“You fucking cunt,” she hissed.
That certainly wasn’t something I expected to hear moments before walking down the aisle.
“Excuse me?” I crinkled my nose, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs.
“He’s mine. You might be marrying him, but you’ll neverhavehim.”
“Are you talking about Landon?”
“MyLandon.” She whipped out her phone and shoved the screen in my face.
I found myself staring at a video. It was timestamped thirty minutes ago. There was Landon, in his blue wedding tuxedo, cock out and ready to go.
“We have to hurry,” he grunted on screen, the camera catching him at a chaotic angle.
He clearly didn't know he was being filmed. He hiked up the woman's silver dress—too short for a wedding, I noted irrelevantly—and plowed into her. No foreplay, no hesitation. Just straight to business, causing the woman in the video to grunt his name.
I almost threw up on my white dress.
The violinist outside struck up the Wedding March.
I looked at the woman. She was trembling, waiting for me to scream or cry.
“If he cheats on me on our wedding day,” I said, my voice eerily calm, “he’ll cheat on you, too.”
I turned and walked out the back exit.
I didn't run. I walked, completely numb, snatching my purse from the animal stall we’d used for storage. I walked down the long gravel driveway, dust coating my heels. With shaking hands, I called an Uber.
Alfonso picked me up a mile from the farm. He didn't ask why a bride was hiking alone on a country road; he just drove me to the apartment I no longer shared with Landon. He waited with the meter running while I stuffed my life into two suitcases and a backpack. Instead of the airport—where my mother would surely send the police to drag me back—I had him drive me to the train station.
I boarded the first train heading east. I sent a single text to my sister:
I'm alive. Landon cheated. Ask the lady in the silver halter dress for the video of him fucking her in his tuxedo. I'm never coming back to Iowa. Tell him not to call. PS: I love you.
Her reply was instantaneous:Oh my God, you’re alright!!!!!! Everyone is so worried. I HATE HIM. I’m going to kill him. Be safe. Tell me where you are.
I typed back:I'm not going to tell you where I am in case he tortures you. :-) But I will text you when I get there.
She sent a sad face emoji.
I threw my phone into a trash can at the station. Landon had my location on Life360, and paranoia was my new best friend.I bought a burner phone at a kiosk and a ticket to New York City. Landon had always refused to visit New York. He called it "soulless" and "trashy."
It sounded like the perfect place to disappear.
I texted my sister again from the new number once I was safely on the train. Her response came through somewhere near Ohio:
NYC?? Don’t get murdered!! Oh, just thought you should know Michael broke Landon’s nose. Guess dear ol’ stepdad does love us. Landon is fucked…that floozy showed the whole wedding party the video. Hope that makes you smile.
It didn't make me smile. I was too numb to feel anything.
Now, three days later, I’m standing in a Brooklyn sublet. I secured it through a desperate scouring of Craigslist, burning through a terrifying chunk of my honeymoon fund to pay cash upfront. The universe has a perverse sense of humor—the previous tenant is moving out because she’s moving in with her fiancé.
The apartment is tiny. Truly shoebox-sized. But it’s clean enough.
I stash my suitcases and stand in the center of the room, unsure of what to do. I’ve never lived alone. I am a single woman in the city that never sleeps, where, according toLaw & Order, someone is murdered every fifteen minutes. I peek out the window, half-expecting carnage.
The street below is busy, loud, and indifferent. No one is actively bleeding.
