Page 2 of Be My Bride

I stare at the screen, waiting for another text from my fiancé to roll in.

Some kind of explanation.

Maybe an apology for his crappy humor.

I curl my lips into an amused half-smile as I anticipate his:

Just kidding.

Got yah!

Sorry, my phone got stolen by a Grinch-level sociopath.

I wait for the follow-up.

It doesn’t come.

The cold words remain on my cell.

I can’t marry you.

There’s a period at the end.

And a big white space.

No clarification. No reassurances. No way to tell if he’s serious or not.

Unease turns my stomach into a knitting class.

I dial Thad’s number.

Wait.

Tap my fingers against the fluffy white skirt.

It rings.

Rings.

Rings.

Click.

Voicemail.

That professional pre-recorded tone tears through my eardrums and sinks metal claws straight into my heart.

No, no, no.

That can’t be right.

Thad and I have known each other for two years. We’ve been engaged for six months. In all that time, the man has never—and I mean never—been without his phone.

He keeps it charged and carries two battery-powered chargers in his bag. In case of emergency, he also has a pre-charged bracket.

His cell phone is a limb.

An extension of himself.

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