Page 22 of Kiss the Bride

“Babe, there is no correct way for me to answer that.” When Hunter stares, I realize what I said and how I said it. As I startto stammer a redo, he chuckles and gently pushes me towards a brand he knows I wear. “How about you go shopping, get into something more comfortable, and I’ll get another suitcase.”

Alone for the first time since my panicked phone call, I casually wander through the stores. People move around me in their own world, and I feel a sense of normalcy. The world goes on. My world will go on. It won’t be the future I planned, but it will be better, just like this version of my wedding dress suits me better than the perfect gown. Tattered and torn, but it makes one hell of a statement—a statement I want to trade for comfy clothes.

I could have changed into something from my suitcase, but the idea of wearing anything purchased for my honeymoon makes me physically ill and I don’t even know why I didn’t leave my bags in the car. No. I need a new wardrobe for a new start, and I’ll deal withthoseclothes later.

“Talk about a fashion statement and a conversation starter. Look at you!” A teenage assistant wearing combat boots with exercise gear that shouldn’t work but does, greets me warmly as I enter a clothing store full of sweatpants, casual tops, and even underwear. It could be a one-stop shop to start the rest of my life.

“Thanks.” I’m overwhelmed by choice. Who is the newly single Olivia Woodgrove, and what does she wear on a beach?

“Can I help you?” I wish she could. I’ll take a do-over of the past three years, thank you. But if the girl with sculpted eyebrows and barely out of high school can’t help with big life problems, perhaps she can help me shop.

“I’ll take these—“ I pull a pair of grey yoga pants from the rack. “And this.” Off to the side is a beige floral sundress with short sleeves. Perfect for sitting on a balcony and wondering how I ended up on my honeymoon without my groom.

I sigh at the purple sweatshirt which is a deeper shade than my woollen cardigan. Running the tactile lycra through my hands, I remember the ad for it coming up in my feed but resisting the urge to one-click because of my wedding expenses. There will still be bills, but at least I only have to pay for the photographer and videographer’s time, not for the photos or video. I can afford to lash out on some clothes for this technology detox getaway.

Although I remember Hunter never complained when I walked around naked while we were dating. And at least Hunter broke my heart before moving on with another woman. We never officially planned a life or shared a home, not like—

Not my home, anymore. Damn it, I have to stop thinking about things that trigger tears.

I’m going on my honeymoon with the best man. Okay, that shouldn’t make me smile, but it does. For the rest of my life, when people talk about the messed-up shit they’ve done, I’ll have a story.Oh, did I tell you about the time I walked in on my groom with my bridesmaid, so I ran away with his best man?

Despite myself, a smile and giggle become a genuine laugh. When did I stop laughing? Before Hunter teased me about the playlists, when had I last laughed? It comes to me; the rehearsal dinner when Mitch and Lina had been late. Hunter had us all in stitches with a monologue about growing up with my brother and me.

Damn it. I deserve to laugh, to be happy, and to treat myself to the honeymoon-technology detox and new shoes.

“I’d better take these as well.” While I have my fair share of pretty shoes, I love trainers. Another two pairs will feel at home in my collection. Will it still feel like my home when I walk in the door? More upset over where they’d done it, than what they’d done, tears trickle down the still-damp path as I wonder how much sage will need to be burned to cleanse my home.

“Are you okay?” The young assistant’s calm hand on my arm is what I need to snap me out of my funk. I’ll deal with my house in three weeks when I walk through the door, refreshed and ready for my new life.See, I can be strong and resilient. I’m not going to break because my fiancé forgot who’s finger he put a diamond on. “Can I get you water? Tissues?”

“Can I get changed here? I have to get out of—this.” I rip at the cardigan. Suddenly, it’s gone from giving me comfort to being a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong. Impulsively, I rip a light grey jumpsuit with flared shorts that could easily be mistaken for a skirt from the closest rack. A peach off-the-shoulder gypsy style top and light denim cut-off quickly join my growing stash.

“Sure. Do you want me to dispose of—it?” I appreciate how she refers to my dress with the same inflection of disdain.

“No, I’ve got a bonfire planned just for the occasion.”

“Are you okay? There’s a chair in the storeroom. You can sit awhile. I’ve got bottled water. I can call someone for you? Send a text? You don’t look like you should be alone.”

If she’d been a snob, I could have coped. But the kindness from a stranger triggers an epic meltdown, complete with body shakes and gasps for breath. This is not me. I’m the one people rely on in a crisis. I’m never the crisis. But within seconds, her arms wrap around me as I shake so hard I think bones will break.

“Here, let me.” Suddenly, Hunter is peeling me from the confused stranger, and I cling to his neck, feeling safe enough in his arms to breathe without fighting for each breath. “Liv, I shouldn’t have left you. I’m so sorry.”

My tears stop as he presses kisses to my hair, and my shaking slows as he strokes my back and shoves the fabric aside to press me closer. I need this. I need his strength more than his love. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry,” he purrs and I wonder why he’s sorry. He did nothing wrong. Oh, right. He’s sorry that I’m hurting.

“Why’d you break her heart, then, asshole.” The girl’s words are harsh and when I pull back, she is glaring at Hunter.

“He’s not my ex—“ I start before choking back an unwanted giggle. Looking up at Hunter, I shrug and half-tease, “Well, heismy ex, but he broke my heart years ago.”

“Ouch but truth.” Hunter releases his hold, but his arms are still around me, like an open cage I can exit if I want to, or remain safe inside.

“I was supposed to get married today.” I wave at my shredded dress. “But my fiancé was otherwise occupied with my bridesmaid.”

“And him?” I love this girl, she doesn’t even know me but isn’t going to trust me to the first man who shows up.

“Hunter Williams, at your service.” Hunter briefly releases me to offer an exaggerated bow. “I was his best man, but now I’m her best friend.”

“Let me cut those tags off for you so you can get changed.” The girl focuses on the pile of clothes while Hunter strokes my back in long, deep strokes in time with my breathing. It’s all coming back—the way he used to calm me before a competition or exam. Years later, his touch still—

No.

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