Cream or Coffee?

“You will be fine, El,” Pa starts, “After all, your ma and I never married for love, and look at us now. We're so in love.” His brown eyes take on a dreamy look.

He takes my left hand in his, squeezing it to reassure me, but I am far from reassured. A foreign emotion claws its way to my throat, and I make a sound between a choke and a sob. Why me? Why us?

I steal a glance at Pa’s face. There’s no sign of laughter. Instead, I’m met with lines that have etched deep into his forehead, sunken eyes from lack of sleep, and cracked lips.

The tiny mole on his nose seems to have grown bigger, but I know that it is just my imagination. His shoulders are hunched, yet his eyes hold great wisdom; they have seen things. His movements are slower than they should be, as if he thinks long and hard before deciding to move.

When did Pa become this old? He looks to be somewhere around his mid-seventies even though he is ten years younger. And I wonder if they lied when they said Black don’t crack. Because Pa has cracked—or he will crack soon unless I agree to this.

A weight settles on my shoulders. The idea itself makes me shudder involuntarily. What he's asking of me will change my life forever, but I know that I will do it. I will do anything to make him happy again.

“I’m doing this because I love you.” I place a kiss on my father’s forehead, towering over him with my 5'11'' height, one of the qualities that earned me modelling gigs before I quit. “I hope this works out well.”

“I love you too, and it will. I wouldn’t set you up for this if I wasn’t so sure.” His eyes water a bit, but he doesn’t shed any tears.

I sigh deeply as I sink into the worn-down chair in this dilapidated office with chipping paint and rat-infested ceilings. If I look closely, the mould that has formed on the ceiling takes on recognizable designs. Sometimes, it’s a map; other times, it’s any shape my mind's eye can conjure.

“Say hello to Ma for me,” I say when he stands up, “I’ll swing by next week.”

He sweeps his coat to one side so he can place a hand on his waist. We stare at each other, but he doesn’t say anything. I have not been home in days, weeks; it reminds me too much of all we have lost.

Pa finally sighs in defeat; he can already tell that he won't be seeing me at home this weekend or the next. He blows a kiss in my direction, and I return it without looking him in the eyes. I am a bit angry at him and myself for the things that I cannot change.

His fragile footsteps are slow and calculated, but the wooden floor still creaks under his weight. Some of the nails in the floorboards have gone missing. One small misstep and he'd be slapped into oblivion by the unforgiving wood. I sigh softly. The whole place needs renovations.

At the door, Pa turns around to face me, waving lovingly at me as if to say he knows he has asked too much of me already. I send him a smile that is the opposite of what I feel on the inside. I have to do this for them. They have already done enough.

When he is gone, I locate my black handbag on the floor, the hand-me-down from Ma that I have used for three years now. My fingers brush the brown envelope, and I withdraw them sharply as though burnt. I shove the file deeper into my bag, wishing this was a dream so I could wake up and declare it a nightmare. But it's not. This is real.

I make my way out to the front of the single-storey building, stopping to stare long and hard at what used to be our favourite place in the world. The letters N, P, and AR hang precariously from the building. It used to say ANN PHARMA, written in gold, but the other letters have fallen off.

Pa says it was named after Ma, whose full name is Annika. She's his good luck charm. When Ma got tired of correcting people mispronouncing her name, she decided to go by Ann instead.

Only Pa can pronounce her name correctly. He says it means grace, unlike my name, Elna, which means beloved.

I shiver a bit, pulling my coat tighter around my chest, as the cold evening air lashes out angrily at everything in sight. Ignoring the catcalls that are thrown in my direction, I start the short journey to my apartment.

The wedding is a small one, held in the backyard of my new home with my handsome husband. He's British. Pa must have left out that part, or maybe if I had gone through the file like Pa asked me to do, I would have known.

I steal more glances at him as he saunters to greet one of many unfamiliar faces, doing my best to be subtle. His brown locks are swept back, held in place by the gel that has been put in it, and I feel a warm sensation spread through my chest.

He’s a beautiful man to look at. His lips are pouty, full, and his eyes are brown—no, amber. His nose is crooked like it has been broken and fixed one too many times. All of these features sit on a face that tells a story, a dangerous one at that, and I find myself feeling attracted to him.

