My eyes sting.
Tears prick at the back of them, threatening to let loose geysers.
I grit my teeth.
I will not let them hear me cry.
I will not let them see me fall apart.
Oh hell.
The waterworks are coming, and I can barely hold them off.
Thank God Emerson is here.
I yank up my skirt and we run like the Legion of Honor is on fire.
Through the hallway, toward a side door—somewhere along the way Jillian, Olive, and Skyler join us. Jillian’s on the phone, giving instructions about the car.
When I reach the exit, my friends are still running by my side. We race down the long entryway steps, and I don’t even risk a glance at the lawn or rows of folding chairs. I can’t bear the thought of guests gawking, pointing. I must look like a runaway bride, only the opposite is true.
A few more steps, and I’m nearly there. My father waits for me by the limo, right at the edge of the car park.
I stumble into his arms, and I fall to pieces.
***
Go.
Just go.
That’s literally the only thing I can say, over and over.
We pile into the sleek vehicle—my dad, my sister, Emerson, Jillian, and Skyler.
My crew.
But Jillian stops before she gets in, her hand on the door. “Katie, why don’t I take care of all that?” She gestures to the lawn.
Ugh.
The freaking guests.
All those guests milling about in their pretty clothes, waiting for a ceremony. They’re here for my stupid wedding that isn’t happening. Soon, they’ll be able to whisper about the time they went to a wedding where the bride was stood up at the altar.
“Thank you, Jillian. That would be great,” my father says, answering for me.
“I can help too,” Skyler offers.
A sob wracks my throat and I nod savagely. “Just take care of it, please.”
“We’ll take care ofallof it,” Jillian assures me, going full badass, problem-solving babe as they stay behind to clean up the mess my mother and fiancé made of my wedding day.
We peel off, away from the gorgeous art museum, high on the hill. As the Golden Gate Bridge looms closer, another burst of tears rains down my cheeks. I can’t believe what just happened.
I truly can’t.
My dad’s seated next to me, and he rubs my back gently. “Honey, I’m so sorry. But you’ve got to know—none of it is your fault.”
