Page 95 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

A stray thought hits me right in the gut—Van would approve.

Of this prank, of me doing something I’ve never done. The thought has me holding my breath and using all my mental fortitude to force my tears right back into the ducts from whence they came. I willnotcry over Van.

Not again. Not this morning.

Dad takes another sip, and I swear he flinches, then frowns at his mug.

I want to have a silent celebration. And I also want to confess and make Dad a fresh pot.

Who even am I anymore? I swear, it’s like Van shook something loose in me. As to whether this is a good or bad thing, I’m undecided. For now, my whole life feels like I’m wearing a sweater that went into the dryer one too many times when it was supposed to be air dried. It’s familiar, but doesn’t quite look or feel the same.

I glance down at my right hand, where I’ve moved Mom’s ring again, and the tears threaten again.

“Excited about your big day?” Dad asks.

“Sure,” I say, but my brain snags on his word choice.

Mybig day. You can say that again. But I can’t think of “big day” without thinking of weddings, and the last thing I want to be thinking about today is THAT kind of big day.

Unfortunately, my new job is going to be one giant reminder. Because I took a job working for the Appies as a staff writer and content creator.

One can’t be choosy when you’re jobless and need money to move out of your dad’s house as fast as humanly possible. And other than working in the same building as my dad and one particular hockey player I’d rather avoid, this is a dream job.

When Parker called me, gushing, and said I justhadto work with her at the Appies doing longer form online content, I couldn’t say no.

I mean, it’s a full-time jobwriting. Finally.

A few weeks ago, I also would have been thrilled to work with my dad. Thrilled to have his approval, which, to my shock, he’s freely given.

I thought there would be pushback because one—it’s a writing job not a practical business one, and two—it’s in the proximity of hockey players. Ironically, coming back seemingly unscathed after being with Van in Florida somehow convinced Dad that his precious daughter can be around hockey players and live to tell the tale.

If he only knew …

Maybe it’s because working in the same building means he can keep an eye on me?

As I study him now, I can see it in his expression. It’s almost identical to his proud dad smile, one I’ve grown used to seeing over the years. But ever since I got back from Florida, it’s beenslightly forced, like he’s trying too hard. Like he thinks I might break at any moment, and it’s his job to hold me together with extra optimism, super wide smiles, and packed lunches.

His phone rings in his hand, and his expression turns thunderous. Which means it’s Uncle Bobby. Again. Dad refuses to talk to him, though Bobby hasn’t given up trying.

“What if he wants to apologize?” I ask.

Dad’s head snaps up, and he clicks off the ringer, sliding the phone into his pocket. “He doesn’t.”

“But how do you know if you won’t talk to him?”

“He leaves voicemails,” Dad says.

“And?”

Dad shakes his head. “Let’s just say we both share the same protectiveness when it comes to our daughters.”

Becky hasn’t tried to reach out. But I wouldn’t want to talk to her any more than Dad wants to talk to his brother. They are in the wrong, they’re family, and this rift is ugly. It feels wrong. One more addition to the strange tension in my life.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dad asks. A daily question.

“I will be.”

“I’m proud of you, Milly.”

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