I stared at Carter's name for several seconds before pressing the call button.
My thumb felt heavier than it should have.
I had spoken to him thousands of times, sometimes about important things and sometimes about nothing at all.
Yet that morning, I was afraid of what a simple conversation might reveal.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
When he answered, his voice sounded familiar enough to hurt.
“Rachel?”
I closed my eyes.
“It's me.”
“Where are you? I've been trying to figure out what's happening this morning.”
I glanced at the wedding dress.
“I'm at home.”
“Are you getting ready?”
I could hear movement on his end of the call.
He sounded distracted, as though he were doing something else while speaking to me.
“I haven't put on the dress.”
There was a pause.
“Why not?”
I had prepared myself for that question.
Still, hearing it made my throat tighten.
“Because I'm not ready.”
“Not ready for what?”
“For the wedding.”
The silence that followed felt longer than it probably was.
I gripped the phone more tightly.
“Rachel, we have a schedule.”
“I know.”
“People are already making arrangements. Everything has been planned for months.”
“I know that, too.”
I wanted to explain myself immediately.
I wanted to reassure him that I was not trying to make his morning difficult.
I wanted to soften the truth until it sounded harmless.
Then I remembered the questions I had written down.
I could tell him the truth without turning it into an apology.
“I need to talk to you before I decide what happens next,” I said.
“About your hair?”
I looked toward the mirror.
“Yes, partly.”
“It's hair, Rachel.”
The words landed quietly.
That was what made them hurt.
I had expected him to be surprised.
I had expected him to ask how I was feeling.
I had even expected him to be frustrated by the delay.
But I had not expected him to make the whole thing sound so small before asking how I was.
“I know it's hair,” I said. “I also know someone cut it while I was asleep.”
“Maybe it was some kind of mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“I don't know. I'm trying to understand what you're saying.”
“So am I.”
I walked to the window and looked down at the quiet street.
I could see a car parked near the curb.
A delivery truck passed at the end of the road.
Everything outside looked ordinary.
Inside, I felt as though I were trying to balance on a narrow ledge.
“Carter, I'm not calling to argue.”
“Then what are you calling for?”
“To tell you that I'm not ready to walk down the aisle until we talk honestly.”
He exhaled sharply.
“About what, exactly?”
“About us.”
“We're getting married today.”
“I know what day it is.”
“Then why are we talking as if this is some relationship crisis?”
I pressed my free hand against the window frame.
Because I was afraid, I wanted to say.
Because something happened to me, and I need to know whether you care about what it did to me.
Because I have spent too long wondering whether your happiness matters more than my own comfort.
Instead, I took a breath.
“I'm asking you to listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“No. You're telling me why we can't have this conversation.”
He went quiet.
I waited for him to say something that would help me understand him.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “What do you want me to do?”
The question should have been easy to answer.
I did not want him to fix my hair.
I did not want him to tell me I was beautiful.
I did not want him to offer a quick explanation that would allow us to return to the schedule.
“I want you to understand that I'm upset,” I said. “Someone did something to me while I was sleeping, and I don't know why. I need to know that you understand why that would shake me.”
“I understand that you're upset.”
His answer came quickly.
But it sounded like a statement meant to end the conversation rather than begin one.
I rubbed the side of my face.
“And I need to know that you want to marry me because of who I am.”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A serious one.”
“Rachel, we've been together for months. We've planned a wedding. We've talked about our future.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you asking me whether I want to marry you?”
I had no answer that could make the question painless.
Because I had begun to doubt things I once took for granted.
Because I could not tell whether I was protecting a relationship or protecting the dream I had built around it.
Because I had finally realized that saying yes at the altar would not answer the questions I was afraid to ask.
“I need to hear you talk to me without making me feel foolish for asking,” I said.
He did not respond immediately.
I could hear a faint rustling sound through the phone.
Then he spoke again.
“I don't know what you expect from me right now.”
“I expect you to take me seriously.”
“I am taking you seriously.”
“Then stop telling me we have a schedule.”
He sighed.
I looked at the clock on the wall.
The hands continued moving.
They did not care whether I married Carter.
They did not care whether I changed my mind.
They only measured the passage of time.
“I need a little time,” I said.
“How much time?”
“I don't know.”
“Rachel, that isn't an answer.”
“It's the honest answer I have.”
He fell silent again.
I could feel my old instincts returning.
I wanted to fill the silence.
I wanted to promise that everything would be fine.
I wanted to tell him I was only frightened because the morning had been difficult.
But I stopped myself.
I had spent enough time trying to make my feelings convenient for someone else.
“I'll speak to you again when I'm ready to have this conversation,” I said.
“Are you seriously considering canceling the wedding?”
I looked at the dress.
“I am considering whether I'm ready to get married today.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“Maybe it is.”
I heard him take a breath.
“Rachel, think about what you're doing.”
“I am.”
Then I ended the call.
For several seconds, I stood without moving.
I had not shouted.
I had not accused him of cutting my hair.
I had not said anything about my inheritance.
I had simply told him that I was uncertain.
Yet I felt as though I had crossed a line I could never uncross.
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
My hands were trembling again.
I let them tremble.
I did not tell myself to calm down for Carter's sake.
I did not pick up the phone to explain what I had meant.
I did not apologize for needing time.
The conversation had not given me the reassurance I wanted.
It had given me something else.
A clearer understanding of how difficult it was for me to speak honestly when I feared disappointing him.
That was worth paying attention to.
I did not know what Carter had been thinking.
I could not know whether his frustration came from stress, fear, or something I had not considered.
I refused to invent an answer simply because uncertainty was uncomfortable.
But I knew what I had experienced.
I had asked him to listen.
He had repeatedly returned to the schedule.
And when I asked for time, he treated the request as though I had created a problem by speaking it aloud.
I wrote that down in my mind.
Not as proof that he was a bad man.
As something I needed to remember.
Then I stood and walked away from the mirror.
For the first time that morning, I was no longer waiting for Carter to tell me how I should feel.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: The Fifteen Million Dollars I Refused to Use as an Answer
I Opened My Eyes on the Morning of My Wedding and Discovered That Someone Had Taken Away the One Thing My Fiancé Loved Most About Me
Part 13 of 20
