They’ve already had one venue cancel on them, and I know the call my stepmom took earlier today was an issue with the officiant.
It’s like the universe is trying to keep them apart, and they know it but trudge on, anyway.
Maybe she knows. But then why would she still decide to go through with the marriage? She may have grown up poor, but she doesn’t seem like the type who would marry for money. She’s not smart enough for that.
Whatever the reason for their hustle, it will end the way so many others do, with heartbreak, sadness, and a heaping helping of bitter tears.
I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, but the moment I’m alone in the small room, I fall apart.
A thousand tears run down my cheeks, none of them knowing why they were shed, because even I can’t comprehend why my heart suddenly feels like it’s shattered in its cage.
I reach for a tissue as I collapse onto the toilet seat, but instead of crying into the soft sheets, I tear them to shreds as I scream out in rage.
Who thought marriage was a good idea? Who came up with the foolish notion that depending on anyone would fucking work out?
For ten minutes, I sob without reason, until my eyes are raw, red, and tender to the touch.
Embarrassed, I pick up the scattered white tissue, flushing away my shame.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I haven’t cried since…
I shake my head, refusing to relive those memories and the pain they’ve caused.
I’m not like the women out there. I’m different.
I’m Samantha Fucking Weston.
A sharp knock sounds on the door, followed by a very masculine, “Hello?”
I sniff and clear my throat. “Ah, this is the ladies’ room.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been in there for so long, the other women are having to use the men’s room.”
“Take that up with Taco Bell!” I snarl, hoping it’ll make him leave.
“Gee, ah, do you need a plunger?”
“You really don’t give up, do ya?”
“I’m just trying to get a better grasp of the situation so I can help free up the bathroom.”
“You said the others were using the men’s room, so I don’t see what the problem is.”
“If you clogged the pipes, it’s okay. We’ve all been there. I’ll fix it for you.”
I laugh. I really laugh. Not the fake, condescending chuckles I typically snark out.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I laugh, feeling actual joy.
All because of a man standing outside who thinks I blew out my colon.
I laugh even harder, feeling a lightness in my chest that makes me giddy.
Fuck my family, fuck this party, fuck everything.
Desperate to escape the heavy shroud I’ve been a prisoner of, I fling open the door and face the man who’s offered to clear my clogged pipes.
A foot away from me is a half-naked Hunk holding a plunger.
