Page 51 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

W hen I arrive, the bridal suite buzzes with activity and nervous energy. I greet Marianne, the bride, with a Southern hug, being careful not to get too close and wrinkle her dress or smear her makeup. “You look beautiful.”

As every bride should. She looks as polished as a penny, with a professional makeup artist applying the final touches and brushing away any minor flaws. A hairdresser fusses over each strand of hair, while a photographer captures every expression.

“How are you?” Marianne asks, a flicker of concern crossing her brow. Before I can answer, she glances at the photographer. “Erase that photo, please.” She looks at the makeup artist. “Did I cause a crinkle?”

The makeup artist wisely flicks a brush between Marianne’s brows.

Marianne clasps my hand. “I didn’t know if you’d come. I hope you aren’t embarrassed or humiliated to see Derek today.”

I force a smile. “I’m happy to be here.”

The photographer gestures for Marianne to raise her chin slightly. She complies.

“I was simply devastated by what happened at your wedding.” She leans toward me, her gaze intense. “There’s not going to be any drama today, is there?”

The room falls silent. Everyone bustling around freezes. They wait and watch.

“Derek and I drove here together. We’re here to support you and Trevor,” I assure her.

Relief spreads across Marianne’s face.

The room reverts to the frenzied swirl of pre-wedding activities. Dresses twirl, hairspray fills the air, and tissues blot lipstick.

Someone hands out bouquets of pink peonies to each bridesmaid.

There are fourteen. Yes, fourteen. It’s not excessive or anything, just your typical Southern wedding.

Many of the bridesmaids are sorority sisters from the bride’s college days, but at least four of us are business associates, and we’re here for the joyful, we hope, ride.

“Well, then,” Marianne chirps, “let’s get this show on the road.”

Milling around the church foyer, I wait for my cue to walk down the aisle. A fifteen-piece orchestra plays She , a song made famous by Elvis Costello, and it drifts out the doorway as another bridesmaid begins her slow march up the aisle with a groomsman. The wedding proceeds without a hitch.

Derek flirts with a voluptuous bridesmaid on the other side of the foyer. Is he trying to make me jealous? It isn’t working.

Marianne hooks her arm through her father’s. He looks stunned by the growing crowd awaiting them in the sanctuary, or perhaps he saw the enormous bill.

“You’re next.” The wedding coordinator, Nadine, approaches me. She's skilled at her job but blunt in her tone. “Where’s your groomsman?”

“Over there.” I wave toward Derek.

“I’ll get him.” She strides toward him. “You there. Get to your place.”

“In a minute,” Derek says dismissively.

“No, sirree! Right now.” Nadine does not tolerate delays. “We’re on a schedule.”

I move closer to the doorway, positioning myself and noting the slow steps of the bridesmaid and groomsman in front of me.

Nadine prods Derek in my direction. “You missed the rehearsal,” she says to me. “When the couple ahead of you reaches the pew with the pink and burgundy flowers, it’s your turn to go.”

“Oh no!” Marianne cries out behind me. “Oh, wait! I have to pee. Right now.”

“Nervous bladder,” Nadine mutters under her breath. She sighs and hurries to the rescue. “I asked you earlier.”

“I didn’t have to go then.”

The bride and the coordinator rush to the nearest restroom, which turns out to be the men's. However, it' s an emergency.

Derek takes my arm. “Don’t embarrass me.”

“All we have to do is walk to the front,” I explain. “And part ways. I’ll go left. You go right.” The couple ahead of us reaches the designated pew, and I step forward. “Let’s go.”

Derek drags his feet. “I’ll lead.”

“This isn’t a dance.”

But he stands as stiff as a statue until I relent. Then he steps out, taking long strides, and I double-step, teetering on my heels as I catch up.

We’re halfway to the altar, and I see Trevor waiting impatiently for his bride. He’s swaying from side to side, nerves getting the better of him.

A commotion erupts behind us. A door slams shut. A gasp echoes through the entry hall, filtering into the sanctuary.

“Hold on there, sir!” Nadine’s voice cuts through the sanctuary.

Derek glances behind us, but I tug on his arm. Unexpected things happen at a wedding, and the general rule is to keep everything moving.

