Chapter 2 - The Price of Keeping Peace
By thirty-four, I'd made a career of being resourceful.
I was a marine claims adjuster, specializing in major commercial shipping losses.
My work involved climbing onto enormous cargo vessels, inspecting damaged freight, documenting structural failures, and negotiating insurance claims worth millions.
It wasn't glamorous in the Instagram sense.
Sometimes I spent ten hours at a freezing port in steel-toed boots, photographing damaged equipment while rain soaked through my jacket.
But I earned approximately $185,000 a year.
I'd paid off my student loans, purchased a comfortable house, and built a business reputation that meant more to me than anything my parents had ever given me.
Sloan worked as an aesthetic consultant at an expensive spa.
She made around $40,000 a year and spent money as though she owned the company.
Our parents paid her credit card bills, financed her vacations, and repeatedly rescued her from overdrafts.
Dad called her sophisticated.
Mom called her delicate.
They called my career unfeminine.
At country club dinners, my mother introduced Sloan by describing her incredible eye for beauty.
Then she'd turn to me.
“And Merritt works with ships. Something to do with insurance.”
I once spent an entire dinner explaining a complicated maritime insurance settlement to one of Dad's business associates.
When the man congratulated me, Dad interrupted.
“Yes, well, she was always good with paperwork.”
That was the last time I discussed my professional accomplishments at one of their dinner parties.
I had learned to keep my successes private.
Unfortunately, I'd never learned to stop letting my family use me.
And Sloan's wedding was about to demonstrate exactly how expensive that weakness had become.
Forty-eight hours before the rehearsal dinner, I checked into the boutique hotel attached to the wedding estate.
My surgeon had advised me to avoid unnecessary travel and prolonged standing.
I'd originally considered declining my bridesmaid role altogether.
But Mom had called repeatedly.
“Sloan only gets married once.”
“Your sister needs you.”
“Surely you're not going to let a knee injury ruin the wedding.”
I finally agreed, provided I could wear my brace and minimize the time I spent standing.
The next morning, I sat in the bridal suite with my injured leg resting on a velvet ottoman.
Hair stylists moved between chairs. Makeup artists unpacked palettes. Someone had left three iced Starbucks drinks on a table beside a tray of pastries.
Sloan entered carrying a mimosa.
She looked at my leg before she looked at my face.
“Please tell me you're not wearing that thing tomorrow.”
I glanced down at the black orthopedic brace.
“My doctor says I have to.”
“It looks like industrial equipment.”
“It's a medical brace.”
“It ruins the whole look.”
She gestured toward the bridesmaid dresses hanging nearby.
“Blush silk, soft flowers, elegant photographs. And then there's you, dressed like you're going to work on a construction site.”
I checked the straps.
“The dress covers most of it.”
“Most isn't good enough.”
I raised my eyes.
“Would you prefer I fall?”
She laughed.
“Would you prefer everybody spend my wedding asking about your tragic knee?”
The room went quiet.
I was reaching for my coffee when the door opened.
Thatcher walked in carrying a cardboard tray of fresh drinks.
He was a logistics coordinator, practical and observant, with a habit of noticing problems before anyone else realized they existed.
He handed me a black coffee.
“How's the knee holding up?”
“Not great, but I'll manage.”
“Don't overdo it. I spoke to the photographer about getting you a stool during the portraits.”
I smiled.
“Thank you. Seriously.”
“No problem. And if the stairs are too much tonight, we'll arrange another entrance.”
It was a perfectly ordinary act of consideration.
But when I looked past him, Sloan was gripping her champagne flute hard enough to turn her knuckles white.
“Thatcher,” she said, “can you stop treating her like she's dying?”
He frowned.
“I was asking if she needed a chair.”
“Exactly. Everything has to become a production.”
He gave her a strange look.
Then he left.
Sloan watched the door close before turning back to me.
“Happy now?”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“You got your little moment.”
“Sloan, he brought me coffee.”
“Whatever. Just don't ruin my entrance tonight.”
I should have left the wedding that morning.
May you like
Instead, I convinced myself that enduring another twenty-four hours would be easier than dealing with weeks of family arguments.
That calculation cost me six months of my life.
