Six Years Wasted I Let Her Wear the Wedding Dress

Spencer's voice still came through from the other end of the line.

"Tell you what—come over to my place first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll sit down and really hammer out the wedding plans…"

"We'll see. I'm exhausted today. I want to turn in early."

With that, I hung up.

The next day, I had no intention of taking time off. I headed to the office like I always did.

But at the foot of the building, Spencer's car cut me off.

He gave two short honks and rolled down the window.

"Get in. I already called you in sick."

I froze, my brow knitting tight. "I never asked for the day off. Why would you go and decide that for me?"

"Oh, come on. It's just a job."

Smiling, Spencer pushed the door open and gently steered me into the car.

"I've told you before—once we're married, you'll be Mrs. Stephens, without a care in the world."

"The Stephens family will provide for you. My wife has no business out there working, parading herself in public."

Something bitter churned in my chest.

"So because I'm marrying you, I don't even get the right to hold a job?"

Spencer didn't answer. He just lowered his head, pulled out an alcohol wipe, and scrubbed his hand. Carefully.

Scrubbing, meticulously, at the spot where his hand had just touched me.

Six years together. I'd long since gotten used to Spencer's severe germ phobia.

But in that moment, the sight still stung my eyes.

My nose prickled.

I asked, "Spencer, am I that filthy?"

Spencer paused, then lifted his gaze to me, startled.

"Deborah, why would you ask that?"

I drew in a deep breath. I wanted so badly to demand it of him out loud—why one touch from me meant disinfecting himself over and over.

It was always like this. After kissing me, he had to rinse his mouth.

After holding me, he had to shower.

Even after just holding my hand, he'd wipe himself down again and again with alcohol wipes.

Why couldn't I touch his spoon, couldn't touch his things?

While Irma could use his spoon, could share a single bowl of ice cream with him.

But looking at his blank, helpless eyes, I let out a wry little laugh and swallowed the words back down.

"It's nothing. Let's go."

When we reached the Stephens house, his parents were already seated in the living room, waiting.

Hearing me come in, Aaron Stephens silently took a sip of his tea, and Andrea rolled her eyes.

I steeled myself and stepped forward to greet them.

"Mr. Stephens, Mrs. Stephens, these are some homemade gifts I brought for you…"

"Don't bother. The Stephens family wants for nothing. Take it back."

Andrea spoke from on high.

"Deborah, if my son insists on marrying you, then you'd better learn how to be a proper Mrs. Stephens. Don't be so penny-pinching."

A wave of humiliation washed over me, and I bowed my head.

Because my family came from the countryside, the gap in our backgrounds was vast.

Spencer's parents didn't like me.

It was only because Spencer had dated me for six years, swearing he'd marry no one else, that they'd grudgingly agreed to the match.

I'd thought they had accepted me—yet still, in a thousand small ways, they found new ways to shame me.

"Mom!"

Spencer stepped in to rescue me. "It's still a token of Deborah's goodwill. Just take it."

Andrea gave a cold snort and tossed the gifts to the housekeeper without a second glance.

"Well, since you're both here, let's get on with discussing the wedding."

I breathed a little easier and sat down, just reaching for the wedding proposal on the table.

Then, out of nowhere, a crisp girl's voice rang out behind me.

"Mr. and Mrs. Stephens, look—do I look good in this wedding dress?"

I went still.

Why was Irma here again?

Everyone turned to look.

Aaron nodded with a smile. "Irma's really grown into a fine young woman."