2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) (27 page)

Friday, February 4
^th

Every time the phone rang her heart jumped into her
throat. She checked the screen; it was Georgia.

“Hey, what’s up?” She fought to keep her voice light
when she was actually drowning in heavy, plugging away at her desk, swimming neck
deep in files and misgivings—all her time off was catching up to her.

“What’s this about you having a dress already?” her
friend challenged.

“I was going to call you—” She stopped, not knowing
what exactly to say to excuse herself, or how Georgia knew anything about the
dress. Obviously she had more than one leak in her camp. Either Tara had blabbed
all about it or her mother had mentioned the dress to Lacey, who would have immediately
called her buddy Georgia. She’d been screwed over yet again.

Of course Georgia was eventually going to find out that
she’d picked out a dress without her, but she had planned to be the one to tell
her. In fact, she would have told her right away if the damn thing fit her. Wedding-girl
that she was, Georgia wouldn’t have been able to hold a grudge over a
to-die-for Oleg Cassini. But what Catherine had was a to-die-in Oleg Cassini
that would cut off her respiration if she actually tried to wear it. She couldn’t
admit that she’d screwed up—gone out behind her best friend’s back and let Tara
steer her completely wrong. That her only option for making the dress work was
a cape or a crash diet, because she still had the blisters from running and
hadn’t been able to exercise again since…. Plus she
might
have even
gained a few pounds since she bought the dress, what with the stress she’d been
under.   

“You’ve been avoiding me and you know it,” Georgia
charged.

Actually, she’d been avoiding pretty much everybody
the past few days, starting with Fynn. She was conveniently busy whenever he
called. She cut their conversations to the quick, trying not to let him get
much of a word in edgewise. About the only talking she let him do was to her
voice mail. She just needed some time to think. She didn’t want him to start
the “we need to talk” conversation she knew was coming when she hadn’t had the
chance to figure out her own side of things yet.

And who here should really be reconsidering things
anyway?
She was the one taking on more of the burden. She was having to get
to know two people to his one. He was expecting her to pick up her life and move
to be with him, just like he’d always expected her to come and see him for all
the months they’d been dating.
She
was the one making all the sacrifices
and now
he
needed to talk?

“Cat?” Georgia said, prodding her out of her silent
turmoil. 

“I’ve just been really busy.” She tried her best to
sound rushed to prove it.

“Too busy to call your best friend and ask her to come
over and see your wedding dress?” Utter shock at the travesty of such a
thought.

She didn’t answer—feeling suitably put in her place.

“Well, is it perfect?” Georgia asked.

Surprisingly Catherine didn’t detect a stitch of
jealousy or mad or hurt in her voice at all. She even seemed excited. “I should
have called you,” she relented.

“Yeah, you should have. But answer the question. Is it
absolutely the most perfect dress for the biggest day of your life?”

“It’s Oleg Cassini,” she said, figuring that alone answered
the question.

“You can’t go wrong there.”

You wouldn’t think.

“What’s it look like? When can I see it?” Georgia
asked giddily.

“Now’s not a good time. I’m at work.”

“I wasn’t asking to come over
now
.”

“I just mean… I’ll call you and we’ll set up
something,” Catherine said evasively.

“Are you giving me a ‘let’s do lunch’?”

“No. It’s not that.”

“What’s going on, Cat?”

“Nothing,” she practically squealed.

“You sound—”

“Listen, I’ll probably be working until forever
tonight. Can I call you back over the weekend?”

“Sure I—”

Catherine hung up the phone before Georgia could say
any more or pull anything further out of her. She was dangerously close to
breaking down and telling her friend everything. And she didn’t even have it sorted
out for herself yet.

She definitely didn’t need Georgia’s opinion on
weddings or marriage or what the hell she’d been thinking getting involved with
Fynn in the first place. Ever since last spring she’d thrown all caution to the
wind and rolled with love. If love was to blame for getting her caught up in
this ridiculously complicated relationship in the first place, she didn’t want
Georgia
Love’s
advice about what to do now, especially when Georgia’s
Love-
life
had never been anything but smooth sailing.  

