It’s a killer day for a wedding.
The temperature is warm but not too warm. The sky, a brilliant, cloudless blue, sparkles off the waves. The seagulls’ cries are musical, and the air is fragrant with salt and the sweet flowers that grow wild on the dunes. A helicopter, heading in from the city, glides over the water, bringing in guests who are too important to wait on the clogged highways. Maybe these are guests for this event. Your event.
You stand in the grand room that overlooks the beach. This room alone is bigger than any house you’ve ever lived in. It’s the length of a bowling alley, with a marble fireplace and leather furniture so soft you question how it could have come from cowhide. You are sitting in a club chair like a queen. A makeup artist leans over you, putting the final touches on your lips and cheeks. When she’s finished, she spins you around, and you look at yourself in the large antique mirror against the wall. What you see doesn’t look like you anymore but like a pretty, perky princess about to be feted. You’re going to be the toast of this seaside hamlet.
“Perfect,” the makeup artist says, adding a final puff to your cheeks. She hums a few bars from a familiar song. In seconds, you realize why you know it: it’s Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone.” Not what you need today. That song makes you think of the not-so-distant past. When things were so . . . different.
The makeup artist comes into your field of view again. Her eyes dance up and down your figure, which is swathed in a lacy white dress. You think it makes you look like a doily, but it was your soon-to-be husband’s grandmother’s dress, and he likes to honor tradition.
Your soon-to-be husband. You feel a groundswell beneath you.
“Hun?”
The makeup artist’s face is close to yours now, her perfectly shaped brows knit with concern. “You’ve lost all that beautiful color I just brushed on you,” she says. “You all right?”
“I bet it’s nerves!”
Someone new has burst into the room, and you turn. A woman walks in wearing a tight tweed suit that likely cost a fortune—and who wears tweed at this time of year? She smells like she’s dumped the whole bottle of floral perfume on her pulse points. This is for sure one of your fiancé’s aunts. You’ve met so many of them so far; all of them pluck and preen you like you’re a prized animal in a fair. This one—Katherine? Matilda?—stands with her arms crossed and a know-it-all look on her face.
“I’d be nervous, too,” she says. “You’ve got a lot to live up to, dear.”
“Yeah, but she’s ready.” The makeup artist gives you a nudge. “Right?”
You feel their expectant stares. They’re waiting for you to say something. So you muster a smile. You need to be ready. To say your betrothed is a good catch is an understatement. But you’ve got this.
You hope.
The aunt comes closer, looking at you worriedly. “You do look like you need a stiff drink, dear.”
“She even old enough?” Another woman chuckles.
“I’ll get you some wine,” the makeup artist says, turning. “Don’t worry. Every bride is nervous before the big moment.”
The big moment. Your gaze slides to the patio door. “Maybe I’ll just step outside? Feeling a little stuffy.” You’re out before they can even reply.
The sliding door leads into a small, open area that overlooks the water and provides a direct walkway down to the sand. Your heels click on the patio stones. You stare out at the waves, trying to find a rhythm to your breathing.
The tide is far out. A few towels still dot the beach; on them lie diehard sun worshippers reluctant to bid goodbye to the day. Down the shore are a battalion of pink cabanas; they belong to the exclusive beach club you’ve passed by your whole life but never had the privilege of stepping inside. Your fiancé is a member; soon enough, if you wish, you can be, too. It should be an exciting prospect.
But you know why it isn’t.
To your right is the shiny new pier built just last year; it replaced the old, crumbling one that had been there for decades. You’d heard those on this side of town—the side with money—complained about the
old pier, calling it an eyesore, so down it went. But you miss the old structure. So many of your memories are tied to it: standing far out on its planks, licking a perfect strawberry ice cream cone. Playing handheld video games on its steps with your friends from school. Sitting on one of its benches, as close as you could to him, that other boy, your heart throwing off sparks, your mind somersaulting with glee. If you stare hard enough at this new pier, you can almost see the old one superimposed on top of it like a ghost. You can almost see that beautiful boy coming toward you, too, smiling, stretching out his arms.
“There’s my girl,” you can almost hear him say. “You waited for me.”
Stop thinking about him, you scold. It’s going to ruin you.
You look over your shoulder. Your thoughts feel too naked, your desires too exposed. It’s wrong to be thinking of the other boy now, and you know it. There’s a reason he isn’t here right now. Promises were broken. He forgot about you.
But you can’t stop thinking of him. Against your better judgment, you reach into your clutch and pull out his picture. Your heart squeezes. You think of the clandestine phone call you made to his parents’ house this morning. There you were, scrunched into that tiny back hall, your ears perked
for intruders. You were using the cell phone your soon-to-be husband purchased for you—you’d never had one before. It felt wrong, using this new device to call him.
But you had to. You just wanted to know.
You’re glad no one answered, though, and after you hung up, you figured out how to erase the number from the call log. You shouldn’t toy with this new life. You definitely shouldn’t go back on your word to your almost-husband.
You shrug your shoulders, tuck the photo back in your purse, and turn to go inside. It’s time. Time to grow up. Time to let go. Time to forget your past and your winsome, blue-flame-hot first love. True, pure, timeless love, like what you had—it isn’t realistic. This new path? It’s a good one. A safe one. It will set you up for life.
But as you reach for the knob, you sense footsteps on the wooden walkway. You freeze just as a hand slithers around your waist. You’re pulled backward, your feet lifting off the ground, your lungs suddenly crushed flat. You try to scream, but a hand presses over your mouth.
“Shh,” a voice hisses in your ear. “You’ve been a bad girl.”
And then you see nothing at all.
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