Page 8 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

Then why don’t Ifeelperfect?

The urge to run hits me again, and I eye the door leading to the parking lot. So tempting.

But Amelia Davenport Davis doesn’t quit things. Or people. Cold feet or nerves or whatever, Iwillwalk down the aisle very soon, recite my vows, kiss my groom, and become Amelia Davenport Tilly.

A.k.a. Milly Tilly.

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing, bending over to clutch my stomach.

“Careful!” Becky scolds. “You don’t want to rip the seams.”

My laughter trails off and I turn back to the mirror. “Do you think my dress is too tight?”

I couldn’t force myself to do the whole bride diet thing. But I told myself it was fine because I didn’t want to get married looking like some skeletal version of myself just because society seems to equate status with skinny. Years down the road, I wouldn’t want my kids to be like, “Who’s that lady?” when looking at my wedding photos. Drew fell for mewithmy curves, and he’ll marry me with my curves.

But no woman wants any part of her popping out of her wedding dress. Or to rip the seams during a bout of maniacal, possibly unhinged, laughter over a terrible last name.

“No! Sorry. You look fine. The dress is perfect,” Becky says quickly. Her words sound even less convincing than my own thoughts. “You’re perfect. Your marriage will be perfect.”

Perfect. That word again. After a lifetime of being followed by the idea of perfection—or maybe chasing after it?—I wouldn’t mind trading it in for a little messy reality.

Becky sniffs, turning away to wipe her eyes. Again, what’s with all the crying? I don’t know what’s up with her, butsomethingis off. I’m just about to ask when the door bursts open.

Becky jumps, but I’m used to the way Morgan enters every room—like a cyclone hopped up on speed. My best friend is soft and pretty like a peony, but is more of a Venus flytrap.

“The time is at hand,” Morgan says with a dramatic flourish and a grin.

The wedding coordinator follows Morgan into the room. With her pouf of white hair, the stopwatch around her neck, and the flask she must think we don’t see, the woman feels more like a caricature than an actual person.

I muster up a smile for Morgan. “Hey. I think I’m ready.”

My out-loud words are followed in quick succession by silent ones:I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. I can’t do this.

I press a hand to my throat.

Morgan tilts her head. “You good, Milly?”

With her lips painted an uncharacteristic light pink and her normally wild white-blond hair secured in an updo, Morgan looks like a muted version of herself. I promised her she can take her hair down and go back to her trademark red lips for the reception. For the ceremony, Morgan insisted I be the only one sporting red lipstick for maximum dramatic impact. It looks good, but also like we’re both playing dress-up.

“The time is actually past,” the church coordinator says. “We’re six minutes past schedule.”

The woman looks ready to take a ruler to my knuckles. Instead, she frowns down at the stopwatch around her neck. I briefly consider asking if I can have a sip from her flask. ThoughI’ve never particularly found much courage in the liquid variety. The effect alcohol has on me is less bravery and more stupidity. I’m a lightweight who goes from stone-cold sober to making impulsive decisions in a flash.

Morgan must see something in my expression—probably a pure shot of panic—because instantly, she’s across the room, elbowing Becky out of the way so she can peer more intently into my soul.

“Why do you look like you just got fired instead of like you’re about to get married?”

“She’s just nervous,” Becky says, fluttering around us like some kind of gnat.

Morgan swats her away without sparing her a glance. “What can I do?”

I appreciate that she doesn’t just try to reassure me or blow off how I’m feeling.

Instead of answering, since thereisno answer, I start spouting facts. “Google says that planning a wedding is one of the top most stress-inducing activities on the planet. I mean, aside from actual life-and-death stressors like safety and starvation.”

“What have I told you about googling things?” Morgan asks.

“That TikTok is the new Google?”

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