Page 22 of Merry Me
Because as much as I wanted to fix this—to fixus—I couldn’t lose her again. And rushing her? That wasn’t an option.
I’d play it cool. For now.
Even if it killed me.
CHAPTER 5
NATALIE
The screen door creaked as I stepped onto the porch, the morning air biting at my skin like it held a personal grudge. I was half human, half bed gremlin, still wearing the leggings and hoodie I’d tossed on after my restless night in the twin bed from hell. That mattress was a relic of my middle school years, and it felt like it had a personal vendetta. I was convinced there was a spring in there sharpened to impale dreams.
Or at least that was the excuse I was giving myself for the fact that I hadn’t slept a wink.
I’d stayed in the treehouse for most of the night. Paige had come out eventually, laughing like it was the best thing she’d ever seen, until I reminded her that I still owed her for the time she cut my hair in my sleep in first grade. I told her I may not have had scissors right then, but I had adult-level pettiness and access to bleach.
That had shut her up.
Needless to say, I hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep last night.
When I finally dragged myself out of bed this morning, I’d tripped over a box of dog toys right out of the gate. Because apparently this house had become booby-trapped since I’d left it. Frederick Von Licktenstein’s squeaky pizza slice had launchedme face-first into a pile of decorative pillows that hadn’t been decorative in at least ten years. I would have loved to blame my mother for this chaos, but she had the audacity to text me before I could:
Mom: We’re all headed to the venue! Come when you’re alive.
Thanks for the empathy, Mother. Remind me to nominate you for Humanitarian of the Year.
I made my way to my car, keys in hand. The sooner I got to the B&B, the closer I would be to all this being over.
Had I been tempted to get off in my childhood bedroom thanks to the non stop Easton montage that was going through my head?
Yes.
Had I successfully managed to stop myself from such a thing?
Also yes.
But only because I knew from experience how thin the walls in the house were.
I’d get in my car and drive, blast music that had nothing to do with love or heartbreak, suck down three coffees, pretend I wasn’t two seconds away from a full meltdown…and then I’d hide out in my room until it was time for me to do maid of honor things.
It was a solid plan, I thought. What could go wrong?
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I shoved the key into the ignition and turned.
Nothing.
Not even a sputter. Just dead, lifeless silence.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered, smacking my forehead against the steering wheel.
Again. I turned the key harder, as if that would help.
Still nothing.
It was dead. My car was dead. And the venue? A solid two hours away.
Of course.
Evidently,thiswas what could go wrong.
