Page 12 of Working for the Runaway Bride

“Don’t call me half-naked,” the woman says.

“You aren’t wearing underwear!”

She jerks the hem of her dress lower. It barely moves.

Carter steps between us. “Molly, stop.”

I look at him. Really look at him.

His hair is messy. There’s a faint scratch on his neck and a pink lipstick stain near his collar. One side of his shirt hangs untucked.

He doesn’t look sorry. He looks annoyed that I’ve interrupted him.

“Who is she?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter.”

The woman’s mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”

“Brittany, please,” Carter mutters.

Brittany. She has a name. Of course she has a name.

She isn’t some abstract mistake. She’s a woman standing in the living room where Carter and I opened engagement presents. Her purse is on the coffee table beside the stack of wedding magazines I’ve spent months marking with sticky notes.

“How long?” I ask.

Carter exhales heavily. “Can we discuss this after Brittany leaves?”

“No. We can discuss it now.”

“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

The words strike me so hard that I take a step back. “You didn’t tell me because you knew it was wrong.”

“No, I didn’t tell you because you overreact to everything.”

My fingernails dig into my palms. “I’m overreacting?”

“You came in here screaming.”

“You’re cheating on me!”

“There you go again.”

“Again?” My voice breaks. “What does that mean?”

He rolls his eyes. He actually rolls his eyes at me.

“It means you’re always turning things into a crisis. The car breaks down, you call me like the world is ending. You come home and see someone here, and instead of asking calmly, you start screaming.”

“I did ask what happened.”

“You screamed it.”

“Because your pants are unfastened!”

Brittany clears her throat. “Carter told me you two were basically over.”