I regret not figuring my shit out earlier—both that I’d always be happier in work boots than loafers and that the work boots would never fly with Yvonne.
I have regrets, yes. But as I find a parking spot on the street near Yvonne’s condo, I also feel relief.
For the first time since I called it off, I feel something other than trepidation and guilt. I did the right thing. For both of us.
The doorman greets me with a friendly wave. “Mr. Walcott! Haven’t seen you in a while. Ms. Damascus said you’ve been traveling for work?”
I give a noncommittal smile. Fucking Yvonne. Traveling for work, my ass.
Still, I’m not surprised. The woman was ballsy enough to send out wedding invitations. She’d think nothing of lying to her doorman.
I didn’t call first to see if she’d be here. She already has home-court advantage; I don’t want to give her a chance to start scheming.
If she’s not, I still have a key, but I’m guessing she’ll be here. Yvonne graduated from LSU the same year I did—it’s where we met—but she’s never even tried to put her sociology degree to use, instead preferring the socialite lifestyle. Her idea of a busy day is having back-to-back hair and nail appointments, so unless I’ve caught her on spa day, I’m fully expecting her to open the door when I knock.
I’m right.
Her lips part in surprise. “Preston.”
She, like most people on this side of my life, has always called me Preston. I asked her once if she could call me Noah, at least when it was just the two of us, and the only answer I received was a snort.
“Yvonne.”
She looks…the same. She’s dressed in a knee-length white skirt and light yellow blouse, both of which are just formfitting enough to show off her steady diet of salads but not clingy enough to be outright sexy. Her light brown hair might be shorter; I’m not really sure, don’t really care. But her face is the same. Eyes are cool and blue, lips are glossy and pinched, nose thin and just a bit longer than is fashionable, but she’s never gone through with her threats to get a nose job, I suspect because its current shape is better for looking down at people who are beneath her.
Which, by her estimation, is everyone.
“Darling,” she gushes, immediately stepping forward to wrap her arms around me.
I stand perfectly still as she rubs on me, waiting for it to be over. She steps back and frowns, although I’m not sure if it’s because of my lack of response or because of my attire. Judging from the once-over she gives my jeans, boots, and Henley, I can tell she’s displeased.
One of her favorite words, by the way. I’m displeased, Preston.
She steps aside, gesturing for me to come in.
I do, but I don’t go farther than the foyer. What I have to say to her won’t require me to stick around.
“What are you doing?” I ask quietly, turning to face her, hands shoved in my pockets.
She looks at me steadily. “You’ve been gone for over a month, haven’t returned a single message or phone call, and that’s the first thing you say to me?”
“What did you expect?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about an apology?”
I smile at that. It’s so…Yvonne.
“I understand congratulations are in order,” I say wryly. “You’re getting married.”
She smirks a little, and I know full well that this was her intention all along. She sent out those wedding invitations to get my attention. To trap me, secure in the knowledge that I’m my father’s son and won’t stoop to such scandal.
She’s wrong.
I’m my mother’s son, first and foremost.
I can’t erase my past growing up in a trailer park with hand-me-down clothes and good honest work, and I’m done pretending that I want to.
“Apparently I wasn’t clear last time,” I say, my voice impressively calm. “I’m not marrying you.”
She presses her lips together before gesturing toward her living room. “Let’s sit down and talk about this. I’ll make you a drink.”
I resist the urge to rub my temples. “I don’t want to talk. I don’t want a drink. I want you to let everyone know that there’s not going to be a wedding.”
“How am I supposed to do that? The invitations were fifty dollars apiece and have already gone out.”
“Fifty fucking bucks for a piece of paper? What are they, lined in gold?”
She stares at me, and I swear softly. They really were lined in gold.
“I don’t know, Yvonne. Figure it out.”
I reach for the doorknob, and for the first time her eyes widen in panic, as though just now realizing that she might not get her way.
“Preston, what is going on with you? I said I was sorry about the affair.”
“I’m not,” I say quietly. “If it wasn’t now, it’d be later that we ended things. We’re not good for each other.”
“That’s ridiculous. We’re the same. Or at least we will be once you get over this weird rebellious stage of yours.”
I can’t help laughing. Unbelievable.
She sweeps a hand toward me. “Sure it is. You’ve lost both parents in the past few years, and you’re on the verge of a big life change by getting married. You’re acting out.”
