Karma’s Kiss

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

In case you were wondering, the staff bathroom at Wildflower Weddings is decked out—floor to ceiling—with decor left over from the travel agency era. No scrap of wall escaped Luellen’s touch, and if possible, in here, she upped her game even more. The wall decals are practically layered one on top of another. Go anywhere! Be anything! Dream big! They feel satirical for someone sitting on a toilet.

Today though, the encouraging phrases are just what I need. I’ve already opened up a pregnancy test and I’ve read the instructions twice, but I’m doing it a third time because I want to be sure I have it right. I’ve never taken a pregnancy test before, and though it seems simple, the results are potentially life-changing, so if I want to read through the instructions forty-five times, I will!

I know I could wait and take the test later, at Queenie’s, but I’m too antsy to wait. I purchased three tests on my way to work and my period was supposed to start this morning but it hasn’t, so here goes nothing.

I have three tests out and ready to go. I pee, count to five (three times), then set the sticks flat on the counter and wash my hands before I start my phone’s timer. The first thirty seconds of waiting is agony. Every second is a year. I prop my hands on the sink and keep my focus anywhere but the tests; it feels like I’ll jinx it if I look at them. Instead, I study the distressed black letters nailed into the sheetrock above the vanity sink. D E S T N Y. The I is either missing or was never there to begin with. Destiny. Maybe Luellen hammered those Hobby Lobby letters in here years ago knowing one day I’d need to read them. Everything in life happens for a reason, those letters assure me.

Thanks, Luellen.

I’ve waited close to a minute when I hear a car pull up out front. Crap. Queenie and Marge can’t be back from lunch already! They said they were headed over to Cactus Cafe. I figured Waylon and Lucinda would keep them occupied for at least an hour.

I poke my head out of the bathroom, expecting to see Marge’s maroon Toyota Corolla, but instead there’s a black Escalade with tinted windows. The sleek-looking SUV doesn’t belong to Queenie or Marge, that’s for sure. I watch as the doors open in tandem, and then my stomach drops.

I blink, not quite believing what I’m seeing. Three Masons have arrived in Oak Hill, Texas. Matthew and his parents walk up onto the sidewalk and squint at the door of my mom’s office, reading Luellen’s Travel Agency and probably wondering where the hell they’ve found themselves. They’re dressed like they’ve just come from the campaign trail, Mr. Mason and Matthew both in sharp navy suits. Mrs. Mason is wearing a shift dress with pearl buttons running down the center.

They’re probably hot outside, but I’m all too happy to let them stay confused out there in the sweltering heat. Unfortunately, Mr. Mason strides forward with determination and yanks the door open. I don’t think fast enough to duck back into the bathroom before he sees me.

Immediately, his stern expression softens. “Madison!” Turning back, he waves the others in behind him. “I knew this was the right address.”

There are a million ways forward right now, only a handful of which include me stepping out of the bathroom and being gracious to these uninvited out-of-town guests. Matthew walks in behind his mom, looking a little like a shamed puppy. His shoulders are slumped and his attention is on the floor. I look at him as I walk over to greet them, willing him to meet my gaze, to say something, but he doesn’t. It’s his father who comes over to me and gives me a hearty side hug. His mom smiles and compliments my dress. It’s like, for them, nothing has happened; I should be happy they’re here.

“It’s so good to see you, hun,” Mrs. Mason gushes, taking my hand in hers and patting the back of it.

The small smile I was able to muster when they first arrived is already starting to fall as I look between them and ask point-blank, “What are y’all doing here?”

Mr. Mason chuckles and smooths a hand down his Auburn red tie. “Thought we’d pay a visit to our favorite girl, of course. Matthew, be polite, would you?”

My ex-fiancé lifts his head and looks at me, his expression schooled into neutral indifference. “Hi, Madison.”

“Hi” is all I can manage.

Then suddenly the three-minute alarm I set on my phone starts blaring.

OH MY GOD.

I reach into my dress pocket and turn it off, blushing as I apologize. I want to run to the bathroom and look at the tests, but I can’t. Not while they’re here.

WHY are they here?!

When I left Montgomery, I assumed I’d never see Matthew or his family ever again. Now they’ve shown up at the worst possible time.

“I apologize if I sound rude, but honestly, I’m really not sure why you’ve all come to Texas,” I press. “Isn’t…Isn’t Matthew getting married this weekend?”

Saturday is July 1 st , isn’t it?

The mention of Matthew’s wedding has the three poised Masons appearing, if not quite embarrassed (they would never deign to show that much emotion), at least deeply uncomfortable.

