Page 13 of The Holiday Grump
“You think you can change the subject on me?” She gave me a reproachful smile.
My shoulders slumped. Ah, yes. My life story. There was no point trying to dodge it, or even to polish the ugly truth. Felicity seemed like someone who’d see straight through me.
“I ran away from my wedding and worked on cruise ships for a year. And now I’m back, but I can’t return to Bangor. I haven’t exactly tied up loose ends.” I swallowed hard.
She cocked her head. “You think if you stay away long enough, everyone will forget?”
Her words hit me hard, mostly because she was right. That’s exactly what I’d been secretly hoping—reaching some magical threshold of time, after which my sins would expire, and no one would even remember.
But of course they remembered. I’d humiliated the most powerful family in Bangor. Updates from Holly and Mom had given me glimpses: how they’d eaten the wedding cake over two weeks (Holly swore she gained two pounds because of me) and that they’d sold the floral centerpieces (my family’s contribution) on eBay. But just because my family had stopped talking about it didn’t mean the rest of the town had.
And they didn’t know where I was, which probably made the gossip even juicier.
“I don’t know if time will fix it,” I admitted. “And I don’t know how much time it would take. But I’m scared to go back. My ex-fiancé’s family is influential. If Spencer finds out I’m here…” I shuddered.
Felicity’s eyes widened. “Spencer? Spencer Alford? You’re the Missing Runaway Bride?”
Cold dread seized me. “Missing Runaway Bride?”
She whipped out her phone, pulled up an article, and shoved it at me.
Young Bride Cracks Under Pressure—Whereis Spencer’s Fiancée?
My heart thumpedas I scanned the article. It was an interview with Spencer, painting him as the long-suffering fiancé who still held a candle for me.
“I’m so worried about her, I can’t sleep. I want my girl home, no matter what,”a pull-quote declared.
Worried about me?
I read on, and there it was, hidden between the lines: I’d lost my mind.
He never said it outright, of course. It was dressed up as care and concern. He talked about stressors. Signs he’d missed. How he was disappointed in himself for failing to get me the “help I needed.”
I checked the date. The article had been published five days ago.
I shivered.
“Has everyone seen this?” My voice cracked.
Felicity frowned, probably trying to figure out what I meant byeveryone. “It’s online. But maybe it’ll blow over.”
“Please don’t tell anyone.” My voice rose to a plea. “Please.”
“I won’t.” She scrolled through the article. “It only mentions your first name a couple of times. There are no photos of you.”
Instead, there were plenty of photos of him. Spencer in front of an antique fireplace. Spencer holding a framed photo of me, the camera focused on his hands instead of my face. Relief trickled in. As long as no one connected me to the story, I was safe.
“So… I get the feeling this is bullshit,” Felicity said, peering at me, her finger pointed at the article on the screen.
My stomach knotted. “It’s true I was engaged to him. And that I ran off without saying where. I couldn’t risk him finding me. But the rest…” I shook my head. “I was a project for him and his family. They coached me to be like them, but I’m uncoachable. I never lived up to their expectations. He always said it was fine and that I didn’t need to apologize.”
Felicity blinked. “Apologize for what?”
“Just… all the wrong things I said. When I made someone uncomfortable or missed a social cue. I do that.”
It was better she knew. If I could wear a sign around my neck that saidI will say the wrong thing, please forgive me, I would.
Felicity harrumphed. “They sound like a bag of pious dicks.”