Maybe she just wasn’t ready to say goodbye to
everything she’d always known of herself and settle down into Fynn’s ideal of
what their life should be.
Life is real, not ideal, right?
If Renée
didn’t think she was good enough for Cara and he was siding with her, maybe she
needed to reconsider what she was willing to give up….

Brooding and moping aside, she’d hardly gotten
anything done this week. Little to show for all her late hours at work. But
anything was better than going home and being alone with herself.

And now it was Friday. She had nothing to rush home
for—nowhere to rush off to—while it seemed everyone else in her proximity had
plans.
Her outlook was so grim that she didn’t even care that there were delays on
the subway, or that she almost sat in something that looked suspiciously
vomit-like once she finally got on the train. It didn’t matter. Just another
day in The Big Shitty. At least delays and general grossness were things she
could count on. No curveballs there. 

When she finally reached her street, she started
scrounging in her bag for her keys, her eyes on that task, just wanting to get
upstairs and melt into her couch and sleep through the weekend.

“Hey there, sweet cheeks.”

 She looked up, incensed, but at the same time her
ears pricked as the words flowed like butter—

“I thought I was going to have to wait here forever,”
Fynn said, stepping down off the stairs and coming toward her. 

“Why are you here?” she demanded before he could get
too close. She felt unnaturally nervous seeing him, a combination of stomach
butterflies and heart palpitations.

“Well that’s a fine how do you do. What happened to
squealing and throwing yourself in my arms?” His eyes twinkled with good
nature.

“I mean twice in less than a week. Here.” She stopped
herself before she said,
on my turf.

“I figured it was the only way I’d get to talk to you,
seeing as how you’ve been too busy to take my calls.”

“It’s been a… tough week,” she said, which was
certainly true, though it fell far short of a reason or an excuse for avoiding
him. There
was
no excuse. They were engaged. They were supposed to be
each other’s everything. They should be able to talk about… anything. She
shouldn’t have to, or even want to, hide her feelings from him. They were supposed
to be an
us
. Instead she felt like they were unnervingly intimate strangers—like
she knew every inch of his body but hardly a skosh of his brain.
Maybe eight
months is too short for forever.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he offered.

She searched his words for meaning and tone and
intensity, trying to read in between the lines to find that place where cordial
sympathy became uncertainty—second thoughts.

“That’s not the only reason I’m here, though,” he said
slyly.

She braced herself.
Here it comes—the awful “we
need to talk” truth. 

“I hope you didn’t forget what today is,” he prodded.

“It’s Friday,” she said curtly.

“It happens to be our pre-monthiversary.”

She looked at him, her face screwed up in confusion.

“We are exactly one month before our wedding.” he said
earnestly, searching her face carefully—
trying to gauge my certainty—looking
for an easy way out?

She couldn’t understand why he would put on
appearances like this. It was all just too sweet. Saccharine-sweet. Like Renée’s
feelings about her weren’t right there under the surface, threatening
everything they had together.
Just be honest with me! Come out with it! She
doesn’t think I’m good enough to be Cara’s mother and so you have to rethink
this whole relationship.

“Anyway,” he said, noticing she wasn’t softening, “since
our weekend got cut short last time, I thought I would make it up to you.
Besides, we never did get to our gift thing we were supposed to do.”

“The registry?” she challenged, putting another
checkmark on the mental list of things that were wrong with this whole
relationship and where it was going. He didn’t even know what the “gift thing”
was called, let alone realize that they’d already been too late getting that
done
last
weekend when she’d tried to trap him into doing it with her.

“Yeah, that.”

“I did it,” she said firmly, leveling it like a charge
against him. She’d picked out everything for their new life together…. With her
mother.... While they were out getting Cara a booster seat. She was the one doing
everything to prepare them for this marriage and he was—

“What?” he seemed taken aback, like she’d pulled the
rug out from under him.

