“Griffin?”
“Mm.”
“Where are we going?”
He’s quiet for a second, his eyes on the road, one hand steady on the wheel.
“I have absolutely no idea,” he admits.
And because the last twenty minutes have been a fever dream, I start laughing. A helpless, hysterical laugh that starts in my diaphragm and fills the car. Griffin looks over at me once, something unreadable in his expression, before he looks back at the road.
“Okay,” he says, and I think he’s actually smiling. “Okay, Pipes.”
Behind us, the church disappears. I don’t look back.
For once in my life, I’m not the one shrinking.
Ten
The gas station bathroom smells like pine cleaner.
I lock the door with a trembling hand and face the mirror. The woman looking back at me is still wearing a wedding dress, which means this is actually happening. I didn’t just have a very specific, very expensive nightmare. I actually did it.
I grip the edge of the stained sink.
Breathe.
My chest isn’t cooperating. Every inhale gets halfway down before a phantom hand clamps around my windpipe and shoves the air back out. The fluorescent light above me buzzes, and the mirror is warped along the edge, making my reflection look fractured.
White silk. Mascara tracks. A veil that’s currently hanging off my head.
The veil.
I reach up with clumsy fingers and start pulling at the tulle, but the pins hold with a spiteful grip.
I pull harder. The veil pulls back.
“Okay,” I whisper, my voice hitching. “Come on. Just… come off.”
It doesn’t. I yank, but a sharp sting tells me I just took a clump of hair with it. The yellowed walls of the bathroom are closing in.The mirror is showing me a stranger in a dress that feels like a straitjacket, and I can’t breathe.
Three knocks.
“Piper?” Griffin says softly.
I stare at the door.
“I’m fine,” I choke out. It’s the biggest lie I’ve told all day, and considering I almost saidI do, that’s saying something.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I can’t—” My voice cracks, sounding small and pathetic. “I can’t breathe, and this veil is trying to kill me.”
Silence for a beat. “Can I come in?”
I look at the lock, then at my reflection, then at the tulle winning the war against my scalp. I stumble over and unlock the door.
Griffin steps inside, and the room is suddenly about four sizes too small. Griffin is a lot of man—broad shoulders, a head taller than me, the kind of build that comes from taking care of your body. He’s still in his dress shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, surveying the wreckage of my face.
