I don’t have health insurance, but the cost of paying out of pocket might be worth it to have Nicholas see me go to Turpin’s for a cleaning. It’s a scenario I dream about while scouring his baked-on veggie pasta from the casserole dish.

To pump up my courage for what I’m about to do next, I listen to three angry Eminem songs and then dial a number I have listed in my contacts as 666. I never call this number. My phone tries to save me by spontaneously shutting off and rebooting, but there’s no stopping me now. I’m at least a hundred moves behind Nicholas on our battlefield. I’m surrounded by undetectable explosives and he’s frolicking through the wild-flowers without a fear in the world. He’s been baiting me so long that I don’t know how much of his BS is calculated and how much is inadvertent. I’m not sure I know him at all. But I sure as hell know his mother.

“Hello?” says Mrs. Rose.

“Deborah!” I fluff up my tone with sugar and honey, spinning in Nicholas’s swivel chair. I’m in his office, where he doesn’t like me being because he needs privacy for Calls With Mother. The two of them should run a motel together.

“Naomi?” She sounds uncertain. The third syllable of my name is muted; she’s pulled away from the phone to check the caller ID and make sure my voice isn’t an auditory hallucination.

“Hope you’re not busy,” I say with a huge smile on my face. It’s Saturday morning. Deborah’s got more activities on her calendar than the president, and I’m definitely interrupting something. “I wanted to talk about the floral changes that were made to my wedding without my consent.”

I can tell she didn’t expect any pushback on this, but she recovers quickly. Her voice is the soothing lullaby of reminding Harold to take his fish oil pill. “I hope you don’t mind, dear. The florist couldn’t schedule the appointment for any other time, and I didn’t want to bother you. I know how busy you are at the … oh, I can’t remember where it is you go all day. The Dump, it’s called?”

“Yes,” I say brightly. “The Dump.” I burrow under trash piles like a gopher. “I never did get that new florist’s number from you, after you switched businesses for the third or fourth time. Do you have it handy? I want to tweak a couple of things.”

“Tweak?” She sounds startled. “I’m sure it’s much too late for that. It’s all set in stone now.”

“Deborah,” I laugh. Deborah, Deborah, Deborah. “You saw the florist only yesterday! I’m sure she’ll be open to listening to the bride. Who is me. I’m the bride.” I twirl my villain mustache. I have never been more opposed to being a bride. They’d have to drag my unconscious body up the aisle, a ventriloquist throwing her voice to mimic my vows. “The flowers you picked just aren’t my cup of tea.”

“Delphiniums are out of season. Carnations will look so lovely at a January wedding.”

“Carnations are outdated.” All of my instincts are telling me that Deborah and Harold used carnations for their own wedding. “I’m thinking …” I see my colorless reflection in the glass of a framed picture on Nicholas’s desk. He’s six years old and a small fish dangles from his hand. Bluegill. He’s smiling so big that his eyes are squinty, cowlick much more prevalent than it is now, two front teeth missing. His mother stands behind his shoulder, long melon-pink nails digging in. I envision her doing the same at our wedding, whispering into his ear.

“Magnolias,” I finish.

Foam gurgles from my blood-red Babadook mouth and giddiness overtakes me. It’s the closest to joy I’ve gotten in a long time. I’m going to follow this feeling straight down into hell.

She’s so quiet, I have to check to make sure the line hasn’t gone dead.

“Deb?” I prompt, biting my knuckles to keep from losing it.

“I don’t think Nicky would agree with that choice,” she eventually forces out.

“Nicky told me it’s fine.” I spin my chair again, knees to my chin. The seat is luxurious leather and marvelously comfortable, like sinking into a hot tub. My computer chair is two inches shorter than I’d like and made of wood. I got it from a yard sale. I put a lumpy pillow on it for comfort, but the disparity here is outrageous. This chair is mine now.

“Besides,” I add. “It’s my wedding, isn’t it? I should get what I want.”

“It’s Nicky’s wedding, too.”

What does Nicholas care? He’s going to marry at least three times in his life. When I’m sixty, I’ll bump into him with a comb-over and a twentysomething on his arm, because men are terrible and they can get away with it. “You know what they say,” I reply cheerily. “Happy wife, happy life! He’ll do whatever it takes to make me happy. He’s learned by example, watching how good your husband is to you.”

I’ve never gone against Deborah’s orders, even politely. It’s easier to let her have her way. This is a brand-new experience for Deborah, and probably for her book club who’s listening in. She’s sitting opposite the mayor and her entire sorority, straining to keep a smile pasted on while spiritually strangling the breath of life from me. Her nasty habit of putting people on speakerphone so everyone present can share a laugh has come home to roost.

“That number, Deb?” I goad, crossing my feet on Nicholas’s desk. A stack of files falls off, fanning across the floor like a royal flush.

“Um. Yes. Let me see.” She’s floundering. She can’t give me a fake number, but she can’t give me the real one. This is not a bluff and I will absolutely order a billion magnolias to adorn St. Mary’s. Imagine Harold’s face when he sees the invoice.

Deborah stalls as she riffles through her Rolodex. I hear her teeth clink together. I stay completely silent until she gets back to me and spits out each number.

“Thanks!” I chirp. “While I’ve got you on here, mind giving me the baker’s number as well? I know I’d originally suggested Drury Lane in Hatterson, but I believe you chose to go somewhere else? Is that correct? I’m sure you know best. Anyway, I’d like their contact information, please.”

Acid drips from Deborah’s mouth. “Why would that be necessary, my dear? I’ve already gotten the cake taken care of.”