Page 7 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

“Thank you. This will remind me of her every day,” I tell him. Not that I need the ring as a reminder.

“I wish she were here.” His normally strong voice is a whisper.

“Me too,” I say.

Because if she were here, she would find a way to fix this. To draw out the words I can’t seem to voice.

She wouldn’t let me walk down that aisle—or any aisle—until I wassure.

“You’re going to be so happy. Just like we were. Marrying your mother young was the best decision I ever made. You never know how much time you’ll have, so?—”

“Enjoy every moment,” I finish. Dad’s philosophy, one he adopted after losing Mom, is pretty much branded into me.

Once again, I try to draw on my own strength to speak. Now, I’ve got Mom’s ring like a talisman. I almost tell him I’m scared. I’m unsure. I think this might be a mistake.

But then I see Dad’s wide smile, his crinkled eyes. The head he shaved just for the wedding when I kept insisting it would be better than the wispy combover he’s been rocking for years.

My words evaporate as the door opens, and my cousin, Becky, walks in. There’s a flash of dark hair in a black tux in the hallway that looks an awful lot like Drew, but I know he’s with the guys in their room on the other side of the church. Probably just another guest.

Still—my unsettled feeling grows.

“Hey,” Becky says, standing by the door uncertainly.

Dad gives my shoulder a last squeeze. “See you in a few minutes?”

I nod, then watch as he gives Becky a quick kiss on the cheek. Her smile is thin, and she glances down as he whispers something to her. Then he ducks out of the room and I draw in a deep breath, the pressure on my chest easing slightly.

“You look beautiful.” Becky sounds wistful, her voice a little wobbly. “Are you doing okay?”

The pressure snaps right back like it was only bungeed away.

“Just feeling the normal nervousness,” I say, meeting Becky’s eyes in the mirror. “Itisnormal, right?”

“I wouldn’t know.” For a moment, she sounds bitter. But then she smiles too brightly and says, “But yes—totally normal!”

Grabbing a makeup brush, Becky swipes another layer of bronzer on her cheeks. She’s going to look like an Oompa Loompa if she doesn’t stop. Her eyes are red. Has she been crying?

I frown. What’s there for her to cry aboutbeforethe ceremony? Maybe she’s also thinking of her mom, who died a few years before mine. Her dad and my dad supported each other through their losses, though Becky and I have never been close.

That bond between our dads is why Becky wears the official maid of honor title. It’s a thing they decided for us—that we’d be involved in each other’s weddings this way, even if we aren’t really in each other’s lives.

It’s definitely a title only thing. Becky was barely present during the wedding planning and hasn’t even been around most of the morning today. Morgan effectively took over all the big duties, which I’m grateful for. I’d much rather have my best friend helping than Becky.

Maybe if we were closer, I’d ask my cousin if she’s okay. But right now, my only job is to warm up my cold feet, kick my nerves to the curb, and get my lace-underwear-clad butt out the door.

“Where’s Morgan?” I ask, touching the stone on mom’s ring.

Becky shrugs. “No idea.”

My best friend and cousin can’t stand each other, which has made all of this more fun with a capital NOPE—it’s not fun when your bestie and maid of honor fight like feral cats.

“I thought you were all taking last-minute pictures,” I say, and Becky’s gaze slips away from mine.

“We were. I had to go to the bathroom. They’re probably just finishing up,” she says, still going at it with the bronzer.

I stand from the dressing table and walk to the full-length mirror, doing a final assessment. My foundation is even, covering my freckles; my lips are painted a Taylor Swift red; and my eyes are lined without me looking like a raccoon. My hair is halfway pinned up with natural curls spilling over my shoulders.

Perfect. It’s all … perfect.

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