Page 18 of Tossing the Caber

Beacon’s plea is so low, Laurel almost treads over it in his frantic need to explain. He doesn’t understand why it’s such abig deal, but his future husband obviously doesn’t share the perspective.

“I won’t do it anymore if you’re upset,” Laurel says hollowly. “I’ll refund his money and tell him my husband doesn’t want me to?—

Beacon shakes his head. His expression is haunted. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“I have to go, Laurel.”

“Beacon, wait!”

“I’m sorry, I… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Beacon shows Laurel his back, rushing toward the door. Between one gasping breath and another, he’s gone, leaving Laurel sitting on the workbench, horror mounting.

His future husband left him. Maybe for good. If Laurel’s father gets wind of this—if, worst case scenario, Laurel has destroyed another betrothal—his life will be over. All luxuries, freedoms… No one would blame Rodney for giving up on a crippled son who can’t maintain an engagement.

Tomorrow. Beacon said they’d see each other. Laurel can talk to him then, once their heads are cooled. They can sort things out, establish whatever it was that spooked Beacon and make sure it doesn’t happen again. Laurel will be ruined otherwise, his chances of meeting another potential husband as attractive and understanding as Beacon next to nil.

Except when the next day comes, Laurel returns to the spot by the campgrounds where they planned to meet, and Beacon is nowhere to be found.

The day of his wedding, Laurel wakes up feeling sick.

Beacon didn’t call off the engagement, but he also didn’t appear to meet Laurel for the entirety of the previous day.Their promises to learn how to be good partners to each other have been dashed, both of them failing to a magnificent degree. Now Laurel is back in the dark, not knowing what he’s about to walk into.

Will Beacon be stoic and cold again? Worse?

And as for himself… Will Laurel continue to fail? Is there anything that could have prevented this? He’s replayed the brief conversation endless times, wondering what he could have said to put Beacon at ease instead of having to watch him turn tail and run. He’s not even the one whohasa tail! Ugh.

Fortunately, Beacon doesn’t appear to have alerted any of their parents about the interaction. Maybe he’s embarrassed, humiliated to admit to the Sure-of-Foot leaders what a disastrous mate they picked for their heir. Naturally, they’d want to knowwhy, and then the confidentiality of Laurel’s clients and the intimate modifications he offers would be compromised.

It’s one thing to tell the interested party that he’ll attempt anything. It’s another to be exposed as actively doing it.

Fuck. Shit damnfuck.

Laurel’s catastrophizing is cut short—well, not short, since he’s been agonizing since he awoke—when his father storms into his room.

“Laurel, you’re going to be late for your own wedding ceremony,” Rodney declares, disdain clear in his voice. Over the last few days, rather than seem approving of Laurel’s attempts to socialize with his intended, Rodney’s attitude has veered more closely to disgust. Laurel has caught him staring more than once, expression tainted by open revulsion.

He doesn’t need another reason to hate how Laurel ended up. Along that vein, it might be nice to marry Beacon and have in-laws who actually love their only child.

“I’m sorry, Papa, I was?—”

“Finish getting dressed.”

After the tailor fiasco, there was enough time to ensure Laurel’s wedding garments were properly fitted. Laurel had expected to be provided with an attendant to help him prepare, but Rodney hadn’t hired anyone, so he sits in his bedroom alone, lining his eyes with kohl and rubbing shimmer on his cheeks and brow.

Even with modest embellishments, Laurel looks deflated. Nonsensically, he checks the glass, even though he has no reason to expect any messages of congratulations when he had no one to tell of his engagement. With a soft sigh, Laurel tucks the glass compact away and dons his plain off-white tunic and trousers; Rodney intentionally forbade color or pattern on his wedding clothes, citing Laurel’salterationsas enough of a spectacle.

In a small act of defiance, Laurel grabs a dusky pink, floor-length lace shawl, and slides it on over the rest of his attire.

There.

The tip of his tail twitches, but it’s otherwise still, a testament to Laurel’s bone-deep exhaustion.

When he exits the house, it’s to see Rodney has called a rickshaw for them. Less because he’s worried about Laurel’s exhaustion, more because the ceremonial garments were expensive, and walking to the legal pavilion would dirty the pale fabric.

Although they sit side-by-side, the ride is silent, Rodney cold and stiff. Laurel doesn’t try to engage him in conversation, and he doesn’t expect congratulations. Not even a bitter comment about finally getting Laurel out of his house or being free of the workshop rent cost.