He Let Another Woman Touch My Wedding, So I Left

1: 1

Seven years with Emmet James, and when we finally started planning the wedding, I took on the invitations myself.

I stayed up designing through a migraine, right up until the week before the wedding, when I finished the fifteenth version. The second he walked through the door, I carried my laptop over and set it in front of him.

I was about to tell him to pick one when he laid an invitation down on the keyboard.

"Don't bother with all that. Let's just use this one."

The cover had roses done in this elaborate three-dimensional embroidery, studded with pearls of different sizes.

Seeing my confusion, he explained on his way to the bathroom.

"Adela Henson designed it. The girl put a lot of thought into it, so it'd be awkward to say no. And it saves you the trouble."

I watched his back, and something in my chest went raw.

Five years together, and he was a hardcore minimalist. Everything in his life had to be pared down.

Our wedding home looked like a staged showroom, the bedding always one flat color, the same style of clothes hanging in his closet year after year.

The first fourteen versions of the invitation had one extra line drawn on them, and he'd shot every one of them down.

But now, suddenly, someone else had put in the effort, and it would be awkward to refuse.

I opened my chat with my sworn rival and sent her the version I loved most.

"Rate it. What do you think?"

The reply came almost instantly.

"That's fire!"

"Would be even better if the groom's name was mine."

The corner of my mouth lifted. I typed back.

"Not impossible, actually."

Ten minutes later, Emmet came out of the shower, toweling his hair as he walked over to me.

"What's going on? You look pretty happy."

I didn't lift my eyes from my phone, but most of the smile drained off my face.

"I'm getting married. Of course I'm happy."

He nodded.

"Then I'll have someone print the invitations tomorrow, and we can send them out to family and friends the day after."

"No need."

I pushed the invitation on the table away from me.

"I'm not marrying you, so it's none of your concern."

Emmet stopped short, brows drawing together.

"Mona Callahan, are you being serious right now? It's just an invitation."

"Get it settled sooner and you won't have to keep wearing yourself out on the design. Then you can focus on the wedding itself, right?"

I raised my eyes to him. My voice shook a little.

"So you do know I wore myself out over it?"

"And after all that, none of mine were good enough. You only liked the one someone else made."

"So which is it you actually like, Emmet? The invitation, or the person?"

"What are you talking about?"

Emmet's pupils flickered.

"Adela is my student, and she's my subordinate!"

"Can you not think of people in such a filthy way?"

A laugh escaped me.

"Then how am I supposed to think?"

"She went to look at the venue. She helped choose the flowers. And now she made the invitation."

"Emmet, don't you think she looks more like the one who's supposed to be marrying you?"

He set the towel down, sat beside me, and drew in a deep breath.

"Mona, you know this. Her father funded me all through school. Even if I tutored her for a while, that's a debt I can never fully repay."

I didn't answer. I walked to the entryway and picked up his keyring.

There was a new key on it, wrapped in a little cat-shaped cover.

"Where's this from?"

Emmet started to rise, then sat back down.

"It's Adela's."

"Someone marked up the apartment she was renting. It wasn't safe, so if anything happens, I can let myself in."

My nose stung. I forced the lump in my throat back down.

Three months ago, on a rainy night, the road I always took home from work was under repair and the streetlights were shut off.

In the pitch-black alley, the footsteps behind me kept getting closer.

Palms sweating, I called him and told him to come right away.

He hung up on me and sent a message instead.

What kind of world do you think this is? Who has nothing better to do than follow you around at night?

I've got an urgent meeting, I can't get away. Don't be dramatic.

All I could do was turn my phone volume all the way up, play music, and run toward a crowded street to get someone's attention.

After the man following me disappeared, I sat inside a convenience store, clutching a box of hot food, shaking with fear.

I wanted to tell Emmet I really had been followed, but then I saw Adela's new post.

In the photo, she and Emmet were sitting in a spacious conference room, a high-school math test laid out in front of them.

The caption read:

The way back to seventeen is to sit beside you at nineteen.

In Emmet's hand was a pen with the same little cat as the keychain.

I'd loved that blind-box series for ages and wanted to buy a whole case to display at home.

But he'd asked me, straight-faced:

"Do you really think that fits the way we've decorated the place?"

And now the key was on his ring, and the pen was in his hand.

Seeing that I said nothing, Emmet stood, came up behind me, and slid his arms around my shoulders.

"If you really don't like it, then we'll send invitations separately, your side and my side. Okay?"

I stared at that key, silent for a few seconds, then nodded.

