Evans is sitting on the bed when I enter the room. His expression is muted and hard to read.
“Are you okay?” he asks, sounding concerned.
I nod and sit down next to him, leaving some space between us.
“Why did you run off like that? I was worried.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It was a dumb idea. I just needed a little space and should have asked for it rather than acting like a crazy person.”
He was silent for a moment.
“My mom thinks—”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I snap. Any attempt at staying level headed and having an open-minded conversation is no longer an option.
“Jesus, Evans, haven’t you figured it out by now? I don’t give a damn what your mom thinks. I’ve heard nothing except what Rosa thinks or wants. Enough already!”
Evans looks complete taken aback.
“What is going on?” he asks carefully. “Is this about our wedding?”
“No, Evans. It’s not. Because it’s no longer our wedding. It’s your mother’s wedding. Everything is about your mother—her taste and her connections and her family brand.”
I’m getting heated again, and that same feeling of claustrophobia I had inside the limo is starting to come back.
“And while I admit that I did agree to a large wedding in order to please your family, I did not agree to letting your mother take control of the whole damn thing. She completely ignored the flowers I picked out. She already set the menu—and by the way, what the hell is four gras? And there’s a guest list of over five hundred people. And—big shocker—I don’t know any of them! Or at least I don’t know any of the ones I haven’t seen on television or in concert! Evans, this is ridiculous. You can see that, right?”
Evans runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head.
“You’re right. I completely see where you’re coming from. I agree that it may be a little over the top.”
Just when I think we’re getting somewhere, his voice changes.
“But, like I’ve told you before, it’s important to my mother. And if it’s not a big deal for us, then what’s the harm in letting her get a little carried away. If she wants to make a fuss for her friends, then let’s just let her.”
“Just let her? Evans, I may not be the kind of woman who knows the names of fancy French cuisine or couture designers, but I still have a right to plan my own wedding, no matter how modest and intimate I may choose for it to be. I may not have aspirations to have my wedding photos in the society pages of the newspaper but…wait a second.”
As I’m recounting the list of the things that I’m not, it all becomes very clear to me. I stand up from the bed and turn my back to Evans.
“I’m never going to be the woman your mother wants me to be.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The flowers I chose—the lilies. She disregarded them because they’re not posh or trendy. I’m not posh or trendy. I’m not Eva, and I never will be.”
When I turn back around, I can see the pain on Evan’s face.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, looking at the ground. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Evans shrugs and sighs, his face tilted up.
“What do you want me to do, Ciara?” His voice sounds sad and tired. For a brief moment I want to take it all back, and just let his mother plan the wedding so I can get on with my life. But I can’t do that.
“I want you to tell her that there won’t be a big Leonard's wedding. That we’re going to get married in a quiet ceremony with immediate family only.”
For a moment Evans is silent. His eyes are blankly staring up at the ceiling and it seems like he’s drifted somewhere far away.
“Evans?” I ask. The smallness of my own voice surprises me.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I’m sorry, Ciara, but I can’t do that.”
His words sting and I feel tears prick at my eyes. I hold my robe closed tightly at the neck, suddenly feeling exposed. Before I can stop myself, I’ve made a decision.
“Then the wedding’s off,” I tell him.