Chapter 9 - I WENT BACK TO THE BALLROOM
Seven years after my wedding, the Grand Halston Hotel renovated its ballroom.
Phoebe was engaged.
Of course she chose the same venue.
When she told me, I stared.
“You’re kidding.”
“It was half price because January.”
“Phoebe.”
“And the new ballroom is gorgeous.”
“Phoebe.”
She grabbed my hands.
“If you hate it, I change it.”
That mattered.
Choice.
I thought for a week.
Then:
“Keep it.”
Going back terrified me.
Good reason to decide carefully.
Not necessarily good reason never to go.
The wedding was in winter.
No Luca.
No Wendy.
No connection.
I walked into the ballroom wearing a blue dress.
The room looked different.
New lighting.
Different carpet.
But I knew where the cake table had stood.
My body knew before my mind.
Heart racing.
Hands cold.
Noah noticed.
“Want to leave?”
I looked at him.
Not:
You’ll be fine.
Not:
Don’t let the past win.
Just:
Want to leave?
Choice again.
“No.”
“Okay.”
We stayed near the door for ten minutes.
Then moved farther inside.
Phoebe looked radiant.
At the reception, she and her husband cut the cake.
The photographer joked:
“No smashing unless mutually agreed!”
The room laughed.
My stomach tightened.
Phoebe immediately looked at me.
Regret crossed her face.
I shook my head.
I was okay.
Her husband took a tiny piece of frosting.
Held it near her nose.
Paused.
She nodded.
He touched it lightly to the tip.
She retaliated.
Everyone laughed.
I did too.
Because consent can be playful.
That was what Luca had spent years pretending he did not understand.
Later, Phoebe found me.
“I’m sorry about the photographer.”
“Don’t be.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Then I looked toward the cake.
“I think I’m finally angry at the right thing.”
“What does that mean?”
“The cake was never the problem.”
She hugged me.
That night, Noah and I danced.
At one point I realized we were standing almost exactly where Luca had whispered:
Smile. Don’t embarrass me.
I looked at Noah.
He smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You disappeared for a second.”
“I came back.”
He nodded.
Then we danced.
Months later, Noah proposed.
At home.
No audience.
No photographer.
No elaborate trap.
He placed the ring on the coffee table.
Not in my hand.
Not on my finger.
“I’d like to marry you.”
I stared.
He continued:
“You do not need to answer tonight.”
I started laughing.
“What?”
“That is the least dramatic proposal in human history.”
“I can add fireworks.”
“No.”
“Horse?”
“No.”
“Flash mob?”
“I’ll call the police.”
He smiled.
Then:
“Jessi, I want a life with you. But I want your yes more than I want a wedding.”
That was the sentence.
I cried.
Then said:
“Yes.”
Not because I had conquered fear.
May you like
Because I was free enough to choose.
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