All That Really Matters by Nicole Deese (new books to read TXT) 📕

Bea had a bit of an infomercial presence about her: the constant tilt of her head as she spoke, the smile that never seemed to dim.

“Well, thank you again,” Silas said. “Would you mind if we took a look at them to make sure it’s what Molly wants before we sign the rental agreement?”

“Not at all. I went ahead and set it all up for you both to see. It’s in the back here, next to a few other choices.” Bea bustled to the back of the store, where a few display tables covered by white linens were set up. And there, sitting right on top of the center table, was my vision in physical form. All of it, even down to the stem and flatware.

“It’s perfect,” I said, fingering the rose gold rim, mesmerized by the glamour of it. “They’re even prettier in person.”

Bea’s voice broke through the spell I was under. “By the expression on your fiancé’s face, I’d say he’s thinking the same thing about you.” Her tinkling laugh vibrated the sparkling wine glass I’d reached to inspect. “Gotta love a man who adores making his woman happy.”

I glanced up to find Silas’s eyes not on the gorgeous table setting before us, but on me. Once again, I struggled for breath, and for the reality check I so desperately needed. Because this was perhaps the biggest fantasy moment I’d created on record. And I’d once stood beneath a clear umbrella as a thousand cherry blossoms tumbled over me from two stories up—all for the sake of the ideal image.

But this moment at the bridal shop was even less real.

There was no upcoming wedding, no fiancé, no lovestruck man admiring his soon-to-be bride. All of this was the by-product of a marketing guru so practiced at playing pretend that she often missed the cues for reality. I stared down at the pretty porcelain. How many times had I created the perfect image in hopes of procuring a future happiness that never came? Didn’t I own a shiny expensive car for that very reason?

Bea gripped Silas’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “You two take your time. I’ll be at the register with the paperwork when you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” I heard myself say. “We’ll be up in just a minute.”

I worked to exhale the building static in my chest.

“Is this what you want?” Silas asked the loaded question while I picked up a plate to study the microscopic print on the bottom, as if that had any reflection on the decision at hand. But squinting at the words hand wash only was easier than facing the truth pumping through my veins with every squeeze of my heart.

I set the plate down and glanced at the classic settings to the right and left. Both beautiful in their own right. Both sturdy and sophisticated and wholly suitable in every way. And both half the price and a quarter of the demand.

I slipped around the table and picked up the setting to my right—an all-cream number with a single watermarked flourish in the center of the salad dish. A far more practical option with far less pretense. I thought back to the highlighted figure on the budget sheet Clara had shown me. No matter how many sponsors I secured or how much money was pledged, whatever I didn’t spend on the showy extras would go straight to the house. To the future residents. To Silas’s off-the-page goals that would ultimately be matched one-to-one when we secured the Murphey Grant.

And suddenly, that’s what I wanted most.

I smiled up at Silas. “Actually, I’ll take these ones.”

Silas stared at me, unblinking. “Those ones? Are you sure?”

I nodded, a bit exhilarated at the thought of telling Clara I’d come in under budget for our party rentals. “Yes, I’m sure. I appreciate you calling on these, though, and for taking me out here so I could see them in person. It helped me process through a few things.”

By the confused expression Silas wore, I could tell he hadn’t a clue what had just happened. Fair enough, since I wasn’t totally sure myself.

“Okay,” he said with a nod. “I’ll go let Bea know.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as he left for the lobby, I touched the fantasy wedding plates one last time, admiring their beauty and feel, and whispered, “I’ll be back for you someday” as I walked out of the room to meet Silas and Bea.

After the plate decision was made, it was only fair that Silas get to choose the restaurant, a point that I argued for going on five minutes in the parking lot of Bea’s Bridal. Finally, he acquiesced and consulted his phone, as neither of us knew the area. When he tried one last time for me to at least give him a food genre, I simply reclined the passenger seat and closed my eyes as the last of the day’s sun warmed my face. “You choose, Silas.”

And choose he did. The most un-Silas-like place I could have imagined.

“A bar?” I asked as he parked and unlocked our doors.

“And grill. A bar and grill,” he repeated, as if that made it any less bar-like.

“You do know what goes on in an establishment like this, right?” I lowered my voice in a mock whisper. “I hear they serve forbidden beverages here. Aren’t you worried this might break my volunteer contract at The Bridge?”

“Not as long as you promise to refrain from all Jell-O shot table-dancing endeavors,” he deadpanned.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but smile at his reference to the worst interview in history. “I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“Good. Because we’re here for a very specific reason.”

I looked from him to the entrance of the most stereotypical small-town bar in America. “And what’s that? The sticky floors? The anti-nutritional dinner menu?”

“Neither.” He pushed out his door and came around the car to open mine. “We’re here for the darts.”

“Ooh, really?” A thrill of excitement rushed through me. “I approve of