Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“That’s where growth happens. In the murky, questionable waters off the shore of certainty.” Ben mumbles the poetic words, and I feel like he’s talking to himself more than to me.
Still, I respond, “What if I can’t swim?”
“But on the other hand, what if you can?” he challenges. “You said your sister’s stronger than you, but I’d say it takes some pretty big balls to get all the way to the altar and then act on doubts. I’d bet most folks would’ve gone through with it, even as their hearts said Don’t do it. Sounds pretty strong to me.”
I inhale sharply in surprise. Is he right? I sure as shit don’t feel strong. Like, at all. In fact, I’m basically 0 percent strong right now. I feel stupid, weak, and crazy.
“Done.” His hands are somewhere around my lower-back area, so with the buttons undone, I know he can see the white thong Joy insisted I wear as good luck for a marriage filled with sexy times.
I turn around, holding the loose fabric of the dress to my breasts, and find him staring at me with dark eyes and a faint lift to his lips. “Thank you,” I say, then quickly add, “and that was well above basic human decency, so let me say it.”
I feel like he’s proud of me again, but he doesn’t say anything as he leaves and closes the door behind him. For the first time, it hits me.
I left Roy at the altar. I’m alone.
Somehow, it feels . . . good?
But that doesn’t make sense. I should definitely feel bad about that, right? So why does it feel like a relief?
When I get a look at myself in the bathroom mirror, my eyes pop open as my hands fly to my hair. Now I know what Ben was smirking at. I’m a mess! Some combination of a deranged raccoon with makeup smears down my cheeks, a fallen angel with frizzy hair sprouting out in a halo around my head, and a zombie bride in a muddy dress.
“Hamburger-fucking-Help-Me, Hope, you’re an actual walking, talking dumpster fire.” The girl in the mirror doesn’t argue, agreeing with my too-accurate assessment.
Even with the buttons undone and a sudden desire to let hot water wash the wildness away, it takes me several minutes to get the dress all the way off, and I leave it puddled on the floor, a dirty reminder of a day gone wrong. Not that running was wrong, but maybe the whole wedding was.
No maybes about it. I never should have let things get this far.
The doubts and concerns I had didn’t start today. Or even yesterday, last week, or last month. They’ve been slowly growing despite my attempts to ignore them. Today was just the day they refused to be ignored any longer.
I start the water, turning it as hot as it’ll go. I need to burn today off me. All of it.
I make quick work of lathering up, not giving myself time to cry, or think, or wallow in the what-ifs. I focus on getting the sticks and bobby pins out of my hair, the mud off my legs, and the makeup off my face. When I’m scrubbed clean, I dry off. The vanity is well stocked—wouldn’t expect anything less of the resort’s staff—and I find a hairbrush, deodorant, and the bougie toothpaste and toothbrush set Dr. Payne recommends and sells. I use those, feeling more human, and only then do I open the door to the bedroom.
There’s a stack of clothes on the bed, and when I hold them up, I find plain black sweatpants, which thankfully have a drawstring at the waist; a T-shirt from a band I’ve never heard of; and a flannel that’s a good two or three sizes too big for me. I pull them all on, wrapping the shirt around my body like a cozy blanket.
“Now what?” I mutter, not sure what to do. I should be at my reception, cutting the cake and dancing with my new husband, but here I am . . . still running.
Chapter 4
BEN
I struggled for a ridiculous amount of time on what clothes to leave for Hope. A Midnight Destruction shirt is a stupid risk that has the potential to lead to questions I can’t and won’t answer, but there’s no way she could know it’s my band, and even if she got curious enough to google us, there’s absolutely nothing that’d tie the band to me. Still, I held the shirt in my hands for more minutes than I’d like to admit until the idea of wrapping around her in comfort made me decide to take the chance. When she reappears with wet hair and a bare face, wearing my clothes, I know I made the right call.
She seems small—not in size, though she’s probably five-five at best, but in presence, like she’s trying to shrink away from . . . everything. She’s a walking, talking beautiful disaster. Or at least, she is today, but I get the feeling that’s not her usual MO. At least not the disaster part.