“The invitations went out almost two weeks ago,” she
said plainly, hoping for a glimmer of understanding on his part.

“I know that.” He looked back at her blankly.

“People already have them in hand.” She fought to keep
from screaming it out, but it felt like she was pulling teeth trying to get
what she wanted from him—recognition that he was a day late and a dollar short
to start caring about anything related to their wedding. “I couldn’t wait
around for you,” she finally said, resigned.

“Oh.”

“That’s it?” she challenged. She couldn’t believe that
even usurping his opinions on the type of canisters to use in their kitchen and
towels to hang in the bathroom and sheets to sleep on for Christ’s sake didn’t
bother him. Nothing about the wedding affected him at all.
Except the
goshmillion cost of it,
she thought bitterly. Chalk that up to one more
thing on the con side of their relationship list which was steadily outpacing
the pros, where only
love
and that
ever-after
thing resided—and
even those weren’t guaranteed considering the divorce rate.

“If you thought it needed to get done then I guess it
needed to get done,” he said simply and rationally, which aggravated the crap
out of her.

“And you completely trust my opinion and tastes on
everything
?
You don’t want a say on
anything
?” she asked, her voice escalating,
ready to pick a fight over lint if it would get a rise out of him. She wanted
it all out in the open no matter how much it hurt. What was he
really
thinking?

“I didn’t say that,” he pointed out.

“Didn’t say what? That you trust me or that you don’t
want a say?”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to start a fight right here on the sidewalk.”
He stood there, looking helpless, running his hand through his already tousled
hair, a duffel bag at his feet. His eyes penetrated deep into her soul, and she
saw a skating discomfort pass over his face. But then it was just Fynn again—her
tired, slightly haggard Fynn-ancé. “Can we at least go upstairs to do this in
private?”

*****

As soon as the door closed, hemming them in, he asked,
“Now what?”

But she just looked at him, challenging him to make
the first move and start the conversation. After all, he’d been the one to come
to her, wanting to talk.  

He punted. “Did you eat dinner yet?” It was like he had
pressed a reset button and was ready to start over and forget the fight
entirely.

She shook her head no.

“Do you want to go out?”

She shook her head no again, feeling like there wasn’t
enough air to breathe let alone speak.

“Do you have food here?”

Again, no.

“Are you going to speak to me or not?” he asked,
frustration obvious this time.

She stood her silent ground.

“I came all the way here to see you. To talk to you.
Don’t be like this,” he said, heavy-handed.

All the way? Try going all the way every weekend!
“I
didn’t ask you to come,” she countered, putting it out there that hospitality
was optional when dealing with a drop-in—not that Elizabeth Hemmings would
approve (only civil judgment, not rudeness).

“That never stopped you,” he jabbed lightly. “Isn’t
that how we got here?”

Of course he would go back to the beginning when she
hounded him and hounded him and then fell for him. But that was in the past.
And right now she couldn’t help wondering how she would possibly be able to handle
living with him in the future if she felt like this now—suffocated. Plus her
bee disease was acting up again, making her neck itch to high heaven, like
maybe she was allergic to him.

“Catherine, please. What’s wrong?”

He looked so earnest and caring and she felt her
resolve weakening, leaving her open to get hurt. She redoubled her efforts, steering
the conversation into dangerous territory, forcing the inevitable to come to a
head. “So, how is Cara doing?” she asked lightly, pushing him to say what he
had come to say—Renée had misgivings about her as a mother figure for her
daughter after her reckless trial run. Perhaps Fynn was just caught in the
middle. Or maybe he sided with Renée. Either way, she had matching misgivings
of her own—about him and parenthood and losing herself in this relationship. She
had plenty to be concerned about on her end too.

“She’s good. Calls every night. I was actually talking
to her while I waited for you to get home,” he said softly.

“Nice.” Her tone was brisk. “And Renée?”

“She got out of the hospital on Wednesday.”

“Really? That’s great,” she said tightly. “I’m
surprised you didn’t tell me earlier.”