"Okay."

Then from this moment on, the seven years that belonged to us had started counting down.

2: 2

Emmet seemed surprised that I let it go so easily. He was quiet for a few seconds.

Then he pressed a kiss into my hair.

"Adela's got a project waiting on my call. Let me deal with it first."

"You've worked hard these past few days. Get some sleep early."

"Tomorrow morning we'll go look at wedding rings."

He paused, not letting go of me right away.

On a night like this, before, I would have told him not to stay up too late, then warmed him a glass of milk with my own hands.

Or maybe he was waiting to see whether I'd complain that Adela was eating up the little time in our day we finally got to spend together.

But I only nodded, gently pushed his hand away, and walked toward the bedroom.

A few minutes later, Adela's bright, chirping voice slipped in through the gap in the door.

"Emmet, you're just as sharp as you always were!"

His voice came back doting, though he'd deliberately lowered it.

"And you're still the same, always playing your little tricks. You can't do that at work, you know."

"Fine, fine, I get it, Professor James!"

I buried myself under the covers, but Adela's voice still got through.

"Emmet, once you're married, will you still take care of me like this?"

He answered without hesitation.

"Of course."

"Won't Mona feel bad about it then?"

"No. She's not petty like that. If she were, we never would've made it this far."

I lay there on the soft bed, and yet everything felt like it was digging into me.

When we first got together, he was working part-time at a coffee shop off campus.

One day I went to meet him for a meal after class and walked in on a girl asking him for his number.

He scrambled to take off his apron, rushed over and grabbed my hand, and told her he had a girlfriend.

Later, over the meal, he saw how unbothered I looked, took my hand, and asked why I wasn't jealous.

I looked at him, confused. His eyes went red as he said,

"Mona, I'm your boyfriend."

"I don't want you to be that generous, or that understanding. Be a little petty. Petty enough that there's only room in your heart for me."

I rubbed at the space between my brows and turned over, sitting up.

My eyes landed on the "Mona & Emmet" home-planning notebook on the nightstand.

I reached for it and opened it.

Every line was from right after Emmet and I first moved in together.

The last thing in his handwriting stopped six months ago.

All that time, the whole stretches and the scraps of it, he'd given to Adela.

He hadn't even left me the time to write one line.

A bitterness rose up my throat and lodged there, aching.

With a trembling hand, I took a black marker out of the drawer.

I pulled off the cap and pressed hard, blacking out every word.

Every stroke felt like tearing my own heart open.

Tears dropped onto the paper and bloomed across it, one blot after another.

It was almost dawn before I put in my earbuds and fell asleep.

When I woke the next day, it was already ten.

There were a few unread messages from Emmet on my phone.

Away on a business trip to see a client. I'll handle the ring.

I didn't reply. By evening, I went and picked up the finished invitations.

I'd just opened them, ready to write, when the door opened. Emmet was back.

He set a paper bag on the table.

"See if you like it."

I opened it and found a pure white ring box inside.

The ring was a classic design, the kind of style I liked.

Except it was two sizes too small.

"Where's this from?"

I asked.

"Bought it on a business trip to the next city over. Thought of how you always like buying their little accessories."

"Adela picked it, didn't she?"

Emmet pressed his lips together.

"How did you know?"

I said nothing. I slid the ring onto my ring finger. It went down an inch and a half, then stuck.

He took off his jacket and hung it on the rack.

"It's not that much smaller. Aren't you always going on about wanting to lose weight?"

"Once you slim down, it'll fit fine."

Wind blew in from the window, the paper bag dropped to the floor, and a receipt slipped out.

I bent down and picked it up. My eyes skimmed the store's address, and I gave a small laugh and asked softly,

"You had time to go see the ocean on a business trip?"

His hands paused on his tie.

"I figured I'd go buy the ring, so I stopped by on the way."

I looked at the ring that wouldn't fit on my finger, and at the receipt, and slumped back against the couch, all the strength drained out of me.

Over the New Year, I went with him to see his grandparents.

On the drive back, I came across this same stretch of coast. The map showed it was less than fifteen kilometers if we turned around and went.

This time of year, when the weather's good, the sunset over the water is even more beautiful.

So I coaxed him, pouting, to turn the car around, and he gripped the wheel and said, face full of irritation,

"I've been driving all day and I'm exhausted. Can you knock it off with the romance thing? You're not some girl in her early twenties anymore."

But today, to take her to see the ocean, he drove five hundred kilometers round trip without a word of complaint, and a hundred-some kilometers became on the way.

