I look down at my dress. The torn hem. The dirt stains. The piece of ivy still clinging to the bodice from my trellis escape.
"Yes," I say. "And this is my honeymoon."
Her eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly leave her face.
"The honeymoon is... here?"
I laugh, the sound slightly hysterical. "Surprise destination. Very exclusive." I gesture at the porch like I'm a game show host.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"Well," she finally manages. "That's... nice."
"Isn't it?"
She backs away slowly, phone already pressed to her ear. I hear her whisper as she retreats down the sidewalk: "Marge, you're not going to believe this. The Delacroix girl is back. Sitting on her mother's porch in a wedding dress. Alone."
A pause.
"I know. Times must be hard if she's having her honeymoon here."
I should probably care. Should probably feel embarrassed or ashamed or something other than this hollow, floating numbness.
But I don't.
Let the whole town know. By dinner, every resident of Largo Waters will have heard some version of the story. By tomorrow, it will have grown and twisted and become something barely recognizable.
Jessica ran away from her wedding, and showed up on her mother's porch in a destroyed dress.
The swing creaks as I rock it gently with my feet. Back and forth. Back and forth. The same rhythm Dad used to make when he'd sit out here with his coffee in the mornings, whilst watching the sunrise.
I miss him. The feeling hits me suddenly, sharp and unexpected. I miss his quiet steadiness. His terrible jokes. The way he'd look at Mom like she hung the moon, even after thirty years of marriage.
Callum never looked at me like that. Not once in two years.
How did I not see it sooner?
The tears finally come. Silent at first, just a burning in my eyes and a wetness on my cheeks. Then bigger. Heavier. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep, somewhere I've kept locked away for too long.
I cry for the wedding I ran from. For the woman I almost became. For the two years I spent shrinking myself to fit into someone else's idea of who I should be.
The porch swing creaks and groans as my body shakes with sobs. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. A car drives past slowly, definitely rubbernecking. Mrs. Whight's voice carries from her yard, still on the phone, still spreading the news.
I don't care.
I just let it all out. Every tear I've been holding back. Every scream I've swallowed. Every moment of rage and grief and relief that's been building since I climbed out that window and left my old life behind.
By the time the tears finally slow, my face is swollen, my nose is running, and my dress has absorbed enough moisture to qualify as a biohazard. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, smearing mascara across my wrist like war paint.
I need to go inside. Need to change out of this dress. Need to figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life.
But for now, I just sit on the porch swing in my ruined wedding dress, watching the sun set over Largo Waters, letting the autumn breeze dry my tears.
Tomorrow, I'll have to face reality. The fallout from running. The conversations I don't want to have. The four alphas who live in this town and probably already know I'm back.
But that's tomorrow.
Tonight, I'm just a girl in a ruined wedding dress, sitting alone on her mother's porch, watching the sky change colors, and that’s more than enough.
