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I’m going to show him he can’t.
I’m going to run away.
Before whatever wrinkly old prune of a man he has picked out for me can even propose to me.
But guess what that means? I have to leave…
Right. This. Second.
Because the man my dad has betrothed me to—see, no one even uses that word anymore, that’s how archaic this whole thing is—is headed to my house right now.
Like, right now, right now.
I look for something I can throw on and run through the woods in. I grab my old high school backpack, the pink one with the butterflies. I fly around my room, throwing the most crucial items into the backpack. Three pairs of panties. One pair of jeans. Hoodie, I throw that on so I have more room in the bag. I dig through the bottom of my closet, grabbing my hiking boots.
I slip them on, tying them up tight. Kneeling down, I dig through the discarded dirty clothes that missed my hamper. My heart hammers harder in my chest as I look. Where is it? I toss a pale blue sweater to the right.
There it is!
My ticket to freedom. I grab the shoebox I’ve had hidden away for months. Opening the lid, a smile hits me as I stare at the hoard of goodies.
I’ve been squirreling items away, knowing this day was coming. Twenty dollars here that Dad gave me for the movies which I skipped, a diamond bracelet my aunt gave me for my b-day.
I have a bank card, of course, but I need ways to spend that Dad can’t track.
This family is known for their tracking abilities. The Bachman men remind me of trained hunting dogs, only way less adorable and way more deadly.
I mean, they’re hot. Not the ones my dad hangs around but the younger, single brothers, yeah, there’s a lot of man meat there. Good for looking at but not my type.
I’m not looking for love.
I’m looking to run as far from it as possible. Not that love would even be possible with the much older man my dad has headed here. I’ve heard Dad talk about our eligible bachelor.
I play gameshow host as I stuff more items in my backpack. “Ladies and gentlemen, here we have contestant number one for the marriage game. A gray-haired, white-bearded father of four, Mr. Ritaglio. Yes, that’s right folks, he’s a widower with grown children, the perfect match for our bachelorette, Paisley. A nineteen-year-old virgin.”
Gross.
I dig through my desk for food. Oh, goodie. There’re my chocolate-covered candies. Guaranteed not to melt in your hand. Perfect for road trips.
Or, in this case, solo runs through the Connecticut woods.
I find a few more essentials as I continue my monologue. “Yes, audience, that’s right. Our Paisley is a never-been-kissed virgin. The only daughter of Paige and Bronson Bachman, she’s been hidden away behind the walls of the Hamlet.
“Overprotected and under-stimulated, our bachelorette has many interests, mostly to keep herself from dying of boredom. Playing make believe with her younger brothers, writing songs, singing and training her rescue dogs fill her post-graduate days. College, you ask? Our Paisley was accepted into NYU but when her father said the adventure would come complete with five—that’s right, five—personal bodyguards, our bachelorette decided online education was better suited for her lifestyle.”
I’m so bored, I’ve already completed 40 credits in my first year. At this rate I’m going to have a master’s degree before I have my first legal drink. I do have a secret hobby that keeps me busy, but I rarely get the chance to sneak out for it.
Gummy bears, gummy worms, gummy snacks.
That should do it. I stare inside the overstuffed bag, taking stock of the contents. Hmm… it’s a little too full. I pull the gummy worms back out, keeping them in my hand.
That’s better.
I zip the backpack up, throwing it over my shoulder as I hear the crunch of tires over the driveway. “Shit.” A cold chill trips up my spine at the sound.
I tiptoe to the window, whispering to myself, “Ladies and gentlemen, our eligible bachelor has just arrived.” I stare down at the stone drive, needing one glance to steel my nerves before I run, leaving behind everything I’ve ever known.
The black door of the sleek Mercedes opens. I wait for the graybeard to come into view. It’s not Mr. Ritaglio that steps out of the car.
