Chapter 9: The Fight
The room was too small for both of us, and I knew it before the words came. I'd opened the door to find Emily standing in the hallway, her blonde hair loose, her eyes red-rimmed, her hands clasped in front of her chest like she was praying. She'd called twelve times last night. I'd silenced all of them.
"Caleb," she said. Her voice was small. "Please. Let me explain."
I stepped aside. She walked past me into the cramped space, her perfume filling the stale air, lavender and something sweet. She stopped at the foot of my bed and turned to face me, her hands twisting together.
"I came early. The train was almost empty. I thought you'd want to talk before class."
I closed the door. The click echoed in the small room. On my desk sat the coffee mug she'd given me for our one-year anniversary, the one that said "World's Best Future Husband" in peeling gold letters.
"I saw you." My voice came out flat. "You saw me see you."
"I know." She looked down at her feet. "I know, Caleb. You have to understand, Lucy said I need to keep practicing. She said if I stop, it's like starting over. She said for our wedding night, I need to stay ready."
The words came out rehearsed, like she'd practiced them on the bus. Her hands were trembling.
"On our couch," I said. "In our apartment. With candles."
"Lucy helped me set it up. She said the mood matters. She said I shouldn't close my eyes and pretend, I should feel it, so I know what it's like when it's really us."
The boiler in the floor knocked, a low metallic sound. Outside, a garbage truck beeped in reverse. None of it touched the silence between us.
I sat on the edge of my desk. The wood creaked. Emily watched me, her knuckles white where her hands were clenched.
"Was it only practice?" I asked.
"Yes." Her jaw set. "Yes, Caleb. It was practice. How many times do I have to say it? I'm doing this for us."
"Then why were your eyes closed?"
She flinched. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked at the wall, at the poster of the mountains I'd hung on my first day, at everything in the room except me.
"Because it feels good," she said quietly. "Is that what you want to hear? It feels good, and Lucy says that's the point. I'm supposed to learn what feels good so I can tell you, so you can do it to me on our wedding night."
My chest ached. I pressed my hand against it, like I could push the feeling down.
"You didn't hear me come in," I said. "You didn't see me standing there until after you came."
Emily's face flushed. She wrapped her arms around herself, a small, defensive gesture.
"That's because it was good, Caleb. I was focused. Is that a crime?"
"No."
"Then why do you look at me like that?"
I looked at the floor. The carpet was thin and gray, worn down in the path from the door to the bed. I'd walked that path a thousand times, alone, thinking about her. About us.
"Because I don't know who you are anymore," I said.
Emily crossed the room in three steps. She took my face in both hands, her palms warm against my cheeks, and forced me to meet her eyes.
"I'm still me. I'm still the girl you gave that mug to. I'm still the girl who's going to walk down the aisle to you in eight months a virgin." Her voice cracked. "I love you, Caleb. I love you. Everything I'm doing, I'm doing for you. For us. Can't you see that?"
I could see the tears in her eyes. I could see the way her chin trembled. And I could see, somewhere behind all of it, the shadow of something I couldn't name.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay what?"
"Okay." I put my hands over hers and lowered them gently. "I believe you."
She let out a breath, a long shuddering exhale. She sagged forward, pressing her forehead to my chest, and I held her. Her body was warm and small against mine. Her shoulders shook.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into my shirt. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. Lucy said I was doing the right thing. She said you'd understand."
The words sat between us, heavy and unexamined. Lucy said, Lucy said. Every sentence she spoke ended with Lucy's name.
"It's okay," I said. My voice sounded hollow to my own ears. "I understand."
She stayed in that position for a long moment. Then she pulled back, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, and gave me a watery smile.
"I've been thinking about the wedding," she said. "The caterer in town, the one who did the Millers' reception. They can do the chicken dish, the one with the lemon sauce. And my mom sent me a picture of a veil, something vintage with lace. It's perfect, Caleb. It's going to be a perfect day."
I listened. I nodded. I made the right sounds. She talked about the venue, about the flowers, about the string quartet she'd found online. Her voice was bright and warm, filling the small room, and I let it wrap around me like a blanket.
At ten, she kissed my cheek and left. The door clicked shut. I stood in the middle of my room and listened to her footsteps fade down the hall.
The air still smelled like lavender. The mug still sat on my desk. And I stood there, hollow and aching, wondering how many more times I could say "okay" before it stopped meaning anything.
Tuesday came gray, the sky low and heavy over the quad. I spent the morning in the library, my engineering textbook open in front of me, the same paragraph blurring in front of my eyes. I'd read it four times and retained none of it.
At two, my phone buzzed. Emily's name lit up the screen, and I picked it up with relief.
"Hey, Em."
"Caleb." Her voice was bright, almost too bright. "I have a hundred things to tell you. The florist called back, the one with the place on Main Street. She can do the white roses, the ones you brought me, for the altar. Isn't that perfect?"
"Perfect," I said.
"And the venue, they have Saturday open in June. June 14th. Can you believe it? We might actually be able to get our date."
"Yeah." I switched the phone to my other ear. "That's great."
"Also, my mom said she'd help with the favors. Little boxes with almonds, like the ones she had at her wedding. She still has the boxes somewhere in the attic. Can you imagine, using my mother's favor boxes?"
I heard it then. A faint sound in the background, rhythmic and wet. A soft slapping, repeated over and over.
I gripped the phone harder.
"Emily?"
"Yeah?" She sounded distracted.
"Where are you?"
"What? Oh, I'm at the apartment. Just tidying up." Her voice dipped. Another sound, muffled but unmistakable. A low moan, cut off quickly. "Sorry, I just, I knocked something over. Anyway, what do you think about the favors?"
The sound grew louder. Steady. Rhythmic.
"Em," I said carefully. "Is someone there with you?"
A pause. Too long.
"No," she said. "Why would you think that?"
The slapping continued, faint through the speaker. My hand was shaking.
"I thought I heard something."
"Oh, that's just, the washing machine. It makes a weird noise sometimes. The spin cycle, you know."
I knew nothing. I knew the sound of Kaleb's hips driving against her, wet and relentless. I knew that sound in my bones.
"Right," I said. "The washing machine."
"Anyway, I have so much to tell you. The dress boutique called, they want to schedule my first fitting. Could you come with me? I want your opinion."
Her voice was high and rushed, tripping over itself. Behind her, the slapping grew faster for a moment, then slowed again.