Chapter 7 - The Hallway Outside His Room
The music from downstairs was louder in the hallway. Someone had left Michael's bedroom door half open and I could see his tux jacket laid flat on the bed, the white shirt beside it still in plastic from the cleaner. He was standing by the window with his phone in his hand when he saw me, and he waved the photographer away with a quick shake of his head.
He pulled me just past the doorway, into that narrow stretch of hall where the sconces didn't quite reach. The marble was cold under my feet. I had pulled the robe tighter around my neck and knotted the sash twice, and I'd found a pale silk scarf in my drawer and wrapped it low over my head. It itched where the stubble pushed against it.
"You've been avoiding everybody," he said. He smiled when he said it, but his eyes kept going to the scarf. "Mom. Talk to me for a second."
I looked at his reflection in the dark glass of a framed print across the hall. My own face looked thin under the wrap. I could feel the heat coming off my scalp.
"It's your wedding morning," I said. "This is supposed to be about you getting dressed, not checking on me."
He didn't let that land. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. The photographer was still hovering a few feet down, pretending to check his lens. Michael turned his shoulder to block him.
"You seem distant," he said. "And all covered up. Are you sick?"
That was the question I'd been dreading since I walked out of the bathroom. Not an accusation. Care. It would have been so easy to lean into it. I felt the words press up in my throat, hot and raw. Instead I reached up and straightened his collar even though he wasn't wearing the shirt yet, just the white undershirt that hung loose at his neck.
"I didn't sleep well," I said. "The house was noisy with the caterers coming in early. I just need coffee."
He studied me. He'd always done that since he was a boy, that pause before he decided whether to push. I could hear the string quartet starting to tune on the patio below, and a chair scraping across stone. Someone laughed.
"Mom," he said again, quieter this time. "Please don't fight today."
Seven words. One short plea. He didn't mean it unkindly. His hand was still holding his phone, and the screen kept lighting up with texts he wasn't answering. I knew what he was asking. He wanted the day to go clean. He wanted Sabrina down the stairs on time and me in the front row with nothing tight in my face.
I nodded before he could read the hesitation in me. I put my hand flat against his chest, felt his heart beating fast under the cotton.
"I'll be there," I said. "I'm not going anywhere. You go get dressed."
He exhaled and some of the tension left his shoulders. He pulled me in for a quick hug, careful the way he'd always been careful with me, and his chin brushed the edge of the scarf. I held my breath until he stepped back. The scarf had slipped a fraction. I fixed it fast.
"Good," he said. "That's all I need."
May you like
He went back into his room and picked up the shirt. I stood in the hallway a moment longer with the cold coming up through my bare feet. I hadn't lied to him, not exactly. I would attend. I would sit where I was supposed to sit. What I didn't tell him was what I'd already moved behind the painting in my bedroom, or what I'd decided while I stood there looking at his untouched tux.
I walked back toward my side of the house before the photographer could lift his camera again.
