Page 12 of The Wedding Run
“Oh, okay. Great. Thank you. I love you both! I’ll call you soon.” She clicks off and hands the phone to me. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” I hesitate, not taking the phone. “Don’t you want to call Derek?”
I want to say, ‘tell him I didn’t do anything to change his bride’s mind.’
But as Libby traces a heart painted on her window, she says, “He knows.”
I have to leave it at that. It’s not really my business what she told Derek. At least he won’t blame me. Or at least I hope not. But with Derek, you never know.
“Stop the truck!” She braces her hands on the dash. “Stop! Now.”
I slow, glancing over at her, but I don’t fully brake. We’re on a two-lane highway with barely any shoulder.
Her body starts to shake and tremble. Aftershock?
She looks pale, like she’s about to hurl. Not good.Please, not in my truck!
I swerve onto a gravel drive that anyone going the speed limit would have missed. Then I bring the truck to a complete stop. “Hey… Uh… you okay?”
She fumbles with the seatbelt, claws at the door handle. I lean over and yank the handle. The door swings wide. She launches out of the cab, stumbles about like a sailor on shore leave, dragging her train and skirt and veil. She bobs one way and tips the other, weaving across the narrow, gravel drive. Then she plants her feet and bends at the waist.
Here it comes.
Her veil billows out behind her. This is going to be a disaster of gigantic proportions. Like Mount Vesuvius exploding. And I imagine that vomit-smeared veil all over my truck’s interior.
I leap out of the truck and catch her veil before it lifts her into the air.She braces her hands on her knees and heaves a deep breath. Then all goes still and quiet—the calm before the proverbial storm.
I rest a steadying hand along her spine, so she knows she’s not alone, while we wait. And we wait. But nothing happens. After a minute or three, she straightens.
Which puts us in very close proximity. What I refer to as the danger zone.
Everything Derek told me about Libby is true. She’s beautiful—beautiful in a way that surprises me. Derek always could reel in women who looked like models. You know the type: long, flowing blonde hair, Victoria's Secret bodies, airbrushed faces, pouty lips. But Libby is petite, with dark hair and warm brown eyes that notice everything. Where Derek’s other girlfriends always wore layers of cosmetics, Libby looks refreshingly natural—yet equally, if not more, beautiful.
And it startles me. My reaction to her unsettles me.
I release the veil and step away, watching her like she’s Old Faithful about to blow.
“You okay?” I ask again.
“I need a minute.” She stares at the endless gravel drive like it’s her future. I wonder what she sees there. The disintegration of her plans with Derek? The way she imagined their life together?
She finally turns toward me and announces, “I’m okay.”
I nod and wait for her next move.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes as she moves toward the truck's passenger side.
“Nothing to be sorry for.” I open her door.
She climbs into the truck, pulling and tugging at her skirt. I don’t even know where to begin. There’s so much material. Finally, I grab an armful, shove it all inside, and then secure the door.
Once I’m settled behind the steering wheel again, we stare straight ahead at the windshield, through the hearts painted large enough not to block the driver's view. I don’t know what to do or say, so I wait. When it becomes apparent that we could sit here all night, I ask, “Did you have a destination in mind?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice cracks, and I imagine the waterworks are about to begin.
I can take vomit and even blood. But tears? That I’m not prepared for.
I grip the steering wheel hard, jam the gearshift into place, and the truck jounces along the gravel drive. I search for a wide enough spot to turn around, and we head toward the highway.
