Page 6 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

The last thing I hear before I push out of the room and into the hallway is Dumbo smugly saying, “Told you it was diarrhea.”

CHAPTER 2

Amelia

“Your mother would be so proud.” Dad’s smile caves in at the corners, but he’s trying so hard to keep it together.

I wish he’d stop talking about Mom. At the rehearsal dinner last night, it was hard enough. Now, when I have a very strong urge to confess I’d like to call the whole thing off, I can’t take the thought of disappointing Mom. Or Dad.

WouldMom be proud?

Because from where I sit at a makeup table in the bride’s room, I’m not feeling so sure.

While Dad has missed any sign of my doubts—last night or today or over the past eight months while planning the wedding—Mom wouldn’t have. She’d have taken one look at me andknown.

The same way she knew the moment I walked in the door after the eighth grade boy-girl party where I had my first kiss. And just like then, she would have said, “Spill,” and then listened as I told her everything, supporting me no matter what.

With Dad … I’m not sure why, but I can’t be honest. Maybe because he’s such a fan of Drew and so excited about me getting married?

On paper, Drew is all the things I thought I wanted. Handsome, hardworking, and steady. No drama but also not boring, despite what my best friend, Morgan, said after meeting him the first time.

She says boring; I say dependable.

Plus, he got Dad’s hearty stamp of approval, which means more to me than anything else.

But … maybe it shouldn’t.

“Thanks, Daddy,” I say, patting his hand instead of voicing my whispered doubts. Because talking about them won’t bring Mom back. Or change anything. It’s not like I’m going to cancel the wedding because of my so-cold-they’re-frostbitten feet.

Though canceling actually sounds really nice…

I swear, thinking about making Mom proud has me actually considering the words. What if I told my dad I wasn’t sure? Would he try to convince me it’s just nerves?

Or would he ask why and open the door for a real conversation about why this feels like impending doom rather than the start of a happily ever after?

I’m exhausted from stamping out my feelings of disquiet like so many tiny fires. The doubts have twined with guilt over having doubts, and I’ve felt a big ball of ick in my stomach for a long while now.

A lot of people might say trust your gut. But usually when I think my gut is saying something, it’s just hunger.

Before I can dredge up the courage to ask Dad how he knewhewas sure about marrying Mom, he pulls something from his pocket.

“I know you already have something blue, but here’s one more. It was your mother’s.”

He places a silver ring in my palm. I turn it over in my hand, swallowing down my words and a huge lump that’s lodged in my throat. I don’t remember ever seeing this ring, a simple design with a striking blue stone. It’s dark and rich, threaded with a lighter color, almost like the night sky.

“Lapis Lazuli,” Dad says, his voice gruff. “With, uh, pyrite mixed in. That’s why it’s colored like that. She called it her wish-upon-a-star ring.”

I love it. The ring, the name—even the stone, which makes me think ofThe Vampire Diaries. I almost crack a joke about being able to walk in the sunlight now, but Dad scoffed at the show and any other teen drama I used to love. He’s more of a Sports Center and game show kind of guy. Also, discussing vampires on your wedding day is probably bad luck.

“Does it fit?” Dad asks.

I slide the ring onto the pinky of my right hand. It’s an almost perfect fit, though I bet Mom wore it on a different finger. She was petite, barely above five feet. Dad always called her his pocket Patti. I’m only average height, but even in eighth grade, the year Mom died, I was two inches taller than her.

My nose stings, and I fight back tears. Again.

I really wish Dad had kept the ring for another occasion. It could have been a present for high school or college graduation. A random birthday. National Hug Your Daughter Day.

But on this day, my wedding day, the sentimental gift only ratchets up my guilt and the ugly bramble of emotions choking out the light.

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