“No.” His dad laughs and squashes the question like he wishes he could extinguish it from existence altogether. “Of course not. That was all such nonsense.”

I look quickly at Matthew to see him wince, but he doesn’t argue. It seems the wedding is off. Does Emma know yet? Is she somewhere distraught over the turn of events? I almost feel bad for her.

Southern hospitality and outright curiosity have me inviting them to take a seat on the couch near the front door. I can sense their relief as they sit—Mr. Mason, Mrs. Mason, then Matthew—all in a straight line facing me as I take the chair across from them.

Mr. Mason clears his throat. “I hope you’ll forgive me for speaking plainly—”

“Actually,” Matthew interrupts. “Could I use the restroom? It’s been a long travel day and—”

“NO.” My response is a bullet fired too fast. None of them are allowed in the bathroom, not while those pregnancy tests still sit on the counter. I force an apologetic smile. “No bathroom.” I point to the sidewalk. “But there’s one at the coffee shop next door if you really need one.”

Mr. Mason sends his son a lethal glare, and Matthew swallows meekly. “It’s fine, actually. I’ll hold it.”

“Right. Now…” His father straightens and reclaims everyone’s attention. “As I was saying, we’re all adults here, and I’d rather cut to the chase so we don’t waste anyone’s time. These last few weeks have been hard on everyone, and we— our entire family —want nothing more than for you and Matthew to get back on track. We’re prepared to make that happen by any means possible, starting with a buyout of Evermore Events.”

My jaw goes slack. What is he talking about?

Mrs. Mason leans forward on the couch, smiling ear to ear. “We’ve already discussed it with Tanya. She’s ready to hand over the reins of the company.”

No. That can’t be right. Tanya loves Evermore Events. I assumed she’d continue building the business for another decade or two. She’s not even close to retirement age.

When I point this out to the Masons, Matthew’s dad laughs. “Well, let’s say things changed. She seems very happy with the arrangement we presented to her, so there’s no need to worry.”

He exchanges a glance with his wife, a look of confirmation that they’re laying out their plan flawlessly. It’s Matthew who’s yet to say a word. He sits on the far end of the couch, studying his shoes.

“Matthew?” I prod.

“Hmm?” He looks up almost dazed.

“Are you okay?”

I’m actually concerned to see him like this. It’s all so…weird.

He looks hurriedly at his father then sits up and fixes his posture. “I’m fine, Madison. Just feel bad for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

He looks at Mr. Mason again, and I wonder if it’s approval he’s searching for. Or maybe just his next cue?

Mrs. Mason clears her throat delicately, recapturing my attention as she smiles kindly. “Maybe we haven’t been clear enough, and I apologize for how overwhelming this might seem, but we’re eager to bring you home, Madison. We want you back in Alabama. We want you to take the lead at Evermore Events, change it however you see fit, with our backing of course .” She laughs lightly, obviously trying to ease the tension.

“With the understanding that you and Matthew remain a couple,” Mr. Mason adds succinctly.

“ Remain? ”

I say the word harshly, emphasizing it so they all have to endure its awkwardness.

Matthew leans forward, his eyes full of contrition. “Madison, these last few weeks…” He shakes his head. “I was wrong. I should have never considered an end to our relationship, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. This is yours. It belongs to you—” He reaches into his suit pants pocket and extracts a black velvet box. My old engagement ring, the one I hid in the back of the toilet, is nestled in soft velvet, more sparkly than ever. Turns out, he was able to clean it just fine.

Seeing it, I can’t help but laugh. The sound of it pierces the silence, and three Masons stare at me as if I’ve just grown a second head. The sentiment behind their shock is clear: No one laughs at this many carats.

I shake my head at the ring. “No thank you.”

Mr. Mason grits his teeth and elbows Matthew, who leaps off the couch and comes to me, clasping my hands as best he can while keeping hold of the ring box.

“You’re the love of my life. I was such a fool.” His tone has taken on a desperate edge. “ Forgive me, Madison ,” he begs imploringly.

“What are you talking about? You’re marrying Emma!” I exclaim, wrenching my hands away from his. “This weekend! Or…”

“No. He is not ,” Mr. Mason states firmly and impatiently. “That was all a ridiculous mix-up.”

Matthew winces, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. When he blinks them open again, our gazes meet, and I feel a mixture of pity and disgust for this adult-boy cowering on his knees in front of me, at the beck and call of his parents, too spineless to stand on his own two feet and decide what he wants for himself. I can imagine what happened behind the scenes when he told his parents about our breakup. How easily did he bend to their will? How quickly did he agree to go through with this apology?

“Do you love her?” I ask him gently, lowering my voice. “Emma?”

