Then I pull the door open.
The service hallway beyond is narrow and cool, lit by harsh fluorescent lights. The contrast makes my eyes water anew. I slip through, gathering my skirt, and let the door fall shut behind me gently, so no one hears.
It smells of detergent and coffee and something frying. My heels click on the tile, too loud in my own ears. I move anyway, forcing my legs to keep going, following the sound of distant chatter toward an exit sign glowing red at the end of the hall.
I pass a couple of hotel staff members who blink at me, mouths falling open as I sweep by in a cloud of tulle and panic. One starts to say something, then seems to think better of it. I don’t slow down long enough to find out what they might have asked.
My heart is still racing, but the panic has turned, sharp and wild, into momentum.
Exit.
The red sign might as well be a beacon.
I shove through the heavy metal door beneath it, and the winter night hits me like a slap.
Cold knifes across my cheeks, burning the tear tracks there. My lungs seize, then open, dragging in a breath so crisp it hurts. The narrow alley behind the hotel is slick with patches of snow and ice, the brick walls looming on either side. Somewhere out on the main street, traffic hums, distant and indifferent.
Snowflakes drift down from a sky the color of old pewter, catching in my hair, on my lashes, on the shoulders of my denim jacket. The dress swirls around my legs, satin and lace soaking up wet from the ground. My heels sink into a slushy patch, and I nearly go down onto my knees.
I grab the back of a dumpster to steady myself, laughing a little, high and breathless. I must look insane. Some runaway Snow Queen who took a wrong turn at the ceremony and ended up in a loading dock.
But the air. The air tastes of freedom.
I press my hand to my chest, feeling my heart thunder under my fingers. It’s still beating too fast, but it’s different now. Less trapped rabbit, more horse that’s finally broken through the open gate.
You don’t have to go back in there.
The thought is quiet but electrifying. It zips through me, lighting up every nerve.
All I have is my dress, my jacket, and my phone.
A wild, slightly hysterical giggle bursts out of me. Thank you, past self, for that one tiny act of paranoia.
I shuffle out of the alley, the hem of my gown dragging through dirty snow. When I turn the corner, I spill onto the side street where the hotel’s valet stand glows under a string of white lights. A row of expensive cars sits along the curb. Sleek black sedans, a silver sports car, a couple of SUVs. The main entrance is around the corner, windows blazing, bodies moving inside like shadows in a snow globe.
The valet, a teenage boy with a red nose and a too-big coat, gawks as I come toward him. “Uh, ma’am? Do you… Are you okay?”
No. Not even a little.
“Yes,” I say, because the word is a shield. “I just… I need my car, please.”
He glances over my shoulder like he’s expecting a cameraman to jump out. “Are you… the bride?”
I bob my head, breath puffing white. “Faith Ross. Blue pickup. Well, navy.”
My voice wobbles.
Dad had sneered at the idea of me “driving that thing up to a luxury hotel,” so I parked in the underground lot myself and handed the keys to the valet with a smile. “I’ll tip you double if you don’t mention this to anyone for five minutes.”
His eyes widen. “Double?”
The sound of someone’s laugh floats faintly through the revolving doors, and panic nips at my heels again.
“Triple,” I blurt.
He snaps upright. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll just, uh, grab that for you.”
He jogs off toward the parking entrance, leaving me alone under the hotel awning.
