Page 48 of Working for the Runaway Bride

“To prove I was wrong. One day,” I repeat. “Please.”

She’s quiet for so long I think she might have hung up. Then she exhales.

“One day.” Then she hangs up.

I turn toward the Chevelle. The canvas cover hides most of the body, but the front bumper remains exposed, chrome gleaming beneath the shop lights. The decision forms before I have time to question it.

It hurts. That’s how I know it matters. I find a number I haven’t called in five years. Marcus Bell owns three dealerships, two restoration shops, and a private collection large enough to fill a warehouse. He has tried to buy the Chevelle from me four times. I rejected every offer.

My chest aches, but I don’t reconsider. “It’s just a car.” But it’s really more. It’s proof that I survived. It’s the first piece of my life I built after prison. It’s four years of bloody knuckles, borrowed manuals, and nights spent learning how to become someone my son might be proud to call his father. It means more to me than anything I own. But it still isn’t Molly. Nothing is.

It will be enough for Molly to live for a year without working. Enough to hire a lawyer if she wants to fight the school. Enough to move anywhere she chooses and rebuild her life without being forced back into Carter’s arms or her parents’ house. It will never be enough to make up for what I cost her. But it’s a start.

The next day I arrive at the hotel at five fifty-eight. She opens the door before I knock. She’s wearing jeans and a soft pink sweater. Her hair falls around her shoulders, and her face is bare of makeup.

Behind her, three suitcases sit beside the bed. Seeing them nearly destroys my resolve.

“You’re early,” she says.

“Two minutes.”

“I thought you might not come.”

“I said I would.”

She looks at me.

“Can I come in?”

She hesitates before stepping aside. I enter but remain near the door. The room looks less temporary than it did a week ago. Clothes are folded across the desk. Books and classroom supplies fill two open boxes near the window. Her wedding dress is gone.

I don’t ask what she did with it.

Molly folds her arms.

I hold out the envelope.

She stares at it. “What’s that?”

“Money.”

Her expression closes. “I told you I don’t want your money.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you giving it to me?”

“Because I sold the Chevelle.”

Her arms fall to her sides. For a moment, she doesn’t speak. “You did what?”

“I sold the car.”

“Your car?”

“Yes.”

“The black one?”