Page 6 of Resisting my Roommate

The mere idea has my throat closing up in frustration, but I quickly push it down, especially as the song changes to yetanother appropriate breakup song —“Flowers” by Miley Cyrus. I’m so immersed in the song, I barely pay attention to anything else.

Until I register the bleep of a siren.

I look into the rearview mirror, dread tightening my stomach when I see flashing lights behind me. Was I speeding? Did I blow through a stop sign?

I can’t be sure of anything right now.

Putting my blinker on, I pull off the main road of what looks like a historic downtown area, certain this day can’t get any worse.

But as I come to a stop on a side street and lower the volume of my music, I learn just how wrong I am.

Again.

Instead of a cop casually strolling up to the car and asking for my license and registration, he jumps out of his cruiser, demanding I place my hands on the steering wheel.

Too confused to do anything else, I follow his command. My heart pounds as I watch him cautiously move toward my SUV through the side mirror.

When he draws near and peeks into the car, his brow furrows, obviously surprised to find a woman wearing a wedding dress.

While I’m sure he’s encountered his fair share of strange situations in his line of work, I doubt he’s ever pulled over a runaway bride.

Or maybe he has.

“How can I help you, Officer?” I tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

He looks to be in his thirties, his attractive face clean shaven, his brown hair well-groomed with a few tattoos peeking out from the arms of his shirt.

“I’m Sergeant Chapman of the county sheriff’s department,” he states in an authoritative voice. “Can I please see your license and registration?”

“Of course.”I’m about to reach for my bag, but hesitate. “Can I take my hands off the steering wheel?”

He gives a curt nod, and I rummage through my bag, grateful I had the wherewithal to grab it in my mad dash to escape my wedding. After retrieving the registration from the glove box, I hand both to the officer.

“I didn’t mean to speed. If Iwasspeeding. This is probably more information than you want, but if you can’t tell, I’ve had a pretty rough day,” I ramble nervously, unable to stop the word vomit from spilling out of my mouth.

“I walked in on my fiancé in a compromising position with my best friend ten minutes before we were supposed to get married. Me and my fiancé. Not me and my best friend. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I add quickly, which earns me a small quirk of his lips. “Anyway, I made a run for it. Since then, I’ve sort of been blasting breakup songs to help me feel better about this entire fucked up — I mean, messed up situation.”

He looks between me and my license, probably trying to make sure it’s me, considering my face is now covered with more makeup than I’ve ever worn and my hair is styled in an intricate updo.

“I didn’t pull you over for speeding,” he finally announces.

My brows knit together. “Did I run a red light or stop sign?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“A few hours ago, this car was reported stolen.”

My eyes widen as my heart drops to the pit of my stomach. “S-stolen?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I… There must be some mistake. My fiancé bought me this car last year.” My expression falls. “Or, I suppose,ex-fiancé now.”

A flash of something genuine flickers in his eyes before he shifts his attention to the car registration. “His name is Carson Dabney?”

“Yes. Which proves this car isn’t stolen.”

---