The Fiction of Forever (A Stand By Me Novel Book 2) (2 page)

“Um…Gunner? Sorry to bother you while you’re out.”

“Mom. What is it?”

“I’m sick and think I should probably go to the emergency room. That last round of chemo really did a number on me. I can’t quit vomiting.”

A wave of pure panic washes over me. “I’m coming.”

“Don’t speed,” she says. Her weak voice scares the hell out of me.

Kiley’s wide eyes are sympathetic, but I don’t have time to explain. “Is everything OK? Do you need me—”

“No. Gotta go.” I leave Kiley in the backseat without explanation and run faster than I ever have on the football field. I run because I shouldn’t have left Mom alone in the house.

She’d begged me to go and let her have some time to rest. Read a book. Watch a movie without me hovering. But I was wrong to leave. I don’t have time for high school or Kiley Vanderbilt.

I run because Mom wouldn’t call me unless it was bad.

C
urrent Day

Kiley

T
he fitting room
of Visions Bridal smells like designer perfume, new fabric, and old money. I fidget in front of the three-way mirror and my wedding gown of silk and lace whispers against my skin. I’ve dreamed about this moment most my life.

Except, a woozy feeling swirls in my gut. Things are very wrong with this picture of happily-ever-after.

Perhaps my wooziness is only because I’m sweating more than a hardcore dieter in an ice cream shop. Lately, I’ve drowned my nerves in tubs of mocha chocolate chip, as evidenced by the snug fit of my wedding dress that I naively bought a size too small.

I wave my hand in front of my face to circulate air and ironically crave more ice cream.

The overly cheerful woman working at Visions kneels behind me, fluffing the elaborate train. The gilded mirror of the empty shop reveals my every angle. My fiancé, Mason, ignores me in favor of checking email or texting while he sits in a small velvet chair. Why did he insist on coming if he isn't going to pay attention?

The Visions’ store clerk, an attractive middle-aged woman, finally stands, walks around in front of me, then stares at my chest. “Kiley, I think it’s gorgeous. Breathtaking. Does it feel all right? I don’t think we can take out the bosom anymore. We don’t want to ruin the drape of the Leavers lace. We couldn’t take the risk.”

“Mm hm.” I can’t say more because I need to conserve my energy for sucking in and shallow breathing.

The pearl encrusted lace bodice itches like a fiberglass bra, and I rub two fingers inside the fabric encasing my cleavage. If I weren't waiting for Mason to look up from his phone, I’d be changing. Pronto.

“Mason? Remind me again why you insisted on coming to this fitting? You’re not even looking.”

He swipes a finger across his cell phone display. “Oh, of course I am.” He lifts his head and eyes me approvingly with small nods of his head.

I attempt to calm down. The last thing I want is to start another fight with him. Unclenching my fists and my jaw, I inhale and exhale and inhale again. I examine the bodice for any signs that one more inhale will bust a seam. Who knew breathing could be dangerous?

Pre-Wedding Disappointment #1: Not sticking to tradition where the groom doesn’t see the bride until she walks down the aisle, one of those old-fashioned ideas I had about weddings.

We’re the new-age, non-sentimental couple. No secrets between us, he’d said. I’m a little sad that he won’t be surprised to see my gorgeous gown.

Disappointment #2, that led to fights one through three of the week: Him telling me how to wear my hair for the wedding, which jewelry is acceptable—a pearl choker he gave me for a wedding gift that’s uglier than a hairless cat, and last, his arrangement for us to spend our wedding night at his parents’ home in Dallas before we leave on our honeymoon. He’s crazy if he thinks I want to spend a night of passion with his parents twenty feet down the hallway.

Disappointment #3: He’s taken to buying me gifts instead of apologizing when he is clearly in the wrong. A second wedding gift of lingerie, white sheer panties that
will
give me a wedgie before I make it to the altar and
won’t
make me forget our huge argument about a prenup.

He clears his throat. “My mother said she’s going to have to add fifty people to the wedding list. They’re friends of my father’s,” he says. “It’s so late now, they’ll know they were forgotten from the original list. You won’t mind if she tells them you forgot to send their invitations…”

He keeps talking, but I shift my attention to my reflection. His mother. He's already agreed to what she wants without asking what I thought.

He gives the store clerk a dazzling smile reserved for pretty female witnesses in the courtroom. “Miss, I'd bet you've heard every word I've said.” He adds a wink. “But my future bride seems distracted. Do you mind stepping out for one minute so I can talk with her in private?”

