The travel would require planning.
Accepting it would not magically solve my marriage or transform me into some fearless version of myself.
It was simply a choice I wanted to make.
That was enough.
I signed.
Grant stared at the phone.
“You accepted it?”
“Yes.”
“You actually accepted it.”
“Yes.”
“We leave tomorrow.”
“I’m not going to Sedona.”
He stood up so quickly the mattress bounced.
“You’re canceling our honeymoon?”
“I’m not pretending everything is fine for a week so we can come home and continue this.”
“You’re blowing up our marriage less than a day after the reception.”
That sentence hurt.
I wish it had not.
Even then, part of me wanted him to cross the room, sit beside me, and become the man who had once carried my bookshelf up three flights without complaining.
I wanted him to tell me he had been wrong.
Not cornered.
Not misunderstood.
Wrong.
Instead, he reached for his phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“My mother.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course he was.
Judith answered on the third ring.
Within minutes, Grant had moved into the living room and lowered his voice, apparently forgetting how clearly sound traveled through a one-bedroom apartment.
I heard my name.
I heard Concordia.
I heard the word irrational twice.
Then Grant said, “Can you come over in the morning?”
I walked into the living room.
“No.”
He covered the phone.
“What?”
“She does not need to come here.”
“We need someone who can talk to you.”
The sentence was so perfectly wrong that it almost made me calm.
“You mean someone who can convince me.”
“She can help us.”
“No, Grant.
Your mother does not get a seat in this marriage.”
He stared at me.
Then Judith’s voice came loudly through the phone.
“What is she saying?”
Grant uncovered it.
I held out my hand.
“Give me the phone.”
He hesitated, then passed it over.
Judith started before I could speak.
“Talia, sweetheart, weddings are emotional.
You are exhausted.
Do not make permanent decisions during a tantrum.”
