Lauren hovered near the doorway after a while. "What are you doing?" she asked. I said I was looking at our dates and commitments. She asked which dates, and when I said the venue and catering deadlines, she folded her arms. "Are you trying to scare me by threatening the wedding now?" I told her I had not threatened anything and wanted to understand where we stood.
I asked one final time whether she still intended to take the trip alone with Chris. She said yes, then said probably, then said she refused to cancel her life because I was uncomfortable. I listened to those revisions and realized that the actual plan mattered less to her, in that moment, than proving no one could question it. She asked why I was being so quiet. I told her I was trying not to say anything I could not stand behind tomorrow.
She accused me of using silence as punishment. That bothered me because I knew there was a form of silence that could be cruel, a deliberate withdrawal meant to make another person desperate. I had seen people do it, and I had promised myself not to become one of them. So I explained that I did not have a useful response and needed space before making a major decision. Lauren rolled her eyes and said that sounded like something I had learned from an office training seminar.
Then she said, "Fine. Maybe we should rethink getting married if this is what you are going to be like." She waited afterward, her chin lifted, her eyes fixed on my face. I knew the usual rhythm. I was supposed to rush toward the threat, promise that the wedding was safe, apologize for raising the subject, and return the emotional balance to a place where she could relax. We had done variations of that dance before, though never with stakes this high.
I looked at the contract in front of me, then back at her. 'Maybe you're right,' I said. I spoke quietly enough that I almost did not recognize my own voice. She stared for a few seconds, apparently expecting me to explain or take it back. When I did neither, she scoffed and went upstairs. I heard the bedroom door close with a little more force than usual.
I stayed at the table for another hour. The laptop screen dimmed twice before I touched the keyboard again. I thought about calling Owen, but I did not want a friend telling me what to do before I had faced my own decision. I thought about my mother, who would have listened patiently and asked questions I did not want to answer. I thought about Lauren upstairs, and about how easy it would be to walk into the bedroom, hold her, and agree to discuss everything after the trip.