Page 6 of The Accidental Honeymoon

“Do you take Jay to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the officiant asks her, his voice tentative.

All eyes are on the bride, but mine drift to Jay. He’s still infuriatingly relaxed, like he’s waiting in line for a latte. How can he be so cool about this? Maybe he really doesn’t care. Maybe he’s just going through the motions, playing his part in the farce.

The bride opens her mouth, closes it, then looks out atthe sea of faces. I follow her gaze and spot a photographer at the ready, lens poised like a sniper’s rifle. He’s not even trying to be discreet. This whole thing is a spectacle, and everyone watching knows it. It’s the kind of drama that makes for juicy blog posts and social media fodder.

“I—” she starts, then falters. The room seems to lean in, hungry for her next word.

My hands are clammy, my pulse a jackhammer in my ears. I’m not sure who I’m rooting for. Them? Me? The cake?

And then, nothing. The silence stretches like taffy, taut and sticky, as the ceremony teeters on the edge of something. But the bride doesn’t say another word, and the officiant shuffles his notes like he’s not sure what to do next. Everyone waits. So do I.

The bride's face morphs, her red lips twisting into something sharp and brittle.Oh no. I know that look. It's the expression of someone teetering on the edge, about to take a swan dive into the deep end of bad decisions.

Blake takes a step back from the altar. The movement is small, but it ripples through the crowd like a stone tossed into a pond. She looks at the groom, then at the officiant, then at the doors. My breath catches.

She's going to run.

And then… shedoes.

Blake hikes up her dress and bolts off the stage, a white blur of taffeta and terror. She disappears for a moment. But when she reappears, she’s still dead set on escaping.

The venue is stunned into silence, as if someone has hit the mute button on a very expensive remote control. All eyes track her as she sprints for the exit, wobbling on her impractical heels.

My mouth hangs open. I can't believe it. This kind ofthing only happens in movies where the jilted lover finds true happiness in the next scene. But here she is, the runaway bride, and here we are, the dumbstruck audience.

She makes a beeline for the back door of the venue. The doors open with a creak of protest. Then a moment later, they slam shut behind her, like a jail cell slamming shut.

For a moment, no one moves. No one speaks. It's as if the whole room is holding its breath. We’re all waiting for the director to yell "Cut!"

A rising tide of murmurs breaks the spell. Guests turn to each other, murmurs and whispers spreading like a brushfire. I catch snippets of conversation: "Can you believe?" and "I thought they were solid!" and "What about the cake?"

What about the cake?I want to shout.Eat it, for God's sake.

I sink back against the column, my legs suddenly jelly. The tension that's been winding me up all day unspools in a rush. Now I’m left slightly lightheaded and feeling hollow.

This was supposed to be a sure thing, a slam dunk. Now it's a question mark. Worse, it’s big, fat, frosting-covered X.

I scan the room and find the groom still at the altar. He hasn't moved an inch. His hands are out of his pockets now, hanging uselessly at his sides. He looks down the empty aisle, then up at the ceiling, then closes his eyes and exhales.

It's not quite a sigh. It's the slow, measured breath of someone trying to keep it together.

A pang of something, maybe sympathy, tweaks my chest.

The knot of people nearest the altar starts to loosen, and someone calls out to the groom. He opens his eyes and nods, but his expression is distant, like he's watching all this from another room. He steps down from the stage with the graceof a man walking on glass, each step looking like it pains him to take .

The guests are on their feet now, forming clusters of speculation and allegiance. I overhear more speculation. Debates about what just happened, and the occasional attempt to laugh off the awkwardness.

Jay stands in the center of a growing maelstrom, a lone palm tree in a hurricane. He straightens his tie, then loosens it, then straightens it again. The gestures are small, almost imperceptible, but they speak volumes. He’s trying to maintain his cool, his composure, but the cracks are starting to show.

“Thank you all for coming,” he says, his voice cutting through the din. It has the effect of a teacher clapping their hands in a noisy classroom. Conversations taper off, heads turn. “Please enjoy the refreshments.”

I linger by the door, watching as the guests shrug and disperse. Someone makes a beeline for the champagne; another checks their watch and sighs. No meal will be served. Certainly no cake will be eaten.

My eyes find the cake, still perfect and untouched. I imagine a hundred different scenarios where it gets saved, where someone takes a slice and posts a picture with a hashtag. All that exposure, all that potential, now slipping through my fingers like super-fine sugar.

I start packing the cupcakes back into their boxes. If nothing else, I can sell them at a steep discount in my little shop across the town square. Cursed Wedding Cupcakes, $1! I can see myself writing out the signage already.

It takes a while to re-pack the cupcakes, carefully refolding the cardboard cupcake holders and layering the sweet desserts in between. By the time I’m done, Jay stands alone, looking out over the room. There are only a few eventworkers left cleaning up. If any friends or family comforted Jay immediately after the disastrous event, I missed it while I was in the Cupcake Zone.

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