I keep walking. Nick’s right; it will be fine. I got exactly what I wanted.

So why do I feel like crying?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The next week passes in a blur. Nick isn’t cold or cruel, but he treats me like anyone else. I didn’t realize how much of our conversations before consisted of what Annie would refer to as playful banter; now, we talk solely about coffee. He hasn’t brought up the idea of being partners in the business again. And why would he? I said no, and I meant it.

When I’m not working, I’m making poms and pies. I’ve figured out a way to read my business textbooks while rolling out a piecrust, which is pretty impressive, although I’m not sure it’s leading to much more productivity since I’m very slow at both. But I have lots of pies frozen for the wedding, enough that I’ve taken over Don’s regular freezer and the freezer in the basement where he typically keeps taquitos. I’ve made and frozen the dough for the pies that need to be fresh, so I feel somewhat prepared for the dessert portion of this wedding.

Which is good, because we have less than a week to go.

The rest of the wedding, however . . . well, I wish that Annie and I were on better terms. We’re not antagonistic toward each other, but things have been chilly since our fight. After a lifetime of getting along, I never imagined we’d have our biggest disagreement ever right before her wedding.

And then there’s the pom wall. When I volunteered to do this, I may have underestimated the time involved in making so many poms. One pom? No big deal. But do you know how many poms you need for an entire wall that can serve as a photo backdrop? So. Many. Poms. Martha Stewart herself would faint. I’ve already given myself multiple paper cuts, and I’m running out of Band-Aids over here. I tried to recruit Don and Tyler to help me, but it turns out they couldn’t concentrate on folding tissue paper while rewatching the entirety of Game of Thrones for the millionth time (seriously, they tried, but they made some wonky-ass poms).

So I guess it’s just me. As usual.

It’s 9 P.M. on Monday night, five days before the wedding, and I’m sitting on my apartment floor surrounded by tissue paper in every shade of pink you can imagine. It would be easier if I were doing this over at Don’s, where at least I’d have more space for this pom explosion, but Annie’s home tonight and I don’t want her to see how distraught I am. Plus I have another pie in the oven, and I need to keep an eye on it.

The poms aren’t hard—the tutorial from some bridal site promises they’re an “easy and quick way to add a pop of color!” and, honestly, they’re right. But they’re not easy and quick when you’re making a metric shit-ton.