But that had nothing to do with why I married him.
I married Julian because he made terrible coffee.
Because he read novels in the bathtub.
Because he never laughed when I was trying to say something serious.
Because on our fourth date, when I warned him my family was “a lot,” he asked:
“Do you want me to fix anything?”
I said no.
He replied:
“Then I’ll listen.”
I almost married him that night.
Helena whispered:
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
I looked at her.
“I wanted something that belonged to me before Dad could evaluate it.”
She flinched.
“I didn’t want him asking what Julian earned.”
“What his family owned.”
“Whether he was impressive enough.”
“Whether he could have done better than
me.”
“I didn’t want our marriage becoming another Langford ranking exercise.”
Helena’s voice broke.
“You thought we would do that?”
“I knew Dad would.”
“And I didn’t trust you to stop him.”
That hurt.
I saw it.
But truth is not cruelty merely because someone wishes it were different.
Before Helena could answer, the restroom door opened.
Maren entered.
Still in her wedding gown.
“You’re here.”
She looked genuinely relieved.
“I thought you left.”
“I almost did.”
Her eyes dropped.
“I’m sorry.”
“For Dad?”
“For laughing earlier.”
That surprised me.
“You laughed?”
“At the first joke.”
“Not the fountain.”
“I didn’t know he was going to push you.”
Her voice shook.
“I saw you fall.”
“I wanted to run outside.”
“Then Dad waved everybody off like it was some planned bit.”
“I froze.”
I looked at her.
Maren had been Victor’s favorite for as long as I could remember.
She
