“Well, you’re still young.”
“I’m almost thirty,” her cousin said.
She was twenty-four.
“Even so, you have time,” Retta said.
“Perhaps, or maybe I’ll forever be known as Chris’s wife who placed third in a national pageant one time,” Irene said, taking a long drag from her vape pen. “And when I hit my middle age at thirty-five, I’ll have to do something like run a marathon to feel alive. I fucking hate running.”
“Okay, well, firstly midlife starts a little later—”
“But if I needed to run, I could. It’s just one foot in front of the other…”
Her cousin was mostly talking to herself now, hence the senseless words coming out of her mouth. Before Retta could finally extricate herself, Irene looked at her with wide eyes. It was like the sun had come out.
“You good?” Retta asked.
Instead of answering, Irene pulled out her phone and rapidly moved her fingers across the keyboard. When she stopped after a minute, she said, “I need you to do something for me. Tell Chris and my mom I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Leaving,” she said as she picked up her purse and started running as fast as her heels and big dress would allow toward the front of the church.
“Wait,” Retta shouted, hobbling after her. “Where are you going?”
Her cousin turned long enough in the flurry of white tulle to say, “I can’t marry Chris right now.”
“I-I don’t understand?”
Irene’s attention was pulled by a message that arrived on her phone with a ping. “I have to go.”
“You’re not getting married?” she asked, her heart pounding as she advanced toward her cousin.
“No.”
“Okay, okay,” Retta said, finding it hard to formulate words. “That’s fine. We’ll walk in together, and you can tell your mom.”
But Irene was backing away, shaking her head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Wait—”
But Irene was off, running through the parking lot, dropping her vape pen along the way. Retta tried to catch up, but she stopped when she spotted the yellow cab in the church lot. Her cousin entered the car, barely pulling in all the material that made up her dress before shutting the door. The cab drove off, and just like that, Retta was left in horrified silence.
No one was out there. The attendees were probably sitting in the auditorium waiting for the festivities to begin. She had to tell someone. Who did she tell? God, what if she had to announce it to everyone? Retta furiously fanned herself with the wedding program until a strong grip encircled her upper arm.
“Retta,” Duncan said. “What’s wrong?”
She might throw up.
“Look at me. Look at me,” he said. “Baby—”
“Irene left.”
Duncan frowned. “What do you mean she left?”
“I mean she’s a fucking runaway bride,” Retta said, looking down at her hand where she still held her cousin’s earrings. “I found her crying. We talked. It was actually a really good conversation. Therapeutic and what not. Then she said she wasn’t down with this whole marriage thing and left.”
Duncan held her on either side of her face. “I’m going to grab your mother.”
