Page 14 of Roundabout

“See? I need your help deciding which flavors.” I don’t really care about all that other shit either but we don’t have much of a choice right now. We were only able to find one venue on such short notice, so everything’s been expedited to fit our shortened schedule, giving us only hours to make major decisions instead of the typical months, or weeks, or even days most wedding-planning couples get. We had to do a tasting for dinner options yesterday, and we’re meeting again tomorrow to go over alternatives for flower arrangements. Angela fucking hates flowers, almost as much as attention, but every wedding needs something to decorate with apparently, so the venue’s on-site planner is making us choose another theme. Or whatever. I don’t really get why we need a theme, or color scheme. Can’t we just say our vows, then party? We’re pretty good at it.

Actually we don’t really party at all anymore, except for the kids’ birthdays, then we go all out.

I should’ve stolen Angela away the moment she agreed to marry me so we could elope. Then it’d be done already, with none of this extra stress.

That’s what this is, right? Wedding jitters?

Wedding jitters I can deal with. My résumé running companies shows that. I make important decisions all day, every day, but I don’t want to have to plan this wedding by myself. In addition to right now being an incredibly busy time for me professionally, I’d prefer we plan one of the biggest days of our lives together. That way it’s ours, instead of just mine.

If I have to, I can take the lead on this wedding…as long as that’s all this is. Because marriage jitters, that’s a different story entirely.

She’s not having second thoughts about me, is she?

That thought from before springs back up.

Admittedly, Angela’s been a little off lately—more withdrawn, even spacey at times—but that was before we even got engaged. Since that night, her mood’s been fine. Not fine, but better. There’s definitely been improvement.

Until now.

I look between her eyes, wanting to see for myself what’s troubling my bride, but she closes them, shutting me out. Now what the fuck is that about? Because we don’t shut each other out. Not at this stage in the game.

“I love you so much,” she whispers like it’s painful.

As much as I want to say it back, because I do, I fucking love Angela, I swallow the sentiment. Instead, I make myself ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just…” She steps back and scrubs her hands down her face. Dropping them, she looks around before jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “I’m gonna try to find Rebel. See if I can set her straight.”

I half-scoff, half-laugh.

The smile she gives me in response is an imposter, a fucking fraud compared to the smiles she usually gives me.

I know something is wrong. I can feel it. But I can’t make her tell me if she doesn’t want to.

So I’ll do what I always do when Angela isn’t ready, I’ll wait.

And pray it’s not what my brain keeps hinting at because that I can’t handle. Angela knows how I feel about cheating. It’s a fucking disgrace of an excuse for being weak. My own father showed me exactly what I don’t want to be…and what I don’t want to be with—the lying, the sneaking around, the different personalities, hell, the different lifestyles. My dad had a whole other life than what he presented at home with me and my mom.

Since Angela’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, I’ve never had to worry about her cheating. Before. Before she started acting like a stranger.

CHAPTER 4

Angela

Passing by a corndog cart, the smell of sweet cornbread quickly gets doused by its neighbor’s citrusy aroma of freshly squeezed lemons a worker is using to make lemonade. Just across from the food section, it’s practically impossible not to spot Rebel along with her two best friends, Emaleigh and Letty. They’ve completely commandeered the balloon water race stand.

Rebel’s standing on the counter, reaching above her head for the biggest teddy bear I’ve ever seen. Next to her sits Emaleigh, legs crossed tightly under her burnt-orange floral dress while she watches their other friend playing a round solely by herself. Letty’s body is convulsing like she’s operating a machine gun as she shoots water across all the creepy clowns’ faces, barely getting enough water in their somehow creepier mouth-holes to even partially inflate the balloons behind their heads.

When a group of boys around the girls’ age tries to take the other guns, Letty turns the water gun on them instead, soaking all five until they run off, leaving a trail of nasty insults in their wake.

Spinning around, Rebel shouts, “Winner!” before dropping the giant teddy into Emaleigh’s lap.

Using her finger on the gun’s nozzle to spread the stream into a wide fan, Letty sprays both girls, creating the best kind of laughter to exist.

The pure joy on my niece’s face makes the lecture I was about to give her shrivel into a ball small enough to slip back down my throat. It’s not like lectures ever get us very far with Rebel anyway.

“Where’s the attendant?” I ask instead. There’s no way they won that bear fairly.

“Aunt Angela,” Rebel greets without making a single move to get down.