I wish she were here, this woman I no longer hate. Seeing her would help shake him out of this spell his parents have him under.

He looks down, not answering.

I sigh and lower my voice. “Matthew, you should be with her.”

“Enough!” Mr. Mason explodes.

I reach for Matthew’s hands again and bend forward so we’re eye to eye. Now I’m the one looking desperate. “If you love her, be with her ! Don’t listen to them.”

His mother snorts in disgust and shoots to her feet, sending me a venomous look. “This is ridiculous. It’s clear you can’t comprehend our offer, so we’ll give you a few days to consider it.”

Oh no. No way, lady. This ends here and now.

I stand just as confident and sure of myself as she is. “No. My answer is no.”

I fully comprehend what they’re offering me. My old job, my old fiancé, my old picture-perfect life—it’s all there for the taking, but I don’t want it. I don’t want Evermore Events, the neat office, the experienced employees, the helpful accounting department. Somewhere deep inside me, I’m crying at the loss of how easy it would be to take over a company run so seamlessly. Instead, I’m agreeing to stay here, among the piles of boxes, the lost invoices, the absolute chaos.

I don’t care. My future is suddenly crystal clear.

Matthew tucks the ring back into his pocket and rises slowly to his feet, dejected in the wake of my rejection or perhaps— hopefully —as a result of his involvement in this entire charade to begin with. He doesn’t want to be here right now, fighting for a woman he doesn’t love.

“I’ll give you a few days to reconsider,” he says, echoing his mother without meeting my eyes.

“Matthew, come on . This is stupid!” Breaking through the formality of the meeting feels good, so I continue trying to get through to him. “You’re a spineless coward if you let your parents force you to break up with that woman—”

His mom huffs and tugs on his arm, impatiently trying to drag him away from me and my bad influence. “Let’s go, Matthew.”

“You’ll regret it for the rest of your life!” I shout after him as he lets them hurry him through the front door.

As quickly as they arrived, the Masons shuffle back into their shiny black SUV, peel out of their parking spot, and disappear down Main Street. I can imagine the heated conversation between his parents as they fire off insults about me and my mom’s company, absolutely disgusted by my refusal to rejoin their family. I wonder if Matthew’s in the back seat agreeing with them or if he’s silently mulling over what I’ve told him.

I guess if he calls in a few days, I’ll have my answer. For now, all I can do is hope he finds some courage to rebel. Trust fund be damned.

Not even a full second after their car drives out of sight, I’m curving around the dust bunnies and haphazard box piles on my route toward the bathroom, holding my breath until I turn the corner and my gaze zeroes in on the three tests waiting for me on the counter. I’m expecting and desperately hoping to see two pink lines on each, a positive result. Instead, they’re negative, three times over.

Not pregnant.

I pick up each stick, tilting and angling it to try to detect a faint line. Even squinting with the utmost concentration and laser-sharp focus doesn’t bring about a magical change. But I don’t give up; I’m still looking them over when the front door opens. Marge and Queenie laugh about something, and I sweep the tests into the trash can, unspooling a mound of toilet paper and pressing it down on top of the tests—concealing what’s causing hot tears to gather in my eyes. I wash my hands and take a deep breath before emerging from the bathroom.

“How was your lunch?” Queenie asks.

“Uneventful.”

Marge waves a little cardboard box for me. “More stuff got delivered while we were gone.”

“Open it! Open it!” Queenie claps excitedly.

I can’t look at them. “You do it.”

I get to my desk and click-click-click my laptop’s trackpad, willing it to wake up faster. I study the screen as they exclaim over what’s in the box.

“Now that is too cute . They didn’t have anything like this when I was pregnant with David and Madison.”

“What is it? Oh , a little book with pregnancy milestones,” Marge explains. “Compares the baby to various fruit. How many weeks are you, Madison?”

“ Zero ,” I spout acerbically under my breath.

My faint response isn’t loud enough to reach them, especially with Marge’s hearing.

“How many’d you say?” Marge asks.

My burst of bravery evades me now. “Uhh, I don’t know.”

“Well it’s real cute. You’ll have to flip through it later.”

Queenie drops it on the corner of my desk, but I don’t look at it. I’m in my own world. Outwardly, I’m smiling, chatting, checking emails, reviewing newly paid invoices. Inwardly, I’m collapsing into myself. My hands shake over my keyboard. What should be a simple adjustment of expectations feels like a blow I can’t process.

Trying to reason with myself doesn’t help.

This wasn’t planned.

It would have been difficult to pull off.

Maybe this is for the best.

It all feels like hollow lies.

