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My knees waver and I sit down abruptly, thankful for the stool behind me. That could’ve been messy.
Winnie Emberly, daughter of the Attorney General, found dead from having split her head open on the floor after panicking over her phone.
Though maybe sudden death would be better.
This is physically, emotionally, and spiritually painful.
As my phone reconnects and the messages fly in like bullets, I genuinely consider tossing it into the nearby woods and tuning out the world again.
Maybe I’ll find some pliers.
Pay my penance that way.
Give the universe its pound of flesh if that’s the cost of a little freedom.
Instead of looking at the texts and nonstop app messages my phone keeps launching at my face, I pull up Instagram. Yes, it has plenty of its notifications flooding in, too, threatening to drown me.
Gobs of people have tagged me, laughing about the oh-so-hilarious fact I fled my own wedding and left my young, handsome groom stranded like a very rich beached seal.
Yes, it’s all true.
But when you consider the fact that I never wanted to get married, and that on the morning of the big day, Holden messaged me about dropping my tiara—the only part of the wedding I liked—you can hardly blame me.
I rest my forehead on my arms, hunched over, as if making myself smaller might encourage the universe to stop flinging crap my way.
The tiara was beautiful.
My grandmother gave it to me and it was this gorgeous silver thing, elegant and lovely with a large gleaming bee in the center. Not obnoxious, just pure class, but Holden decided he didn’t want any bees in his wedding.
Let that sink in.
Hiswedding.
Not ours.
Never mind the fact that the tiara was the only thing about the stupid wedding that actually mattered to me.
Ironically, it wound up being the shot to the face I needed to remember he never cared about me in the slightest.
This was an arranged marriage, and nothing more. Definitely not the wacky rom-com kind with a happy waiting at the end.
Ugh.
My eyes pinch shut, but I can feel the tears coming.
Bad memories rush back, burning my mind.
The way Mom tried to stop me, practically clinging to me as I headed for the door, even if she didn’t know where I was going.
That first hit of sweet relief when I was free, followed by the chest-crushing panic that still hasn’t stopped choking me.
I’d stopped at a gas station on the outskirts of Springfield to book this place, last-minute, and drove the rest of the way like crazy.
How Dad even found me is a mystery.
No one knew where I was going, considering I came up with Kansas City as my destination on the fly. Not even Lyssie, my bestie.
He shouldn’t have been able to find me so quickly. I don’t care if his lofty connections could outshine a bloodhound in tracking.