“I guess.”
“Oh. Well, maybe.” She pulls out her own candy cane and holds it as if she’s never tried one. She unwraps it carefully and tastes it for a second. “If she did, she didn’t tell me. But I did. If an old lady matters.” She chuckles. “Do you?”
“What? Feel weird? Um, a little. Well, not weird. I just feel, I just feel… vacant.” The word surprises her. It is perfectly chosen, and she just chose it. Yes, that is the feeling. Her cheeks burn. Why did she say anything? People always gossip, and no one needs to hear this. It’s Finland all over again. Oh, and with everything her poor parents have been through. “I kind of don’t want to put that dress on again.” When did this feeling start? She can’t say. She wants the wedding to be over, and she wants to never put on the dress.
“Maybe you’re just tired of the preparation.” Mrs. Crowley’s eyes dart back and forth between Suzette and the parking lot. Suzette looks. Not a car in the lot besides theirs. A moving van charges by on Route 23, and way down the street she can see the traffic light for Gatehill Mall, a cluster of cars with people going Christmas shopping. In the other direction is The Dock, the restaurant where Damon proposed. （Damon’s sweet face that night, so hopeful.） The sky outside is crisp blue with threads of clouds. “Maybe you want to just be married, without all the fuss?”
This brings Suzette a moment of quick relief. Is that it? “I don’t feel like I know. I know that Damon’s a terribly nice guy. I know he has a smile that makes babies smile back at him when we walk downtown. I know if we had kids, they would be loved and valued—by him, by me. I know it all seems to fit. That I could set up an office in our home. I know he will go with me to chop down the best Christmas tree every year, and I know he will pour me wine if I have a bad day, and we can sit on the porch and I can put my feet on his lap. I know all this. I know it can be great. But I don’t want to pull the trigger. That’s what I don’t want to do.”
Mrs. Crowley nods. Her glasses reflect the overhead lights.
“I’m not stupid, Mrs. Crowley. I mean, I’m not crazy. I hear people say maybe they just don’t want to be happy, and I don’t think that’s me. I really want to be happy. I am pretty happy. I just feel, well, crushed by this. I keep fighting the urge to call Damon and say we need to cancel right now.
“Why would I want to do that? How twisted would I be to do that to the best man I will probably ever meet? I sound crazy. I’m sorry. I’ll be fine. We’ll have the wedding, and I’ll be fine, and you’ll see me one day at The Greenhorn or at Mateo’s sitting across from Damon, and you’ll think, wow, all that moaning for nothing. I mean, I’m in my thirties. I know what I’m doing. I said yes because I knew? Didn’t I know?”
Mrs. Crowley rests her elbows on the counter. She clicks her tongue as if she’s about to speak, but the words don’t come. Her face looks concerned, serious.
“I’m sorry,” Suzette says. “I—I still don’t see her. Maybe we should call her? I’m sorry. I really don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I think I’m just tired. It’s been dress fittings and paint colors for the new house and passport renewals and my parents. My parents think I’m like this mustang that Damon finally broke—only because I was kind of, I guess, trying out who I wanted to be. And they didn’t get to, you know, with my sister—they didn’t get to see her become an adult and all that. But I’m not wild. I just think, maybe I could do without all this? Is it bad to think that?” Suzette takes a deep breath. She feels mostly relieved. She has gotten out what she wanted to say for so long.
“No, dear, not at all. We feel what we feel, and we shouldn’t apologize for ourselves. There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing.” Mrs. Crowley picks up her cordless phone and dials Freddie Tyler’s number slowly, her eyes looking at a laminated sheet of paper with all the important numbers written on it. “No answer,” she says.
“Hmm,” says Suzette.
“I believe that’s her home number. I thought I had her cell phone number, too, but it’s not on this list.” She shakes her head.
“I have it.” Suzette reaches into her purse. She sees Damon’s text again. She rereads his words. I’m worried. You okay? Poor Damon. She should write back right now. Yes. Of course. I love you. She finds Freddie’s number under recent calls and dials it. “Right to voice mail.”