Page 29 of Runaway Bride's Guide to Love

Night club? Thumping music? Sweaty bodies and shoulder-to-shoulder crowds? No fucking thank you.

As I put the car in park, my phone vibrates with a text message from my best friend and boss. Good. Work things. That I can get behind.

Simon: When you get down there check on 2254 first. That’s where Stella’s staying this week.

Ah yes. Stella. The sister who got married. I forgot she and her husband were using that unit for their honeymoon.

Emmett: Will do, boss.

Simon: Thanks, man. And check on her, won’t ya? I’d appreciate it. Oh. And have some fun.

Check on her? On her honeymoon? That’s fucking strange. Then again, I’ve met her now husband. He’s…a piece of work is one way to describe him.

Jackass would be the other.

So without thinking I type back “no problem” before tossing my phone to the side and filling up the truck. Fifteen minutes later I’m back in the driver’s seat, ready to make the final haul for a week of work and…beaches.

Nope. Won’t be doing that either.

Destin, here I come.

guide to love rule #67

If you give a man a fake name, make sure

you’re never going to see him again.

9

stella

Much like thedream wedding I wasn’t going to get, I also wasn’t getting my perfect honeymoon.

I wanted to go to Greece. Duncan, who preferred not to fly because his lips got chapped, wanted to go somewhere drivable. When he heard that Simon bought rental properties in Destin, he somehow talked my brother into giving us access to one for two weeks. For free. I thought he was being frugal. Now I wonder if it it’s because he knew we’d be broke.

I mean, who needs to see the Parthenon when you have the Destin Fishing and History Museum? The sad thing is I didn’t even fight for Greece. Didn’t leave subtle hints like having baklava around the house or watchingMamma Miaevery time Duncan came home.

Nope, like so many other things I didn’t fight for while we were together, I just agreed. Now don’t get me wrong, I love Destin. My family vacationed here every year when I was a kid. But for a vacation. Not for a trip that’s supposed to be romantic and once-in-a-lifetime.

God, I was an idiot. So blinded by what I thought I wanted that I was agreeing to two weeks in Florida. I don’t know in the stages of grieving a relationship if you’re supposed to beatyourself up for your past blunders in judgment, but that’s where I’m at. I’m calling it Stage 1.5: Stupidity.

The Uber driver pulls up to my beach house and helps me unload my bags. I wonder if I tip him extra he’ll help me bring my bags inside. Because now that I look at the suitcases I brought, I’m wondering what the heck I packed for, while also wondering if I remembered to pack bras.

Two full-size suitcases with clothes and shoes. A smaller one for makeup, face products, and hair tools. A carryon for electronics. And of course my Louis Vuitton oversized purse that is bigger than most suitcases.

It looks like I’m moving in. Which, if I’m being honest, isn’t out of the question. Here has a beach, peacefulness, and no one who knows what happened to me in the past week. There has Duncan, regret, and everyone who knows what happened to me.

I wonder which one I’ll choose…

“Here you go, ma’am,” the driver says as the bags are safely out of his trunk. I give him a cash tip—we’re not about to make this nice young man claim that on his taxes—but he takes off before I can ask for extra help.

Smart man.

It takes me longer than I care to admit to wheel and carry my bags down the driveway, through the garage, and into the house. When I get inside I throw down my purse and wipe the sweat off my forehead. I feel gross and disgusting, which is only amplified by the one-million-percent humidity outside. Without looking in a mirror I know my hair and makeup are a mess. My clothes are sticking to me. Yet, I somehow don’t care. Normally I would. But right now, all I want is to lay down and let this glorious air conditioner cool me off before taking a shower so cold my teeth chatter.

I abandon my bags in the entryway—that’s future Stella’s problem—as I walk the few steps I need into the living room and fall face first into the oversized sectional. I kick off my tennis shoes and just lie in air-conditioned bliss. I know I should belooking at the beach because I’m at the beach, but I need AC more.

This might be heaven. Then again, my bar is extremely low for what qualifies as heaven right now. I’m exhausted. I haven’t had a peaceful night’s sleep since…I don’t know when. Not the night before the wedding. Not since. Actually, the only time I slept like a baby was when I was at Cap’s…

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