“I tried to, but you wouldn’t talk to me on the
phone.”

“You could have left a message.”

He sighed as if it was taking all his strength just to
be there.

Then leave,
Catherine thought.
You don’t
have to keep up the charade. I’m a big girl.

“She really appreciated you taking Cara for the
weekend, you know,” Fynn said, his voice firm and solid.

“I’m sure,” Catherine humphed, pissed that he would
pretend Renée had anything nice to say about her—
or perhaps she appreciated
finding out what kind of mother I would be before she handed over her kid
permanently.

“What’s going on with you?” he demanded suddenly.

“Nothing.” She turned her back on him, putting down
her purse, taking off her coat, getting comfortable in
her
home. She
even walked boldly to the bedroom, took off her heels and slipped on her
slippers.

He didn’t follow.

When she noticed that he wasn’t going to chase her,
she took her time, deciding to change out of her work clothes, too, leaving the
door open just in case he wanted to catch a peek at what he wouldn’t be getting
tonight. Finally, looking young and cute in her fuzzy lounge pants and a
long-sleeved shirt that hugged her chest beautifully, she went out to find him,
nonchalance in her walk. He was in the same spot, duffel in hand like he had no
intention of staying.

“What was that?” he asked in utter disbelief.

“What?” she said dumbly.

“We were in the middle of a conversation.”

“I was done.” She was needling him purposefully,
knowing how to provoke an argument—she’d done it with boyfriends in the past
when she wanted out.

“Seriously, Cat, what the hell is going on?”

And there it was. That word. Cat. He didn’t call her
that. It was a subtle act of war that showed her things weren’t fine on his end
either.

“Just say what you’re really thinking, Fynn.”

“I’m not thinking anything except perhaps that you’re
a little crazy right now.” He added the universal nutcase hand motion to put it
over the top.

“Crazy?” she huffed. He was
making
her crazy.
This whole wedding and marriage and life together was making her crazy.

“That’s how you’re acting.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you’re
doing here,” she blurted, scratching at her neck, feeling claustrophobic in her
apartment, in her clothes, in her skin. “Why did you show up like this after
what—”

“I came to see my fiancée. Why is that so hard to
understand?”

She stood there, her face stony, refusing to answer
the offensive question. She wasn’t an idiot. She
knew
he had “issues” to
discuss with her. Issues that could end things.
Be a man and come out with
it!

“Obviously you don’t want me here,” he said, resigned.

Her heart tightened in her chest. She didn’t want him
to leave now either. But she was too proud to say that.

“Can you just tell me one thing?” he asked, but he
didn’t wait for permission. “Why are you trying to push me away?”

She could feel their relationship teetering, but instead
of taking part to stop it, she watched it waver before her. She couldn’t lie
and say she wasn’t pushing. She couldn’t blame it all on a weak and dying,
meddling woman—a friend he had known infinitely longer than they’d known each
other. 

And just when she thought he had run out of things to
say… “Sometimes I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into—”

“So do I,” she slung back, desperation lighting the
fire within her.

He looked at her, pain in his eyes at the viciousness
with which she wielded those words, as opposed to the hopelessness in his own.

“This isn’t working,” she said firmly and quickly, self-destructing
before he could do it for her.  

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t want this,” she said around the lump in her
throat.

“What exactly are you saying?” Fynn asked carefully,
every muscle tensed in his face and body. She could see he was trying to
restrain himself. This conversation was going nowhere good and they both knew
it.

“I’m saying that I’m giving up everything here—my job,
my home, my life,” Catherine said helplessly, but the words were so brutal the
way she shoved them out there.

“Your life?” His voice was so cold, much colder than
the winter air outside the apartment had been.

“You know what I mean.” Her tone attempting to minimize
what she’d said, like it was a figurative exaggeration.

“No, I don’t.” He was stiff, unyielding.

“It’s different just flying out for long
weekends—going to see you was like going on vacation. We don’t know what the
normal day-to-day is going to be like. And living there? Just what am I
supposed to do 24/7?”