Pa did try to set us up many times, but I never showed. I wonder now if that has put me on my husband’s bad side. He looks like someone who never forgets. My husband. The words taste like a sour grape. I’m unsure if I like them.

A smile crawls onto my lips when he throws his head back in laughter. My heart clenches, and I find myself grinning. I must look stupid, standing a few feet from the main event, smiling alone. Swallowing the imaginary lump in my throat, I swipe at the strand of hair that keeps falling over my forehead with aggression.

“You look so beautiful, El,” Ma is saying. My head snaps in her direction. I offer her a smile. She takes a sip from the flute of champagne perched between her fingertips with an elegance that surprises even me. My smile widens, and I squeeze her in a brief hug. She cleans up real good.

Her fingers brush my hair, taming that stubborn strand that has come undone from the high puff I managed to make from my wild curls. My hair has a mind of its own, but today, it will have to deal with the style I want.

“Thank you. You look wonderful yourself,” I repay the compliment, and she smiles as she does a little twirl.

She is dressed in a black off-the-shoulder gown that stops just above her knees to reveal her toned legs. Her skin glistens in the sun, she has truly been sun-kissed, and her dimples are prominent when she smiles. Ma no longer has those hollow spaces on either side of her collar bone, and I am glad I decided to marry this man, Brandon.

The name is foreign, like that of many rich kids I attended school with, but hearing it doesn't make me scoff. Instead, I like the way it settles on my tongue, like it’s my favourite candy, and I bite down on my lip to keep from staring in his direction.

Speaking of the devil, Brandon walks up to us with a glass containing some sort of bright bubbly alcohol and whispers into my ear, “Your mother is right, Elna, you look beautiful.”

His voice takes a few seconds to sink in. When it does, my heart goes into overdrive and my nipples harden behind my sleeveless gown. I suck in a sharp breath, the mirthless giggles that escape him telling me he noticed my reaction to his presence. He places a kiss on the back of Ma’s hand, and she excuses herself, saying something about giving the new couple privacy.

Without Ma, the atmosphere grows awkward real quick. I clear my throat. He shoves a hand into his pants pocket, and I turn away under his smothering gaze.

“Are you enjoying our...” he trails off at the speed with which my eyes return to his face, and that mischievous smirk returns to his lips. “Are you enjoying the party?”

“Yes.” My voice is raspy. My nerves have seeped into it, so I clear my throat and say, “Yes, are you?”

Brandon arches an eyebrow like he knows I'm lying. But did he expect me to say otherwise? It's my wedding. I'm supposed to be happy. I have to be happy.

Casting a glance at the guests, he offers me his hand, but I'm hesitant to take it. “Want to dance?”

Dancing has never been my forte, but I don’t want him to know that. “I don’t feel up to dancing.”

Brandon nods. I bite my lip when he strokes my cheek, trying and failing to meet his gaze. My eyelids flutter. His breath fans my face as our eyes finally meet. I forget everything around me and wait, wait for a kiss that never comes.

“You had this on your face,” he mutters, his eyes darting to the almost invisible speck of dirt on his index finger. I grunt in reply. It must have gotten there when I hugged Ma.

Seconds later, after he steps away from me, my eyes follow his, which are fixated on a couple. They are watching us, and I can’t help but feel that the show of affection was solely for their sake. He raises his glass to them, and they do the same.

“Cheers,” he says and comes to stand beside me. Maybe it's just me, but I detect sarcasm in his voice.

The band on the makeshift stage continues with their soulful rendition. They play all kinds of songs, the type I would have wanted at my wedding. I do not consider this wedding mine. It’s too flashy, and the only people I know here are my parents.

Brandon dumps his glass onto the tray of a passing server and wraps his hand around my waist from behind. He tucks his head into the space between my neck and shoulders.

“Relax.” The knots in my joints loosen. I nod, and his arms tighten around me. “Relax and enjoy the moment.”

There’s a strange sense of comfort at having him in such close contact with me as we watch different couples dance like this is their wedding in the space we created at the centre of the small field. I feel it then: I know we’ll get along.