Page 19 of How to Ruin a Wedding

Instead of going in the front door, I circle the country home that sits on five meticulously manicured acres. My feet sink into the soft grass as I move past the pristine landscaping Taina helped arrange, whiteand yellow flowers dotting the bushes, until I reach a single curved white door at the back.

Taina was right, I think, as I let myself in. Under different circumstances, being here could give me the illusion of having my own place.

It’s nothing I’d pick out on my own. A pale cushioned couch facing a curved flat screen. Sterling-silver cookware on the stainless steel stovetop in the wraparound kitchen overlooking the living room and the all-white bedding set in the corner. Neat. Tidy. Colorless.

Way nicer than my New York apartment.

If only there weren’t this chunk of unwelcomeness lodged behind my rib cage the moment I walk into the house. Even as I shove my shoes off at the door, then throw myself onto the couch and sink into its luxury, the feeling thickens until my chest pinches with the pain of it.

With all its faults, my apartment was my sanctuary. The insistent drip of the kitchen sink was a sound that became a song that lulled me into relaxation, away from whatever the day outside the crooked, double-locked doors weighed on me. A place similar to our childhood home; a place my heart put loose roots into.

The memory of the sound, thetap,tap,tap, plays in my head. It’s enough to lull my body into a state of comfort that brings my heavy eyes to a close.

On the cusp of sleep, the door slams.

Mathew walks in, loafers on, to loom over me. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together in seven days. I knew the moment would come but foolishly prayed I could somehow avoid it if I worked around his long hours.

He doesn’t speak. He crosses his arms, the sleeves of his blazer tight against his biceps. It must be a power move he does to assert dominance over his clients.

A sliver of pettiness makes me want to remain silent, to see if I can get him to break first, but it’s hard to be petty when I’m living rent free in his house.

“Mathew,” I greet him. Not Matt. Mathew. No nicknames allowed. I learned that the very first time we met, and he shook my hand as if we’d just closed a multi-million-dollar deal.

“Have you been applying to jobs?” he asks, his tone clipped, final, as if hedoesn’twant me to answer his question. His default tone when speaking to anyone other than Taina.

“I have been,” I respond, wanting to fold into myself. “Now and for months.”

He sucks his teeth. “That scene you pulled at work was foolish. Word gets around. Now what? There’s only so many jobsyouqualify for.”

“And what jobs do I qualify for?”

“Jobs that won’t pay you enough to move out of here fast enough.”

“Fast enough? Don’t you want me gone yesterday?”

“If you know, you shouldn’t have moved in.”

“I’m not moving in.” My voice is a tiny thing now. “This is just until I find a new place.”

I hate feeling myself becoming smaller under his scrutiny. It feels like he’s shoved me in front of a studio audience ready to laugh at a moment’s notice, planted a spotlight over me, and is waiting for me to say something that’s as pathetic and stupid as he believes I am.

It’s humiliating, trying to reach for my pride and finding only shame in its place. There’s no place for it here, no shield I can grab to defend myself from his condescending glare. I have no place to go, no jobs lined up, and a maxed-out credit card. I can’t say anything for fear of pissing him off. I have to let him speak to me in whatever demeaning way he wants to.

It’s hard to believe that this is the man Taina would keep me up at night talking my ear off about, with tales of all the romance and charm he radiated. The way he speaks to me makes me think I’ve warped all those stories.

Surely he couldn’t be the man who made customized playlists and burned them onto CDs (Who even has CD players anymore?), ornamed a star after her, or brought flowers for her on every single date they had, or painted her nails?

Under his continuous glare, I add, “I’m trying my best.”

“Clearly, that’s not enough.”

Heat builds beneath my eyes from the growing embarrassment flooding through me. “What more can I do if my best isn’t enough?”

At the sound of my voice cracking, Mathew pinches the bridge of his nose with manicured fingers. The way he’s smoothed his ashy hair back allows me to see every line of disappointment and irritation framing his square face.

“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here. You’re the one who lost your job. Now I have to pick up the pieces.”

“I’m trying to pick up my own pieces.”