“Rebellious stage? Acting out?” I repeat. “I’m not sixteen, and you’re not my mother.”
I have regrets, yes. But as I find a parking spot on the street near Yvonne’s condo, I also feel relief.
For the first time since I called it off, I feel something other than trepidation and guilt. I did the right thing. For both of us.
The doorman greets me with a friendly wave. “Mr. Walcott! Haven’t seen you in a while. Ms. Damascus said you’ve been traveling for work?”
I give a noncommittal smile. Fucking Yvonne. Traveling for work, my ass.
Still, I’m not surprised. The woman was ballsy enough to send out wedding invitations. She’d think nothing of lying to her doorman.
I didn’t call first to see if she’d be here. She already has home-court advantage; I don’t want to give her a chance to start scheming.
If she’s not, I still have a key, but I’m guessing she’ll be here. Yvonne graduated from LSU the same year I did—it’s where we met—but she’s never even tried to put her sociology degree to use, instead preferring the socialite lifestyle. Her idea of a busy day is having back-to-back hair and nail appointments, so unless I’ve caught her on spa day, I’m fully expecting her to open the door when I knock.
I’m right.
Her lips part in surprise. “Preston.”
She, like most people on this side of my life, has always called me Preston. I asked her once if she could call me Noah, at least when it was just the two of us, and the only answer I received was a snort.
“Yvonne.”
She looks…the same. She’s dressed in a knee-length white skirt and light yellow blouse, both of which are just formfitting enough to show off her steady diet of salads but not clingy enough to be outright sexy. Her light brown hair might be shorter; I’m not really sure, don’t really care. But her face is the same. Eyes are cool and blue, lips are glossy and pinched, nose thin and just a bit longer than is fashionable, but she’s never gone through with her threats to get a nose job, I suspect because its current shape is better for looking down at people who are beneath her.
Which, by her estimation, is everyone.
“Darling,” she gushes, immediately stepping forward to wrap her arms around me.
I stand perfectly still as she rubs on me, waiting for it to be over. She steps back and frowns, although I’m not sure if it’s because of my lack of response or because of my attire. Judging from the once-over she gives my jeans, boots, and Henley, I can tell she’s displeased.
One of her favorite words, by the way. I’m displeased, Preston.
She steps aside, gesturing for me to come in.
I do, but I don’t go farther than the foyer. What I have to say to her won’t require me to stick around.
“What are you doing?” I ask quietly, turning to face her, hands shoved in my pockets.
She looks at me steadily. “You’ve been gone for over a month, haven’t returned a single message or phone call, and that’s the first thing you say to me?”
“What did you expect?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about an apology?”
I smile at that. It’s so…Yvonne.
“I understand congratulations are in order,” I say wryly. “You’re getting married.”
She smirks a little, and I know full well that this was her intention all along. She sent out those wedding invitations to get my attention. To trap me, secure in the knowledge that I’m my father’s son and won’t stoop to such scandal.
She’s wrong.
I’m my mother’s son, first and foremost.
I can’t erase my past growing up in a trailer park with hand-me-down clothes and good honest work, and I’m done pretending that I want to.
“Apparently I wasn’t clear last time,” I say, my voice impressively calm. “I’m not marrying you.”
She presses her lips together before gesturing toward her living room. “Let’s sit down and talk about this. I’ll make you a drink.”
I resist the urge to rub my temples. “I don’t want to talk. I don’t want a drink. I want you to let everyone know that there’s not going to be a wedding.”
“How am I supposed to do that? The invitations were fifty dollars apiece and have already gone out.”
“Fifty fucking bucks for a piece of paper? What are they, lined in gold?”
She stares at me, and I swear softly. They really were lined in gold.
“I don’t know, Yvonne. Figure it out.”
I reach for the doorknob, and for the first time her eyes widen in panic, as though just now realizing that she might not get her way.
“Preston, what is going on with you? I said I was sorry about the affair.”
“I’m not,” I say quietly. “If it wasn’t now, it’d be later that we ended things. We’re not good for each other.”
“That’s ridiculous. We’re the same. Or at least we will be once you get over this weird rebellious stage of yours.”
I can’t help laughing. Unbelievable.
She sweeps a hand toward me. “Sure it is. You’ve lost both parents in the past few years, and you’re on the verge of a big life change by getting married. You’re acting out.”
“Rebellious stage? Acting out?” I repeat. “I’m not sixteen, and you’re not my mother.”
