Chapter 16 - The Room Upstairs
Brielle had not hurt herself.
She had destroyed the guest room.
A lamp was broken. A framed print had been pulled from the wall. A suitcase lay open on the bed while she threw clothes into it with both hands.
“Get out!” she screamed when we reached the doorway.
Dad stopped.
Mom did not.
“Brielle, put the vase down.”
“I said get out!”
She was holding a ceramic vase over the floor.
Mom’s voice changed.
Not louder.
Stronger.
“Put it down.”
Brielle stared at her.
For once, Mom did not rush forward to soothe her.
She did not say sweetheart.
She did not negotiate.
“Put it down,” Mom repeated.
Brielle’s arm lowered.
The vase landed on the dresser instead of the floor.
Then she began sobbing.
“I have nowhere to go.”
Mom closed her eyes.
A month earlier, that sentence would have ended everything. Dad would have opened his wallet. Mom would have made the bed. Somebody would have called Owen and begged him to reconsider.
This time, my mother said, “You can stay here tonight. Tomorrow we talk about repayment, the credit line, and getting professional help.”
Brielle stared at her.
“What?”
“And you will not contact Delaney except through your attorney until she says otherwise.”
Brielle looked at me as if I had somehow placed those words in our mother’s mouth.
I had not.
Mom continued. “You will also stop posting about the wedding.”
“You’re taking her side.”
“I’m taking responsibility for mine.”
That sentence changed the room.
Brielle dropped onto the bed.
I left before anyone could pull me into the next argument.
For the first time in days, my house was quiet when I returned.
The rented flowers were gone. The trucks were gone. The road was clear.
A few white rose petals remained near the gate where Brielle had thrown her bouquet.
I walked through the garden at sunset.
The grass was untouched.
The live oaks still leaned over the lawn exactly as they had the week before.
I had protected the place.
Yet I did not feel victorious.
I felt tired.
On the back wall, the climbing roses Brielle and I had planted were blooming.
That hurt unexpectedly.
Memories are rude that way. They keep the good parts even after the people in them become difficult.
My phone buzzed.
Owen.
I almost ignored it, thinking he needed to talk about Brielle.
Instead, he sent a photograph.
It showed the inside cover of the navy wedding binder.
Taped beneath the fabric was a small envelope.
My name was written on it.
Delaney — DO NOT OPEN UNTIL AFTER WEDDING.
May you like
Owen’s message said:
I think you should see this before I give the binder to the lawyers.
