Page 9 of The Wedding Run
To avoid that messy situation, I redirect and hurry toward my truck. But the sight of it stops me cold. It’s not the newest or fanciest truck, but it’s all mine. I paid it off a few years ago after I graduated. Now, it’s sporting balloons attached to the windshield wipers, painted hearts, “Just Married,” and “Last Chance to RUN” on the windows.
I stalk toward Rob, who kneels at the tailgate. “What are you doing?”
He grins. “What do you think?”
“This ismytruck, Rob.”
“Okay.” But he doesn’t get it.
“The bride and groom are leaving in a limo.”
There’s a beat or two, then his eyes widen. “Oh!”
“Yeah.” I scan the windows, which could have more crude things written on them. But this shows a sweet, romantic side to our old fraternity brother. I clap him on the shoulder. “Nice job. I’ve got to run an errand.”
I hop into the driver’s seat and crank the engine. Time is getting away from me. I need to hurry. When I hit the highway, the tin cans dragging along behind the bumper create a roar.
CHAPTER 4
Libby
It’s over. The end. Or is it merely the beginning?
The aftermath of the meeting with Derek feels like a backwash of debris crashing over me. My insides feel sloshy. My head throbs. My knees wobble. And yet, with each step away from Derek and the groom’s cottage, the satin shoes pinch my painted toes as I gain strength and momentum.
So, I keep walking in my froufrou wedding dress, which I am seriously rethinking. Why did I spend so much money on it? Momma’s letter resides in the deep pocket I had the designer place in the poufy skirt.
I walk right past the big house where my father and sisters are unraveling my plans, like cats pawing at a yarn blanket, the threads coming loose into a giant mess. Guests will be arriving shortly to hear the news. Marianne and Trevor are digging, prying, and trying to get the ‘tea.’
I imagine Charlie telling Marianne, “Go ask Debbie.” This makes my lip curl into a half-smile. However, I can’t think about them or all the other things that must be done right now. I certainly don’t want to face any of it.
Turning away from the house, I walk down the runner to the white, gleaming gazebo decorated with ribbons and pale pink peonies.
Pulling Momma’s letter from the deep pocket, I hold it as if it’s a connection straight to heaven and Momma’s hand. If only she were here with me now. What would she say? What would she do?Oh, Momma!
When I was five or six years old, she and I would walk through our backyard garden holding hands. She’d listen to me chatter about my day at school: who liked whom, who hit whom, who cried, who tattled, and who traded their bologna sandwich for a Twinkie. Momma would pause to pick a ripe tomato or pluck a daisy to decorate the kitchen table.
Over the years, I often pretended she was walking with me whenever I felt alone and in need of her guidance: down the hallway at school, across campus, and even now. I imagine her matching me stride for stride as we veer off the carpeted path, my narrow heels pressing into the manicured lawn. She’s listening to my thoughts about why I can’t marry Derek, why he isn’t the one, why I ever thought he could be, and maybe there isn’t ever ‘the one’ and why that’s okay.
We pause to admire azalea blossoms, their petals fluttering like Easter dresses. We pass the gazebo and enter the sanctuary of the woods.
I hear Momma’s words from her letter spoken in my head:
When I married your father, I knew it would not just be until ‘death do us part,’ but it would be a marriage that would last forever, whether in this world or the next. There are loves like that. Happy-ever-after isn’t relegated to storybooks or fairy tales. The great poets wrote of remarkable love because they experienced such love. Love abounds.
How could she write that knowing what she did, that she didn’t have long, that her happy-ever-after would last lessthan ten years? My throat tightens as I think about the ripe dreams, full and round with promise and bursting with juicy expectations, when my mother and father eloped. Only a few years later, life spoiled those dreams with her diagnosis. She would never see Elle, Charlie, or me grow up. She would never celebrate a silver, much less a golden, wedding anniversary with Dad. She would never rock on her front porch and hear grandchildren’s laughter.
I press my fingers into the corners of my eyes and banish all tears.
When Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote ‘How Do I Love Thee?’ she knew a great love, a love to last all eternity, not one of convenience or simply companionship. True love for her was an all-consuming passion that eclipsed all other desires.
I didn’t feel that with Derek.
Perhaps my disbelief in happy-ever-after disqualifies me from surrendering to true love.
If there isn’t that kind of ending, then I need a plan, a way to move forward. My footsteps become more determined and decisive as my thoughts fixate not only on a plan, but ontheplan.
I start with the basics, the necessities of today that determine tomorrow: returning presents, writing thank-you notes and explanations, and falling back into my regular life. I have plenty of clients and upcoming events. I have activities… well, nothing that didn’t involve Derek, but I’ll find some. I’ll volunteer. I’ll hang out more with my sisters. I’ll see friends whom I haven’t seen since I became engaged, friends Derek didn’t particularly like. Or maybe they didn’t like him. Well, now I’ll have time for them. And I’ll work hard to repay my father for all he spent on the wedding. It can be done. I’ll do it.