The woman flushes and returns an approving smile. “Of course.”

He stares at me in the mirror. “You see my point?”

“Oh. Sorry. What were you saying?”

He offers me an impatient smile, so tight his lips disappear. “We have to talk about your dad’s show.”

“Now? We’ve been over this.” I tug at the confining bodice. He's not going to like it when I strip down naked in the middle of the store.

He smiles again. “I think we need to clear the air before I leave for New York. My flight leaves in a couple of hours.”

“You're leaving early?”

“I must've forgotten to tell you.” He finally puts the flipping phone in his pocket. “I know you’re slated to star in
Forever
this season, but it’s ludicrous. You don’t need a career. Being my wife will be a full-time job.”

Mason crosses one leg across the other to rest an ankle on his knee. He’s not wearing socks with his cream summer suit, and I focus on his tan skin—courtesy of a “work” trip he took alone to the Bahamas last month.

“I can’t believe we’re going to talk about this again. I’m tired of arguing with you.”

“I don’t want my wife working instead of concentrating on our family. I’ve ordered credit cards for you. You’ll have an allowance.”

“An allowance?” I frown into the three-way mirror. “I’m not a teenager.”

“You’re acting like one.”

I pull the bodice from my skin to give me some relief. Deep breath. “I have wanted to be on the show ever since the first season. This is very important to me.”

“For Christ’s sake, it’s a reality show.” Mason rolls his eyes. “You know I won’t be stingy with you when it comes to money. You’re accustomed to your father’s bank account. I understand.”

“I don’t care about the money. It’s something I want to do with my degree. I know
Forever
isn’t broadcast journalism, but I have a knack for this. I’ve been matching up my friends with the right guys since high school. I’m good at matchmaking and this will get me noticed. It could open the door to all kinds of opportunities.” His expression says he doesn’t understand.

Money makes sense to him. I should stick to mentioning what I’ll get paid.

He sighs and narrows his gaze. It's a hard look, one I'm not used to seeing from him. “You’re not single anymore. You think it sounds exciting to be on television. I get that. But can you think about me for once? What about my needs?”

He gets to his feet and strolls toward the mirror without breaking eye contact. Placing his hands on my shoulders, he leans in and kisses the back of my neck in a brief, perfunctory way.

When he lifts his head, his face is corporate serious. “I’m going to be honest. I should’ve stated this earlier. There is no fucking way my wife can be on a reality show. It’s a bad idea. I’ll be the laughing stock of the firm. If you ever want me to make it past junior partner—”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me to sit at home and wait for you to come home every day.” My voice cracks. I stand straighter so I can get some air into my lungs. I can't look at him, with his concerned look, as if I'm the one ruining some perfect plan he has for our life.

He moves both hands to my upper arms and squeezes lightly, the pressure making me look at him again in the mirror.

“I didn’t realize you put this reality show over our marriage. I’ve never kept my career goals a secret. But when I put that ring on your finger, you agreed to a partnership,” he says.

“Giving up everything I want sure sounds like a dictatorship.”

He caresses my shoulders. The three-way-reflection doesn’t lie, portraying how nice we look together—he in the tailored suit, me in the pearl and gossamer, albeit itchy, gown.

Walking around me so we’re face-to-face, he grabs my chin and tugs my face upward. “My sweet girl. I love your ambition. I do. But what happens when we have children? Will your wants and needs come before them? Maybe you’ll send them off to summer camps and miss their recitals because you were busy.”

I'm suddenly a little girl again, hundreds of miles away at a summer camp with strangers. Looking into the dark audience at the ballet recital hall, pretending my dad is out there watching, only to discover my nanny at the end of the performance.

Too many years of being homesick and heartsick. For too long the need to talk louder, be prettier, and basically perform a freaking tap dance overcame me whenever Dad entered a room.

I struggle to control the quiver in my voice. “That’s not fair and you know it.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t.” He folds me into his arms. “I know you aren’t your father.”

Mason doesn’t even mention my mother—he knows better than to go that far. I nod, unable to speak past the need to rant, but knowing I won't. He's a trial lawyer. Strategy is his game, not mine.

He kisses me gently and steps back. “I want you to know I have a plan for a financially successful family life. I don’t want my wife trying to juggle a career and the people she loves. I don’t want you to have to choose.”

“Women today don’t have to choose.”

“And who told you that? Your feminist friends?” He shakes his head. “We can talk about it later. I can’t miss this flight. I’ll see you back in Nashville.”

