I look back once. Through the glowing windows, I catch a glimpse of crystal, of men in suits holding drinks, of a Christmas tree so tall and perfect it could be in a commercial. Somewhere in there, Evan is checking his watch, wondering why the ceremony is late. My father is pacing, jaw clenched, demanding answers.
A tremor runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
If I get in this truck and drive away, everything changes.
I’ll disappoint my father in a way I’m not sure we’ll come back from. I’ll humiliate Evan in front of his colleagues. I’ll become a story… the runaway bride, whispered about over brunch and business meetings. My life will fracture down a different line than the one laid out for me.
But if I walk back in there, I will disappear.
The valet pulls up in my old navy pickup, the one I bought used after college with the money I saved from working summers at the Buttercup Bakery and the feed store. It looks completely out of place between the sleek, polished cars, its paint slightly faded, a dent in the bumper from the time I misjudged the fence post behind my mom’s house.
It looks like me.
The boy hops out, leaving it idling. “Here you go, Miss Ross.” He hands me the keys, then hesitates. “Do you, uh, need help getting in? With the dress and all?”
I’m about to say no, then glance down. The skirt is a frothy, ridiculous mountain. The idea of trying to climb into the tall driver’s seat without face planting is almost comical.
“I might, actually.” I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Thank you.”
He holds the door while I gather armfuls of fabric, scooping up the beaded layers to keep them from dragging too much in the slush. The cold bites at my exposed ankles, but adrenaline burns hotter. With some undignified scrambling and the valet’s careful guidance, I manage to get my butt into the seat and most of the dress too, though it poofs up around me like a whipped cream explosion.
I slam the door before my courage can leak out into the night.
Through the glass, the valet leans down, peering in at me.
“So, uh, congratulations?” he offers weakly.
I grip the steering wheel, the familiar worn leather grounding under my fingers. My breathing is still too fast, but there’s air in it now. Decision.
I reach across the bench seat and grab my bag, exactly where I left it.
I pull out a folded bill and slide it through the crack in the window.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it… for the truck, for the help, for not asking too many questions. “You never saw me.”
His eyes widen at the amount. “Yes, ma’am. Good luck.”
He steps back, giving me a little salute.
I put the truck in drive.
For a heartbeat, I sit there, foot on the brake, staring at the glowing façade of the hotel. The piano music drifts faintly through the glass.
I could still go back.
I could tell them I had a little meltdown, let them fix my makeup, and watch my dad smooth over the delay with a joke. I could apologize to Evan, let him tuck my hand into the crook of his arm, and lead me back onto the script.
I could.
I don’t.
My foot eases off the brake.
The truck rolls forward, slow at first, then faster as I hit the turn signal and nose out into traffic. Horns honk as I merge; someone curses out their window, but it barely registers. The city lights blur into streaks of white and red as I move through them.
I drive with the windows up and the heater blasting. My heart is still hammering, but every block I put between myself and the hotel loosens my chest.
At the first red light, reality crashes back in.