My fifteen kilometers had been me being unreasonable.

I was the one who wasn't on the way.

I took the ring off and put it back in the box.

"If a wedding ring only fits after I lose weight, then I'd rather not have it."

Emmet's face darkened.

"Mona, can you not"

A phone call cut him off.

He picked up, and I could faintly hear Adela crying on the other end.

The gist of it was a seafood allergy.

Emmet grabbed a coat off the rack.

"Okay, don't cry, take a deep breath, I'm coming right now."

And with that, he headed for the door without looking back, tossing only one line at me.

"If you don't want it, then throw it"

Before he could finish, I grabbed the ring box and threw it into the trash.

His steps hitched for a moment. He didn't look back.

He came back the next morning.

I got up half-asleep to drink some water and found him tidying the kitchen.

On the table sat a simple bowl of soup.

I stared for a second.

These past two years, the company had grown and he was run off his feet every day, with no time to cook at all.

Maybe the last few days had held too much unpleasantness, and he wanted to smooth things over.

"Eat something to warm your stomach. We'll go see how your wedding gown is coming along afterward."

I didn't refuse. There was still one part of the gown that needed altering.

My car had gone in for servicing, and if I took a cab, I'd have a ten-minute walk once we reached the mouth of the lane.

After cleaning up, we went down to the basement level. I walked straight to his car and pulled open the passenger door.

Only to find Adela Henson lying there under his coat, eyes closed, her face a little pale.

Emmet James lowered his voice.

"The doctor said she can't be left alone."

"I figured it was no trouble, so I brought her out to get some fresh air."

"You sit in the back."

I drew a breath and got into the back seat.

Out of habit I rolled the window down, and he turned to look at me.

"Don't. Adela can't be in a draft."

Then he took out his personal thermos, unscrewed it, blew on it, and woke Adela to take her medicine.

Every bit of it tender beyond words.

My palm tightened, inch by inch. The car wasn't small, and yet I felt like I couldn't sit still.

Beyond his demands about how he lived, Emmet was also a germophobe.

He never shared utensils or a cup with anyone.

If there were no serving chopsticks at a meal, he'd turn and leave on the spot.

All these years, I had carefully obeyed his rules and never once stepped out of line.

"Fine."

I took a mask out of my bag, put it on, and closed my eyes.

At the studio, I opened the door and went straight to the materials room.

When I came out, the dress form in the very center stood empty.

The gown that had been on it was now on the table, and Adela was cutting into it.

I rushed over, snatched the scissors from her hand, and shoved her hard.

"Who told you to touch my things?"

She stumbled back, hit the corner of the table, and a vase shattered on the floor, cutting her calf.

"Mona, I didn't mean to."

"I just saw a wrinkle in the line there, that it wouldn't show off your waist when you wore it, so I wanted to help you fix it"

"What gives you the right to fix anything of mine? Who do you think you are?"

Emmet, in the restroom, heard and came hurrying. He swept past me and went straight to steady Adela by the waist.

"Are you all right? Where are you hurt?"

Adela clutched his arm, sobbing, tears falling in big drops.

"Emmet, I really didn't mean any harm..."

"And don't blame Mona, she was just too angry."

Emmet's eyes fell on the blood welling on her calf, and his gaze wavered.

That look. I knew it too well.

The year we first moved in together, he was still an unknown, just starting out.

To save money, we rented the cheapest place in the old low-rent district.

The whole building faced away from the sun, the stairwell leaked, and the steps were always slick with moss.

Once the alarm clock died and I was late for work. I ran in a panic, my foot slipped, I fell, and tore my knee open, a hole of blood.

Back then he'd looked at my wound with this exact same expression.

The feeling in his eyes was that it hurt him to see it.

He smoothed the top of Adela's head, his voice soft.

"It's all right. No one blames you."

"Let me take you to the hospital first."

And with that, he bent down to carry her on his back.

I held out the piece of fabric she'd cut to pieces, my voice cold.

"Emmet, she ruined something of mine."

He frowned.

"Mona, it's not the set you're wearing for the wedding. You can just make it again later, can't you?"

I shook my head.

"It can't be made again."

His gaze swept the studio.

"Can you please stop making a scene? You're a wedding gown designer. If you can't make it, then quit and be done with it!"

I almost screamed it, my voice raw.

"This was my mom's coming-of-age gift to me. She made it with her own hands!"

Emmet saw the cut on my hand from the scissors and froze.

"Mona, your hand..."

Before he'd finished, Adela pushed away from him and ran out, sobbing.