I look at myself in the mirror and pretend to adjust the bodice of my dress. If I don’t keep my hands busy, I may succumb to punching him in the throat for the feminist remark.

How have I missed this small yet important attitude about women?

“Don’t pout,” he says. “Where’s my future bride I love so much?”

“Not pouting.” I allow one corner of my mouth to lift in a half-hearted smile. I’m overreacting. He’s parroting his father and the handful of partners I’ve met at the firm. All male.

He’ll learn I’m my own person and plan to have a career.

“Oh,” he says and looks at his cell. “I almost forgot. We have to host a dinner party on Friday night. It’s very important that we make a good impression. We can use your father’s house since he’s on that cruise. My apartment isn’t right for this.”

“This Friday? As in a few days from today?”

“Plenty of time. Three couples from the firm. And you’ll do a fantastic job because you are my incredible Kiley.” He tweaks my nose, something I hate but I’m not fast enough to step back and avoid. He walks toward the door of the shop.

I pick up the yards of gossamer fabric circling my legs and twirl to watch him go. “But that’s not enough notice. No one can arrange a dinner party of that size this quickly.”

He smiles at me with the confidence of a newly promoted junior partner of Ellison, Montgomery, and Caldwell, LLP. “Of course you can. But if you don’t feel up to it, call my mother. She’d love to help.”

I bet. She’d love to prove I can’t do it alone.

He checks his phone. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I hope you won't be upset with me. I know you. I know where your heart is and what will make you happy. And see? You thought you could handle the stress of a television show and you're getting stressed out over a meal.”

I hear the chime of the door as he leaves the bridal shop. I close my eyes and exhale in a long shuddering breath. Pre-wedding jitters dance around my brain, taunting me. I’ve known what kind of man Mason is. I wanted a man who wants to be involved in every part of his partner’s life.

A family man.

Not a man who wants everything to revolve around him.

I rub the hollow between my breasts, wishing I could tear this gown off. Everything about it chokes me. “Ma’am?” I call out in a choked voice. What was her name?

She doesn’t appear.

I grab the silk fabric of the train and tiptoe into the dressing room to close the door. I reach around with one hand to locate the tiny hooks above the hidden zipper. Must break out of the dress before I hyperventilate. If I can cool off, I can think. I skate my fingers along the back of the dress, searching futilely. No need to panic.

I continue my pat-down of the dress back until my arms hurt from contorting. I’m welded into this dress forever. A woman who had too much mocha chocolate ice cream last week and is paying the price now.

But that’s silly. It’s not only the tight dress. It’s the vice-like grip of Mason’s words. Does he realize I don’t want to bend to everything he wants? Let me pick out my own freaking underwear, even if it’s basic cotton panties.

I sit on the padded chair in the corner of the private dressing room. The fabric pinches my waistline in protest. “I need out of this dress!”

OK, my voice sounded way too loud and toddler-like, but I cannot help it. Tears threaten behind my eyelids. I will not allow myself to get worked up and ruin this damned beautiful day of being fitted for my wedding dress. I’m wearing Vera Wang and this dress demands some composure.

Silence.

“Help?” My pitiful voice is barely a whisper.

“Are you talking to me?” a female voice says.

Who else? I think crankily. “Yes.” I struggle to get up from the chair.

“Can I come in?” she says.

“Yes. Please.”

The door swings open and it’s not the clerk from earlier. A very pretty woman my age stands in the open doorway, a pearl encrusted wedding headpiece pinned in her hair.

She holds out a hand to help me up. “Wow, just wow,” she says. “Your dress is to die for.”

I take her hand and stand. “Thank you. But you don’t have to help me get undressed. I thought you were the lady helping me earlier. Where did she go?”

“She probably took a break when she saw me come in. The clerk here hates me. Turn and I’ll get the back.”

I obey and feel instant relief as she unfastens the hooks. She slides the zipper down.

“Why would she hate you? You’re a client,” I say and glance over my shoulder.

I examine the girl closer. Her hair is fire engine red, and she has a tattoo of a moon and some stars across her upper forearm and onto her shoulders. The combination of her pale skin, vibrant hair, and blue tattoos makes her pop like an exciting Fourth of July display.

She chuckles, the laugh deep and so contagious that I know I’m smiling back.

“I can’t buy a wedding dress in this place,” she says. “I can’t even afford the headpiece. I only love trying this one on until the day I get married.”