, or explanation I offer, nothing will matter. None of it will be true.
Perhaps the best thing to do is look her right in the eyes and say, 'Cece, it ain't you'.
Is that what I would want?
Yes.
For one glorious moment I allow myself to imagine Emmy giving this same excuse to Josh. That he's just not me. Just not Rachem.
HONK.
I slam on my brakes, two seconds away from crossing into a red-lit intersection.
"Shit. Shit!" I mumble to myself, my heart racing.
Then again, if I perish here and now it may save me years of anguish.
I floor the gas, picturing only one thing behind my eyes.
YOU ARE READING
Never Really Over (Bremmy 3)
ChickLit*THREEQUEL* Even when they're done, all things are never really over. It's been one year since Emmy left for the airport, two tickets in hand. A long, eventful year. Brooks has successfully launched the flagship Edge and snagged a model girlfriend...