I wanted this baby. I wanted to be a mom. I was prepared to do it with or without Sawyer, and the fact that he seemed so eager to step up—excited even—now makes me feel doubly guilty. I should have never said anything to him, to Queenie, to Marge. Because of it, something I could have processed quietly on my own now demands a public announcement.

It doesn’t help that my desk is littered with the baby stuff Sawyer’s been sending over, not just the milestone book. The huge pregnancy pillow winds behind my laptop like a snake. The half-eaten box of morning sickness cookies taunts me from beside my jar of pens.

I stay at the office long after Marge and Queenie go home. I can’t bear to leave, though I’m not even being productive anymore. At first, I was organizing a box of linen samples, but now I’m just sitting at my desk. I need dinner. I need sleep. I need to put my phone away and stop googling questions about pregnancy that feel like I’m pressing on a fresh bruise.

I’m not all that surprised when Sawyer arrives at the office sometime after eight PM. The front door opens, and when I look up to see him, the first feeling that washes over me is guilt. His expression is closed off and reserved, making me wonder if Queenie called him. She must have if he knew to come here instead of going to her house.

I don’t say anything as he walks over, his gaze dropping to all the gifts I no longer have use for. My eyes sting. Emotion feels like a weight on my chest, tightening around my neck.

I rip the Band-Aid right off, wanting him to know everything immediately. I can’t keep this secret for one more second.

“I’m not pregnant. So whatever we’ve been playing at, all this pretend family stuff, we can forget about it. You don’t have to keep being nice to me.”

His brown eyes flare with the shock of what I said; he looks as if I just slapped him. Slowly, he comprehends the news, and his gaze scans down my body—what little of it he can see behind my desk—like he’s looking to see for himself if there’s any evidence of what I’ve told him. “How do you know?” he asks gently.

I squeeze my eyes closed, annoyed that he doesn’t just accept the news at face value. I don’t want to keep talking about it.

“I know because I took a few tests. All negative. No faint line, nothing. So yeah, it’s done.”

“I’m sor—”

I cut him off immediately. “You don’t have to say anything. We don’t have to do this.” I open my eyes and shake my head. “In fact, let’s not. I’m going to box up this pregnancy stuff and give it to Queenie. She’ll know someone who needs it, unless you want to take it all?”

He looks at all the items, seemingly at a loss for what to say or do. “Whatever you think is best.”

Sawyer is absolutely shell-shocked, even more out of sorts than the day I sprung my potential pregnancy announcement on him. Go figure.

My words and my tone are hurting him. I see how they’re affecting him, and yet I can’t bring myself to soften. It’d do me in. I can’t hold his hand and support him through this and make it out alive myself. I’m white-knuckling our encounter, willing it to end quickly and efficiently by any means necessary.

“Matthew came by today,” I volunteer blandly.

His face screws up in confusion. “ Matthew? Your ex-fiancé Matthew?”

“Yes. Came all the way to Texas. Begged me to take him back.”

My tone is so cold I barely recognize it.

Understanding dawns on Sawyer’s face—hurt turns to anger as his eyes darken—and I don’t correct the wrong assumptions swirling in his head. This is easier than I was expecting, a perfect axe.

“Yeah, anyway. Big day. ” I shrug evasively.

He snorts. “Sounds like it.”

“I won’t keep you.”

“Right.”

His jaw tightens as he looks down at all the silly junk he’s purchased for me over the last few days. The little stuffed bear, a perfect gender-neutral yellow. I wonder if he feels duped by me and my body. Not pregnant. Maybe I wasn’t even close.

Tears are coming. I can feel them creeping in even as I blink them away. I should apologize for bringing him into this mess, for overreacting about the chances of an unplanned pregnancy. I can’t bring the words up though. Emotion is lodged in my throat. My nose burns. I’m going to cry; it’s only a matter of time. I’ve been holding it in all day.

I double-click, waking up my computer as a way of dismissing him. “I have some stuff I still need to get done.”

“I think we need to discuss all of this,” Sawyer says, not catching a hint. “Don’t you?” When I don’t reply, he presses on. “ Madison …”

I stare at my inbox, the safety of it, how none of these emails have anything to do with me or Sawyer or our baby. “Not tonight.”

Please go.

“Then when?”

I don’t answer him. I don’t look at him. I breathe through my nose, count to five, feel a sob building in my chest. No.

“Madison?”

I ignore him again and eventually, Sawyer slips the baby milestone book and the stuffed bear off the corner of my desk before he leaves. I wait until he’s gone, rush to lock the front door of our office, and make it to the bathroom before I really lose it.

Go anywhere! Be anything! Dream big!

Or in this instance, sit on a toilet and sob.