The hand he'd reached toward me jerked back.

"I'll get someone to sew it back together, restore it as much as possible."

"Adela's in a fragile state. I have to go check on her."

That broad back slowly disappeared, and my heart broke apart with it, inch by inch.

I couldn't hold it in any longer. I clutched the gown, crouched on the floor, and wept out loud.

4: 4

Once I'd dealt with the studio, I went to the hospital for a tetanus shot.

Maybe it was the reaction to the shot, or maybe it was everything my heart had been through, but somewhere in the middle of the night the fever took me.

I burned all over, drifting in and out, strange fractured scenes surfacing behind my eyes.

I saw Emmet holding me, his arms wrapped around my scorching body, wiping my forehead and my neck.

Lifting a cup of water to my lips, coaxing me to take the medicine.

His eyes red as he said it.

"Mona, I was wrong."

Then the scene shifted, and my mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me with reddened eyes.

I wept in a panic, my voice caught in my throat, breaking apart.

"Mom, I didn't keep the thing you left me safe. Are you blaming me?"

She shook her head and slowly reached out her hand, brushing the tears from the corner of my eye.

"Mona, I'm not blaming you. I only want to tell you this: if you aren't happy, leave while you still can."

She touched my forehead and said softly,

"My sweet Mona deserves the best kind of love."

I tried to reach out and hold her, but my fingers closed on empty air.

I jerked my eyes open and found the room pitch dark.

So it had been a dream.

I pushed myself up to sit, stumbled half-asleep to the living room, took the fever medicine, and lay back down.

Only when the sky began to lighten did my strength come back, and I started to pack.

As I taped shut the first box, the lock turned.

Emmet came in, his face cold.

"Mona, are you done with this act yet?"

I said nothing and kept sealing the next box, not looking up.

"Can't you hear me talking to you?"

He crossed the room, snatched the tape roll out of my hand, his eyes sharp.

"Don't you have anything to say to me?"

The motion pulled at my wound, and the pain made me frown.

"What do you want to hear?"

"Still keeping it up?"

He gave a cold snort and threw his phone onto the couch.

"Who told you to put everything that happened at the studio yesterday online?"

"Do you have any idea how ugly the things those people are saying are?"

"You won't stop until you've driven Adela into a depression, will you!"

I looked down. The whole argument from the studio yesterday had been posted online.

From the angle of the video, it had been filmed from outside the studio.

The comments were all condemning Adela Henson as a manipulator, saying she had hands and no decency about where she put them.

Some were asking why I hadn't just slapped the two of them into next week.

I let out a small scoff, opened the phone dialer, keyed in three digits, and looked at him.

"You want to call the police, or should I?"

Emmet's brow knitted.

"Do we really need to waste resources on this? Who else besides you would ever"

Just then his phone buzzed. His assistant.

Mr. James, we've traced it. A tourist happened to be passing by, filmed it, and posted it online

I gave my phone a little shake.

"You can read, can't you? I don't need to read it out loud for you, do I?"

Emmet froze, his face turning awkward.

"I'm sorry"

"It's fine."

I cut him off and started gathering up the books.

"She's your student, your subordinate. I understand."

He stood there for a few seconds, then quickly pulled me up off the floor, his tone softening a little.

"You've still got that cut on your hand. Let me pack for you."

He pressed me down onto the couch and started putting the books into the box, asking offhandedly,

"What are you packing all this up for?"

An urgent phone call cut off the words I was about to say.

Emmet's brow furrowed as he spoke into it.

"Okay, I understand. I'll come back with you."

"Mr. Henson's health has always been good. Don't panic too much."

The call ended, and he looked at me, apologetic.

"Mr. Henson's been hospitalized. I have to go over. Wait for me at home, and I'll definitely be back before the wedding."

I nodded.

"Go."

Once the door closed, I contacted a courier to ship the luggage to the new address.

I slid one of the invitations, already filled out, from the stack and tucked it under the pillow.

Then I unpinned him, blocked him, deleted him.

Three days later, Mr. Henson's condition improved after surgery and he was moved to a regular ward. Emmet took Adela Henson out to eat.

Out of nowhere, the memory surfaced of that unhesitating "Go" Mona had given him before he left.

Right after that he remembered the wedding was only days away, and he hadn't even sent out the invitations.

He'd barely sat down at the restaurant and mass-sent the invitations when a mutual friend of his and Mona's popped up with a question mark.

What's going on with you and Mona?

She got married a couple of days ago. Why does your invitation still have her name on it?