“Seriously? Where are you? Do you need me to pick you up?”
That’s Lori. Always ready to rescue me from whatever disaster I create.
“No, it’s all right. The car’s in the shop. I’m staying somewhere nearby. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
A beat.
“At least tell me the mechanic’s cute,” she deadpans, forcing a smile out of me.
I hesitate for a second too long.
“Oh, come on.” She laughs, triumphant. “He is, isn’t he? Beth, you move fast.”
I roll onto my side, shoulders relaxing. “He’s nice, Lori.”
“No. You don’t get toniceme. Your whole life blew up on aisle three, andniceisn’t gonna cut it. Give me details. All of them.”
I laugh despite myself. “His name’s Jack. Ex-Marine who runs the garage with his brother. Offered me a place to stay.”
She whistles. “Wait, wait, let me get this straight. Stranded runaway bride, rescued by a stoic but secretly smoldering ex-Marine mechanic? Beth, you’re living my favorite paperback.”
“Don’t start,” I groan, but my mood lifts a little.
She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Has he at least kissed you yet?”
The question feels electric. I freeze.
“Beth. Oh my God, he has. Out with it!”
“Not like that,” I mutter, my cheeks burning. “It was just…he kissed my forehead.”
A pause. Lori’s tone shifts. “Oh, babe, that’s even bigger.”
I frown. “Why? It’s just a forehead.”
“Because forehead kisses mean something. Anyone can go for your lips, but a guy who kisses your forehead? He cares enough to see you as a person first.”
I go quiet. My fingers drift to that spot again. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not staying here for long.”
“Beth, maybe you need to. Maybe you need a break from all the drama. A chance to remember who you are, not who everyone else expects you to be. And maybe you need someone who actually looks at you.”
For the first time today, I don’t have a snarky reply. The silence stretches, unexpectedly tender.
“Okay,” I say at last. “Tell me what happened after I left.”
“Oh, you’re going to love this.” A smile permeates her words.
I pull myself upright, bracing for impact. “What did you do, Lori?”
“Well, after you bailed, I marched into the chapel and hijacked the mic. I told the room the wedding was off—because your loving fiancé was fucking the shit out of the maid of honor in the storage closet.”
I choke out a gasp, hand to my mouth. “No. You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did. The whole room went silent; everyone started buzzing like a beehive. Then Stephanie and Clark busted in on cue—messy hair, crooked clothes, the works. Clark’s fly was practically halfway down.”
Images cascade and collide; my horror melts into real, helpless laughter I haven’t felt in weeks.
“Your mother—and Clark’s—leaped into PR mode,” Lori presses on. “‘Oh, this isn’t true’and ‘surely, there’s a misunderstanding’…but everyone saw the circus. There was no spinning it. Your mom looked like she might keel over.”
