Sweet Little Lies

Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

My feet carry me to the driver’s seat of the car as if on autopilot. The ride home passes in a blur, the streets and lights melding together in a hazy kaleidoscope of emotions. My mind keeps flashing back to the scene at the shop, the ugly words spray-painted across the windows, the shattered glass littering the sidewalk. It’s like a nightmare come to life, a violation of the one place that has always been my sanctuary. Even worse than the physical damage are the questions.

Who would write these things? And why?

And I only made matters worse by keeping secrets from Tucker. We could have faced the strange and threatening messages together, but by allowing myself to stay in touch with Zach, I’ve broken the trust that we’ve worked so hard to build.

Tucker was so eager to help, to shield me from the pain of my destroyed shop. He was so calm, so stable. And what have I done in return? I’ve lied to him, hidden things from him, made him feel like a fool. The guilt is like a physical force on my chest, pressing down until I can barely breathe. I crack the window of the car, looking for any respite from the panic.

As for who broke into the shop? I have no idea.

I swerve suddenly, realizing I’ve let the car venture over the center line. I’ve got to focus on my driving. I unbutton my shirt, trying to let some of the heat escape my body. When the front gates of our home finally slide into view, the tears start coming. There’s nothing else I can do. I stop the car in front of the house and start sobbing. This is not where I saw myself just days from my dream wedding, sobbing uncontrollably in my fiancé’s car while he puts the pieces of my shop back together. After a few minutes of letting the tears flow, a new question punches me in the stomach.

For the second time in two days, a singular thought jumps into my head: Is the wedding even still on? Honestly, I have no idea. I can only hope that Tucker will forgive me. Monica was right, painfully right, that starting off a marriage with a lie is no way to go. Even if it’s a little white lie like omitting the fact that I was working with on the gala with my ex-boyfriend.

As I pull the car into the garage, a sense of dread washes over me. I try some deep calming breaths, but that just makes me start crying again. I finally make it inside, my footsteps echoing hollowly on the hardwood floors. The house feels cold and empty, like all the warmth has been sucked out of it.

The faint smell of dinner still hangs in the air, reminding me of my failed plans. I force my body to keep moving, dumping the now spoiled food in the trash and cleaning up the kitchen on autopilot. I scrub the kitchen from top to bottom, my hands raw and aching. I listen desperately for any sound of Tucker, the creak of the door announcing his return.

He doesn’t.

When there is nothing left to do, I turn and head upstairs. My steps are heavy, like I have a brick strapped to each foot. The adrenaline from earlier has subsided and exhaustion is settling over me. I head into the bathroom, my footsteps echoing off the polished marble floors.

As I wash away the last traces of my makeup, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the ornate, gilt-framed mirror. My face looks drawn and tired, the events of the day etched into the lines around my eyes and the tightness of my jaw.

Just as I’m reaching for my toothbrush, my phone buzzes insistently on the countertop. I hesitate for a moment, tempted to ignore it, to lose myself in the mundane comfort of my bedtime rituals. But I know I can’t ignore it. Besides, what if it’s Tucker calling to tell me everything’s okay?

With a sigh, I pick up the phone and swipe through the messages. The first is from Bernie.

How is the shop? What did the police say?

I quickly text her back, assuring her that the cleanup is underway and that none of the other pastries were damaged. But I can’t bring myself to tell her about the vicious graffiti that was sprayed across the glass, the ugly words that scarred our charming little shop. As I swipe to the next message, this one on Snaptalk, my heart nearly stops. It’s from an unknown number, the text glowing ominously on the screen.

Hope you enjoyed the new decorations to your shop. That’s just a taste of what’s to come if you don’t call off the wedding. You have two days left.

My fingers shake as I try to capture a screenshot, but before I can even blink, the message vanishes into the ether, leaving no trace of its existence.

I sink down onto the plush bed, my mind reeling with the implications. Someone out there hates me, wants to destroy my life, my happiness, my future with Tucker. But why?

At this point, I don’t have much energy left to worry about it. Exhaustion finally claims me, and I collapse into bed, my clothes still on, pressing down upon me like a physical manifestation of my guilt. I slide underneath the covers, feeling the cool sheets wrap around my body. As sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness, one final, haunting thought echoes through my mind.

Who would want to ruin my wedding?