She leaves, but this entire conversation has my stomach in knots.
My brothers’ confidence, my assistant’s assumption… It seems everyone in the world except my fiancée is excitedly waiting for the wedding. I maximize the calendar app and see that Rose is free for the next thirty minutes. I’ll ask her outright why she isn’t setting a date.
She asked for time, and I gave her time. Six fucking months’ worth.
In the early days, whenever I broached the subject of our engagement, she froze. She fucking froze like she does whenever her panic attacks threaten to surface. Or whenever she’s asked a question in the middle of a presentation. Or whenever she has to choose between two things she doesn’t like.
I thought I was a definitive—a sure thing—but her reactions give life to my own insecurities.
Is she second-guessing her decision?
Is she waiting for someone else?
As these insane, nonsensical questions run through my mind, my gaze lands on the red cube she gifted me for my birthday. She traveled to St. Peppers and surprised me exactly at midnight. I play the MP3 file she played for me that day.
“I love you, Zander. Yours and only yours, Rose.”
Her soft, breathy voice gives me chills.
My hand curls around the resin cube, and the titanium sound wave shines as her words ring out repeatedly.
She’s mine. Only mine.
I close my eyes, the image of her face after I proposed to her forming in my mind. And then she thanked me for wanting her, for loving her.
I run my palms over my face, feeling like a moron.
How can I even think of her hurting me?
I click the call button next to her name on my computer, and she picks up immediately.
“Zander, you’re late.” Her beautiful face fills my computer screen. She’s dressed in another of her red-and-black checkered shirts, buttoned all the way up to her neck.
I bite back a smile. “I didn’t know we had a meeting.”
“We don’t. But you usually call me at eight ten after your assistant has given you a rundown of your morning. I’ve been waiting for the past ten minutes.” She fixes her glasses over her knitted brows and squinted blue eyes.
She is going nowhere.
“Actually, Kelly took longer than usual. She is making travel plans for my Japan trip. She wanted to know if there are any dates I can’t travel.”
“Are there?” She’s completely unaware of my misery.
“You tell me,” I probe.
Her eyebrows furrow as she considers. “I don’t think so. Do you?”
“No.” I release a deep sigh. “How is Cherrywood?” I change the direction of our discussion because the current one is giving me a headache, and I’m not ready to approach this topic just yet.
“Cherrywood is waiting for you.” Rose smiles, and once again, with one upward curl of her lip, she fills some of the cracks in my heart.
“I’m waiting too, couch girl.”
3
ROSE
I open the drawer of my nightstand, and hidden under my USB sticks, blue sticky-note pad, and purple sleeping mask is my metal pill box. The small gold tin with pink and blue hand-painted roses and “Happy Pills” written on top was given to me by my therapist. When she placed it in my hands, I thought the writing was some kind of joke I didn’t get, like many others she’s made. But now this box has become a reminder that it’s been over three years since I’ve last taken one of these green SSRIs, or antidepressant pills.