Page 91 of A Storybook Wedding

“Not Nate. Just you this morning,” she corrects me.

“I’m sorry?”

“He’s not coming.”

“What do you mean? I mean, obviously I can see that he’s not here, but won’t he be joining us?”

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

“Is he staying? Did something change?” I pull my cell phone out of my coat pocket. No missed calls or text messages. I hit the green button next to his name. It goes straight to voicemail.

“I heard he left last night.”

“How? There’s no way out of here, right?”

Maggie cranks the heat up in the van, then puts it in drive and slowly pulls away from the main house. I try not to notice the lump that forms in my throat as my mind tries to process the idea that this will probably be the last time I ever see this place. She lowers her voice, not that anyone can hear us in here anyway. “When you live here year-round, any kind of news travels fast: bad, good, makes no difference,” she explains. “Nate got an Uber last night and chartered a plane back to New York.”

“What? Seriously?” I’m stunned. He just up and left and didn’t tell me?

“Facts. Jared—his Uber driver—posted it on Instagram last night. And everybody here knows the pilot, Frank Fredonia. Nice guy, but more than happy to shuttle disgruntled rich people around for the right price.”

That’s right. Unlike me, Nate’s got money. He doesn’t have to live his whole life on scholarship like I do.

“I can’t believe he didn’t tell me he was leaving.”

“Well, you guys aren’t really married, right? It was all a—ugh, what’s the word? Like, a fake-out?”

I shrug, staring out at the quiet of the wintry morning. “I think you mean a ruse,” I say with a sigh. “I don’t know, Maggie. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

I turn around to see the small campus of the retreat center shrinking farther into the backdrop until finally it disappears entirely as we drive over a hill.

I feel goodbye sitting heavy in my gut.

How could he have left without telling me?

CHAPTER 18

Nate

The trip home is not an easy one, but it beats sitting around feeling like shit while people whisper about me.

It begins with Jared, my Uber driver, who evidently knows who I am. He shows up in his Pontiac Vibe with Bob Marley playing and an overwhelming scent of vanilla permeating the car. I drop my luggage in the little space pretending to be the vehicle’s trunk, and when I sit down in the back seat, I locate the offending object; the stink is coming from a marijuana leaf-shaped piece of cardboard hanging from his rearview. Vanilla and weed? Is that a pairing?

“You’re the famous one, right?” he asks me. “They said there was a famous one coming to this Matthias thing for a few days. That you?”

“I guess.” I nod. “Mind if I crack this window?”

“You’re the boss, superstar. I’m just your lowly horse-and-buggy man.” He laughs absurdly, as if he’s just made a joke that was coherent and/or funny. “I shall take you to the ferry terminal, no problem, but if you’re trying to get back to the mainland tonight, you won’t find any boats there.”

“Fuck. Seriously?”

“’Fraid so, my dude.”

“Is there an airport on the island?”

“Yep. But first flight outta there is also not till morning.”

“What airlines fly here?” I pull out my phone to try and book a ticket.

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