Running footsteps make me hesitate. Someone rushes past us, bumping into Derek. It’s a man wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. He stops and turns back. It’s Luke.

The music comes to a screeching stop.

Luke’s face is red and sweaty, as if he’s run all ninety miles from Storybrook to Atlanta. Beneath the flannel shirt is a faded, dirt-smudged T-shirt. Has he been working in his garden? I have the strangest urge to ask what he’s planting.

But Derek speaks first. “Luke, what are you doing?”

“Libby.” Out of breath, Luke manages to say, “I can’t let you go through with this.” His blue eyes peer deep into my soul and take my breath away.

That look is what I imagined Derek would have when I walked down the aisle—the look I never saw.

Not even when I showed up in my wedding dress at the groom’s cottage to tell him the wedding was off.

Before he knew what I was there for, all he could do was rearrange a lock of my hair that had slipped out of a bobby pin.

But that look I craved? Nope. Not even an inkling.

But now, Luke looks at me in a way I've never dreamed possible. It feels like an intimate embrace, drawing me into him, seeing me, the real me, and cherishing me.

“You can’t marry him, Libby," Luke says. "You know you don’t love him.”

“Luke—” I sputter.

He cuts me off. “This isn’t about me. I want you to be happy. And you weren’t happy with Derek, doing what he wanted and never pursuing your dreams.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Derek demands.

Luke takes my hand, which holds the dainty bouquet.

“Libby, I wasn’t going to say this, but I love you.

I do. I didn’t want to. God knows I tried not to.

I didn’t want to betray my best friend. And you make the worst coffee imaginable, but I can’t help myself.

I love you. I don’t care if it costs me my store or if Derek pulls his loan and shuts us down out of spite.

I. Don’t. Care. You’re all that matters to me.

” He moves closer. “Before you say your vows, I thought you should know.”

“Luke!” Derek seethes.

“Luke,” I keep my voice as low as I can, “you don’t understand?—”

“You’re a fool,” Derek interrupts. “This is unbelievable.”

I hold Luke’s desperate gaze as I break the news to him. “This is not my wedding.”

The earnestness in Luke’s face goes slack.

Maybe it’s the lighting in the sanctuary or his despondency, but how could he not see that I’m wearing gray and not white?

Luke glances from Derek to me before shifting his gaze to take in the seven hundred guests.

Fourteen hundred eyes are watching. That doesn’t even account for the orchestra and wedding party already positioned at the front of the sanctuary.

All remain frozen, leaning forward to catch every single word spoken.

Guests stand behind Luke, rising on tiptoe to catch a glimpse.

Some jump onto the pews for a better view.

“I’m not marrying her,” Derek says in a tone that conveys I’m the last person he would ever consider marrying. Then he shoves Luke. Hard.

Stumbling backward, Luke’s gaze shifts to me, then veers as footsteps approach.

Marianne stumbles toward us, her perfectly lip-glossed mouth wide open. Nadine runs behind, fluffing out the bride’s veil.

It feels as if time stands still.

My breath catches in my chest, and my heart pounds. A roaring sound fills my ears. He thought I was marrying Derek and drove all this way to stop the wedding.

I’m still processing Luke’s declaration. He loves me? He loves me. He loves me!

The groom snaps out of his stupor and bounds toward us. “What is going on?”

Luke raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry, man. I thought?—”

But the groom, all hyped on caffeine and adrenaline, takes a swing.

Luke ducks just in time.

But the groom’s fist sails over Luke and lands squarely on Derek’s jaw.

Derek staggers, crashing into a pew and smashing the peonies and roses.

A scream arcs toward the sanctuary’s beamed ceiling. Gasps reverberate around us.

Luke yanks me sideways, moving me to safety and shielding me with his body.

The groom bounces on his toes, as if to say, " Come on, who’s next?”

“It’s cool, man.” Luke presses a hand against his own chest. “All my fault.”

But Trevor takes another shot at Luke, aiming directly for his nose. Luke dodges to the right. The punch sends Trevor stumbling forward, and Luke seizes Trevor’s wrist, yanking it behind his back. Trevor finds himself suddenly caught in a wrestling hold and at Luke’s mercy.

