I’m angry.

No, that word isn’t enough.

Fuming.

Furious.

Fucking ready to rip Marc Moretti to shreds also works.

I stomp along the pavement, pulling my jacket closer around my shoulders against the cool fall air. A car drives past, loud bass music thumping. A group of young girls wearing clothes that would look more in fashion at the beach than on the streets of Colorado Springs at this time of year giggle, waving to the boys through the window of a local bar.

I should feel like one of them. I’ve been out to dinner. I’ve had sex. This is dating. This is being on the scene.

I feel old.

Maybe times have changed, because as I unlock the door to my building then take the stairs one heavy step at a time, I don’t think I’ve ever felt as dejected as this.

Marc’s words linger in my ears, and sure, I could give him the benefit of the doubt. He was drifting off to sleep.

But to comment about my body like that . . . it’s left me feeling flat. Empty.

And angry.

Definitely still mad.

As soon as it’s morning, I’ll call and end things with him. There will be no dinner with the family tonight.

* * *

I sleep.

After weeks of what feels like endless nights, I sleep like a log. It’s as if my soul is finally at peace, resting, instead of searching for answers to questions about men I can’t possibly find.

I inhale a coffee and a muffin for breakfast—not Elio’s, of course, but still, not bad—then call Marc to cancel dinner, but he doesn’t answer.

That’s okay.

There’s someone else I need to call.

Someone else I need to end things with before they get any worse.

“Hello, Love household, Maria speaking.”

“Hey, Maria. It’s Romy. Is Mom around?” I ask, then hold my empty coffee cup to my lips in the hope I can steal any last minor bit of sustenance it may be able to give me.

“One moment please.”

Seconds later, the line clicks, and Mom’s voice comes through loud and clear. “Ah, my long-lost daughter. How are things?”

“Long lost?” I ask, resting the cup back on the coffee table and relaxing into my lounge.

“Yes. You know it’s not a crime to keep in touch with your parents, Romy.” Mom sighs. A note of hope enters her voice. “Or have you been just so busy out on dates that you’ve not had time to pick up the phone?”

I take a deep breath, steel myself. “Actually, Mom, that’s what I’m ringing to talk to you about.”

“You are?” I can practically hear champagne corks popping in her tone. “Wait, I’m going to get Beau. He’ll want to be in on this. Beau? Beau! Your favorite daughter is on the phone.”

“Mom . . .” I groan, but don’t argue. It’s probably a good thing that he hears this too.

“How’s my Romy girl?” Dad asks a few seconds later.

“Good,” I reply. “Actually, I’m the best I’ve been in a long while.”

“Tell me everything. His name, his age, where he lives . . . I want it all,” Mom says, and I can imagine her with paper and a pen, ready to take notes.

“That’s just it. There is no special man in my life.” I stand and walk down the hall to the spare room, opening the door.

My wedding dress gleams. The morning sun shines in through the window, catching on the diamond belt. I still feel that pang in my chest when I look at it. It’s so beautiful. So perfect.

So not me anymore.

“I’m letting go of getting married,” I say. Sorry, beautiful gown. Maybe one day.

“What?” Mom gasps.

“Not forever. I’m not saying I’ll never walk down the aisle, but before, I was fixated. Obsessed. It wasn’t healthy, and it made me try things with men I never would have let myself do in the past.”

Silence stretches on the other end of the line.

I gulp, and go on. “It’s taken me a long time to realize this, but I’m actually pretty great. I have a fabulous best friend. I’m successful in my job. I live in my own place, and maybe I don’t have the husband and the two-point-five-kid American dream underway, but I’m happy. And I don’t need a man in the picture to complete that.”

A strange sound comes down the line. Is that—is Mom crying?

“Val, are you okay?” Dad asks, and I wonder if he’s in his office and she’s in the parlor, this big grand empty house separating them. “She said she didn’t need a man. That doesn’t mean—”

“I’m also not saying I’m open to lesbianism,” I expand, just in case there’s any confusion.

“Ah.” Dad doesn’t say anything further.

“I’ve appreciated all your help when it comes to dating in the past”—slight lie, but doesn’t hurt to butter them up since I’ve clearly ruined Mom’s dreams—“but now I need to do things just for me. And that means no blind dates. No constant questions about my relationship status. And certainly no setting me up on Tinder.”

“Got it,” Dad says.

Mom mumbles something, but I can’t quite make it out. “Sorry, Mom? What did you say?”

“Just that . . .” She sniffs. “Just that we only ever wanted you to be happy. And if this is what makes you happy . . .”

“It does.” I run one hand over that beautiful white material one last time. This is a dream I’m finally ready to let go of. “It really does.”

“Good,” she says. “We’ll support you however we can.”

And I know they will, because at heart, despite the pushing and the digs about me still being single, my parents are good people who only want what’s best for me. I don’t know what that is yet, but for the first time in a long time, I can’t wait to find out.

We end the call, and I stare at my wedding dress. The one that brought me so much happiness, so much hope for the future.

Then I walk back to the door, pulling it closed. It’s time to keep the room shut for a while.

Just as the lock is about to click, I race back in and grab those Jimmy Choos. There’s no need to say goodbye to them just yet.

* * *

Five hours later, my house is clean. I’ve washed, dusted, and aired everything, getting rid of the old and inviting in the new. I did it all in sweats and crystal heels, because what’s the point in saving them for a day that might never come? What’s the point in stopping myself from living in the now?

I’ve called Marc and left three messages, but he hasn’t replied. He probably had clients all day. Looks like I have to meet the parents after all.

I’ll break up with him in the car on the way home. Then I’ll never have to see Marc Moretti again.

I check the time. Thirty minutes to go. I pull out my laptop. My Jimmy Choos thunk down on the floor as the computer hums to life. My fingers itch for it to open.

It’s times like these when I love what I do.

It’s times like these when I’m inspired to write.

Dear lovers,

A wedding is a time when you celebrate the love you have for your husband-to-be. It’s a time when you begin your new journey together, full of dreams for the future—dreams that are all about we and us and together. Dreams that I hope will come true.

In all this coupledom, this focus on union during your big day, it can be easy to lose sight of one other person—yourself.

You’ve found the man of your dreams, but never stop believing you’re good enough without him.

He’s promising to be with you forever, but never doubt your strength if something should go awry.

You’re discovering a new and beautiful side to your relationship, but you’re also discovering a new and beautiful side to yourself. Your ability to love will grow. Your ability to compromise will, too.

So, my dear bride-to-be, please live in the moment. Dance like no one is watching. Take every opportunity that comes your way, and eat that tart you’ve been lusting after at the bakery. You deserve it. You’ve earned it.

Your wedding is a time to celebrate love, but love for yourself is important, too.

Love,

Romy