1
PEYTON
Being a runaway bride is terribly inconvenient. Nothing romantic or momentous like in the movies. No handsome ex-boyfriend whisked me away from the altar, begging me to choose him.
No, I did this to myself.
Turns out the hardest part of running away from your wedding isn’t making the decision, but doing it in a dress designed to prevent escape.
The bustier of my wedding gown must’ve been engineered by someone who studied medieval torture devices rather than fashion. The boning digs into my sides, turning every breath into a struggle. My lower half fares no better with the skirt smothering me in an avalanche of fabric that wraps around my ankles like tentacles and turns each step into a potential face-plant. And the tattered train drags behind me, collecting street grit like a filthy mop that gains weight the longer I walk.
Why did I let Matt’s mom convince me that more is more and let her pay ten thousand dollars for me to slowly suffocate in silk?
Each step hurts. The stilettos that seemed a good idea in a plushly carpeted bridal boutique send a fresh bolt of agony from my mangled toes up to my scraped heels every time my feet hit the ground.
The early evening air nips at my bare shoulders. I wrap my arms around myself as I shiver on the sidewalk of a random town somewhere on the Lake of the Ozarks, where the bus line ended. The early October weather that was supposed to be atmospheric and romantic in my fall wedding fantasies is just plain cold.
“It’ll be magical,” the wedding planner had said. “Think of the foliage in the photos.” No one mentioned I might end up freezing to death on the shore of a podunk small town if I bolted. Not that I’d planned to bolt.
The wind whips across my back, slicing through the delicate, impractical fabric of my gown. More goosebumps rise along my arms and shoulders.
How stupid to run away in just my dress, but I hadn’t picked out a bolero or a cape to go with it. I’d counted on the champagne to keep me warm. I thought that by evening, I’d either be tipsy enough not to feel the chill or flushed from dancing. Or both. Also the reception was indoors.
Should I turn the train into a shawl? I check behind me, but the fabric is more gray than white by now, and I’d rather not drape myself in street grime.
A bolt of lightning cracks across the sky. Behind me, dark clouds gather on the horizon, and the air smells of rain. Getting soaked would be the perfect cherry on my abandoned wedding cake: five layers of Madagascar-vanilla chiffon with champagne sponge, topped with sugar magnolias rimmed in edible gold.
My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
I should’ve stolen the damn cake before I left.
I blink the image away and hobble on as my teeth clatter. What was wrong with being a summer bride? In June, I could’ve fled barefoot on a beach somewhere, hair loose in the breeze instead of having my scalp turned into a pincushion for bobby pins.
But hey, nothing says “fresh start” like hypothermia.
Speaking of summer, this wind-beaten town must be a tourist hotspot in the warmer months. Perched right on the edge of the lake, its main street slopes up from the water, crisscrossed by string lights. The road is lined with stores, their picturesque windows marked by wooden signs hanging from wrought-iron brackets and decked in pumpkins, garlands of autumn leaves, pinecones, and other quaint fall décor. But despite the festive effort, the street is deserted now.
I pass a coffee shop, The Daily Grind, closed. A hair and beauty salon, Dye Hard, closed as well. A bookshop, Shelf Indulgent, its window brimming with colorful paperbacks I’d spend too much time admiring despite the shop also being closed. But I’m freezing off, and I need to keep moving. I pass a bakery, a general store, a florist, a hardware store—all closed. The only open place is a faraway pizzeria, A Slice of Heaven. The restaurant overlooks the harbor, where water laps against the docks, moored boats creak in their slips, and the wind looks twice as vicious. I should move more inland.
I stop in front of a clothing boutique, squinting through the darkened glass. A display of scarves and sweaters mocks me from the other side. I tug at the locked doorknob, as if my desperation might somehow override their business hours.
It doesn’t.
The wind picks up again, sending a shower of russet leaves spiraling down around me. A leaf lands in my hair, joining the wilting roses. I pick it out, crumpling it in my fingers.
Main Street is very charming until you realize nothing is open. Every window is dark. The entire town has tucked itself into bed early even if it’s Saturday night. They must’ve wanted to escape the wind that keeps howling off the water like it wants to personally escort me to Pneumonia.
Which begs the question: Where the fuck am I?
I fled the church with nothing but my phone. I have no money except what’s in my digital wallet. No jacket, no change of clothes, no plan whatsoever beyond the primal need to get out, get away.
Fingers clumsy from the cold, I unlock my screen. I put it on airplane mode before anyone could realize I was on the run. And it’s been like that since I climbed out the chapel’s stained-glass window, sprinted to the station, and jumped on the first bus out of town without checking the destination.
I needed to save battery and become unreachable. But I’m down to 15 percent anyway. A red bar of impending doom.
I hover my thumb over the airplane mode toggle. The moment I turn this off, reality will flood back in. I’ll be tossed into the world where I left Matt standing at the altar in front of two hundred guests. The world where my family is probably having a full-blown, Chardonnay-fueled meltdown.
But I have no choice. I need to figure out where I am, find somewhere to sleep while I can still use a virtual card to pay, and get warm. I can’t survive without the internet.