“Take a breath,” Luke says from behind Trevor. He points the groom toward Marianne, who has her hands covering her mouth in shock. “See your bride? I made a mistake. She’s your bride…”

“Marianne,” I supply.

“Marianne,” Luke says with a nod toward the bride, “wants to marry you. She can’t wait. She doesn’t even know me. So, I apologize. Let’s move on with your wedding. You don’t want to keep your beautiful bride waiting, do you?”

Unable to escape from Luke’s grip, Trevor nods.

“All right then!” Luke claps the groom on the shoulder and pushes him toward the altar. “Get on up there and say, ‘I do.’”

Trevor stumbles forward, rubbing his shoulder and wrist. He glances at Luke once but chooses to take his place and fulfill his vows.

“You okay, man?” Luke asks Derek as he helps him off the floor.

Derek shrugs off Luke’s offer and stalks away from us. He joins the waiting, wide-eyed wedding party at the front.

Luke looks to the orchestra. “Carry on, maestro.”

The conductor waves his magic wand, and the music starts again, the stringed instruments underscoring the tension in the sanctuary.

Luke turns to look at me. “You okay, Libby?”

Words fail me. All I can do is stand there in disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” he says so softly that I’m unsure if I heard him correctly. “Please forgive me.”

He waits a few seconds for a reply, but I can’t speak. Is this a nightmare or a dream? Luke thought I was marrying Derek? And he loves me?

A shadow of grief passes over Luke’s face before he retraces his steps up the aisle, past the bride and her father, and out the front doors.

Unable to move or even process what happened, I glance around at everyone staring at me, watching, speculating.

Then my gaze lands on Nadine, who frantically waves me on.

With numb feet, I shuffle to the front, up three steps, and take my place among the bridesmaids.

Everyone glares at me, including the slack-jawed minister.

Feeling my face burn with embarrassment, I force a calm, all’s-well smile on my stiff face, as I’ve done a few times during a wedding disaster, though never one this disastrous.

I focus on the bride clinging to her father’s arm.

She glares at me as if what happened is my fault.

But I didn’t plan it! She moves slowly up the aisle, and the guests, who aren’t already standing, remember their role in this ancient rite and rise in her honor.

Recognizing she’s now the center of attention, she smiles.

The wedding marches on like nothing happened, yet my heart pounds in my chest.

“Who gives the bride in holy matrimony?” the minister asks.

“Huh?” The bride’s father looks confused. “I, uh… right. Sure. I do.”

All I can think about is Luke.

The look on his face.

The desperation reflected in his eyes.

The panic in his voice.

That I might be marrying Derek after all this last week.

And finally, his confession: he loves me.

But when did he realize that? And why didn’t he say so earlier? Or did he?

After all, just as my father expressed his love for me throughout my life by helping and guiding me, Luke has been there for me over the past week. Yes, he tried to rekindle my interest in Derek. But when Luke understood my true feelings, he dropped the facade and continued to support me.

Then, it hits me. I should have said, I love you, Luke!

But I didn’t. I just stood there, silent and in shock. What must Luke think? That I don’t care? That I don’t love him?

My throat emits a strangled sound as I hold back an eruption of tears.

The maid of honor turns to look at me.

Grief washes over me like ice-cold water. I can’t catch my breath. I bend over as wave after wave crashes over me. I’ve lost Luke. The moment when I should have spoken is gone. And he’s out of my life.

Suddenly, my face feels wet. Fat tears drop onto the gray silk dress. I choke back sobs, yet the tears keep flowing.

The wedding party swivels to glare at me. The minister stops speaking. The guests stare at me.

“Libby,” Derek hisses at me from the groom’s side. “Stop it.”

As if I could! I need to get out of here. I must find Luke.

Last week, I would have forced myself to wait, suppressed every tear, and kept everything in good order and at the right time. But I can no longer do that. When your heart tells you to do something, you must move. And move quickly.

I stumble down the stairs and manage to say, “I’m sorry.”

Then I dash up the center aisle, leaving my bouquet on the runner. That makes it the second wedding I’ve fled in the past week. It must be a world record.