Chapter 2: Ultimatums

The midsummer night carried a hint of coolness.

It was one of those rare Ohio evenings where the air didn’t stick to your skin, the kind of night that felt like a reprieve. The cicadas buzzed lazily through the open window, but inside, the tension was thick enough to taste.

Caleb hadn’t said a word since he came in.

I sat off to the side, feeling a little nervous.

Mrs. Young took my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

She turned to Caleb. "Seven years, Caleb. Are you gonna marry her or just keep stringing her along?"

Her Midwest twang sharpened, the way it always did when she was mad. I could hear the strain in her voice, the way she fought to keep her composure in front of me.

"Only Natalie has a good temper. She doesn’t get anxious."

Mrs. Young shot him a look, shaking her head. "But that’s because she loves you, not because everything you do is right."

Mrs. Young was so angry her cheeks turned red. "How did I raise someone like you!"

She grabbed a kitchen towel and twisted it in her hands, her knuckles white.

I patted her back. "Really, there’s no rush."

"How can you say there’s no rush?" She turned to me. "This boy has wasted your whole life. If he won’t take responsibility, I won’t let him off!"

I smiled as gently as I could, trying to ease her anger, but my stomach was twisted in knots. I glanced at the family photos lining the mantel—years of holidays and birthdays frozen in time, as if nothing could go wrong.

"I just don’t get it."

"What does he actually want!"

She kept flicking her old Bic lighter open and shut, the snap echoing her frustration.

The metallic click was sharp in the quiet room, a nervous tic I’d seen a hundred times before. It was the same lighter she used on the back porch when she smoked after Sunday dinners, her thumb working at the wheel until it finally caught.

Caleb’s face was as cold as ever. Only after Mrs. Young finished did he sneer and look up. "Fine, let’s get married."

He stood up. "Arrange it however you want."

He strode upstairs without ever looking at me.

My heart clenched. I lowered my head, murmured a few words to Mrs. Young, and hurried after him.

The carpeted stairs felt longer than ever, every step echoing the awkwardness that hung between us. I passed his old Little League trophies on the wall, dust gathering on the memories.

The sound of running water came from his bathroom.

Caleb was showering.

I sat on the bed, staring at the floor, lost in thought.

My fingers twisted the comforter—navy blue, still faintly smelling of detergent. The drone of the shower behind the door felt like a wall I couldn’t cross.

"Do you not want to get married?"

The water was too loud; he couldn’t hear me.

When the water stopped, he opened the door, wearing only a bathrobe around his waist.

"What did you say?"

His hair was still dripping, water rolling from his sharp brows down his chest.

My cheeks flushed instantly.

For a moment, I stammered, unable to find my words.

I quickly averted my eyes, embarrassed by the way my heart sped up, even after all these years. I grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to my chest, the corduroy rough against my cheek, as if it could block out how exposed I felt.

When Caleb changed, I squeezed my eyes shut and counted sheep.

Until his large hand landed on my head. "I’m dressed. You can open your eyes."

His touch was gentle, familiar, but it sent a jolt through me. The old comfort warred with the new awkwardness.

I slowly opened them.

He was neat now, squatting down to meet my gaze. "What did you want to say?"

"Do you not want to get married?"

"No." He looked away, stood up, and picked up his dirty clothes. "Don’t overthink it."

But I knew he was lying.

Caleb didn’t want to get married at all.

The silence between us was heavy. I wanted to say we could postpone the wedding, or that I wasn’t in a hurry, but the words stuck in my throat, leaving only a bitter ache.

I couldn’t stay in the room any longer. I wanted to leave, quickly.

"Then I’ll go to bed first."

He grabbed my hand, frowning. "You want to sleep in separate rooms?"

His voice was sharp, clipped. He reached out, lifting my chin. "You’re crying?"

"No."

"I’m doing what you want, what else do you want from me?" Caleb suddenly snapped, his face turning cold. "If you want to make a scene, go ahead."

I wanted to yell back, but the words just tangled in my throat. All I could do was blink hard and pretend I didn’t care.

In our seven years together, he’d rarely spoken to me so harshly.

But maybe the frustration of being nagged about marriage had finally boiled over—this was the first time he let his real feelings show in front of me.

His words hit like a slap, my vision blurring for a second. I swallowed hard, pride burning in my chest.

I was stunned, suddenly feeling like a clown stripped bare.

He didn’t look at me again. The door thudded shut, and his footsteps faded down the hallway.

Only the faint scent of his bath soap remained, reminding me of what had happened tonight.

I sat there for a long time, hugging my knees, listening to the whir of the ceiling fan and the distant barking of a neighbor’s dog. The night pressed close around me, thick and suffocating.