1. Faith #3
I look back once. Through the glowing windows, I catch a glimpse of crystal, of men in suits holding drinks, of a Christmas tree so tall and perfect it could be in a commercial.
Somewhere in there, Evan is checking his watch, wondering why the ceremony is late.
My father is pacing, jaw clenched, demanding answers.
A tremor runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
If I get in this truck and drive away, everything changes.
I’ll disappoint my father in a way I’m not sure we’ll come back from. I’ll humiliate Evan in front of his colleagues. I’ll become a story… the runaway bride, whispered about over brunch and business meetings. My life will fracture down a different line than the one laid out for me.
But if I walk back in there, I will disappear.
The valet pulls up in my old navy pickup, the one I bought used after college with the money I saved from working summers at the Buttercup Bakery and the feed store.
It looks completely out of place between the sleek, polished cars, its paint slightly faded, a dent in the bumper from the time I misjudged the fence post behind my mom’s house.
It looks like me.
The boy hops out, leaving it idling. “Here you go, Miss Ross.” He hands me the keys, then hesitates. “Do you, uh, need help getting in? With the dress and all?”
I’m about to say no, then glance down. The skirt is a frothy, ridiculous mountain. The idea of trying to climb into the tall driver’s seat without face planting is almost comical.
“I might, actually.” I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Thank you.”
He holds the door while I gather armfuls of fabric, scooping up the beaded layers to keep them from dragging too much in the slush.
The cold bites at my exposed ankles, but adrenaline burns hotter.
With some undignified scrambling and the valet’s careful guidance, I manage to get my butt into the seat and most of the dress too, though it poofs up around me like a whipped cream explosion.
I slam the door before my courage can leak out into the night.
Through the glass, the valet leans down, peering in at me.
“So, uh, congratulations?” he offers weakly.
I grip the steering wheel, the familiar worn leather grounding under my fingers. My breathing is still too fast, but there’s air in it now. Decision.
I reach across the bench seat and grab my bag, exactly where I left it.
I pull out a folded bill and slide it through the crack in the window.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it… for the truck, for the help, for not asking too many questions. “You never saw me.”
His eyes widen at the amount. “Yes, ma’am. Good luck.”
He steps back, giving me a little salute.
I put the truck in drive.
For a heartbeat, I sit there, foot on the brake, staring at the glowing facade of the hotel. The piano music drifts faintly through the glass.
I could still go back.
I could tell them I had a little meltdown, let them fix my makeup, and watch my dad smooth over the delay with a joke. I could apologize to Evan, let him tuck my hand into the crook of his arm, and lead me back onto the script.
I could.
I don’t.
My foot eases off the brake.
The truck rolls forward, slow at first, then faster as I hit the turn signal and nose out into traffic. Horns honk as I merge; someone curses out their window, but it barely registers. The city lights blur into streaks of white and red as I move through them.
I drive with the windows up and the heater blasting. My heart is still hammering, but every block I put between myself and the hotel loosens my chest.
At the first red light, reality crashes back in.
I left my own wedding.
A shaky laugh bubbles up and slips out. I clap a hand over my mouth, biting it down. “You’re insane,” I tell myself. “Completely insane.”
Maybe. But I’m also breathing.
The light turns green. I go.
The city at night is a blur of neon and Christmas decorations. Storefronts wrapped in twinkling lights, plastic reindeer perched on roofs, wreaths hanging from every lamppost.
Evan and I went to a tree lighting ceremony downtown last week. He took a call from a client halfway through the countdown and missed the actual lighting. I stood there, watching a hundred strangers cheer as the huge spruce blazed to life, and felt absolutely nothing.
Now, as I drive past the same square, I feel everything.
Fear. Relief. Guilt. A wild, dizzy excitement that makes me want to roll down the window and scream.
“What are you doing, Faith?” I murmur, but there’s no judgment in it. Just wonder.
My phone starts buzzing.
Of course. They’ve noticed by now. Evan. My father. The planner. Maybe even my mother and Charlotte, if someone thought to call them.
I glance at it. The screen lights up with my father’s name.
The sight of those letters, William Ross, makes my stomach drop. My fingers twitch toward the phone on instinct. Answer. Explain. Apologize. Be reasonable.
My grandmother’s words whisper through my head. Don’t let anyone talk you out of your own heart, sugar.
My heart is fragile right now, a fledgling thing that’s just realized the sky exists. If I let my father’s voice in, it won’t stand a chance.
The phone stops buzzing. Three seconds later, it starts again. It’s Evan this time. Then the wedding planner. Then a number I don’t recognize but can guess.
I can’t do this. I can’t make the big speeches yet. I can’t withstand the disappointment or anger or questions. I can barely keep my truck between the lines as it is.
A hot, frustrated tear slides down my cheek.
“Stop calling me,” I choke out, as if they can hear. “Just… stop.”
The phone buzzes again, relentless.
Without letting myself think, I roll down the window with a flick of my wrist. Cold slices in, snapping at my overheated skin, tangling in my hair. Snowflakes swirl into the cab, melting on my cheeks, my hands, the satin bunched in my lap.
The phone vibrates again, and I just hold it. This small rectangle of glass and metal has become a tether. To my father’s expectations, to Evan’s plans, to a life that looks perfect in pictures and feels like drowning.
My grip tightens.
Then I lean out the window and hurl the phone into the night.
It spins, a brief flash of screen catching a passing headlight, and disappears into the snowy darkness at the side of the road.
I roll the window up and let out a sound that’s half sob, half laugh. “Okay,” I say to the empty truck, to the locket against my skin, to the version of myself who finally moved. “Okay. No going back now.”
The highway signs loom ahead. One arrow points toward the airport, another toward downtown. A third, smaller sign angles off to the right, almost an afterthought.
Buckhorn – 127 Miles.
Home.
The word isn’t on the sign, but my heart supplies it anyway, slamming against my ribs in sudden, aching recognition.
I haven’t lived there in years. I’ve visited for holidays, smiling through my father’s tight comments about “small-town mentality” and “wasted potential,” counting the hours until I could get back to my city life and prove I wasn’t making a mistake.
But right now, with my cheeks still damp and my veil askew and my dress spilling over the edges of the driver’s seat, that little town in Oregon feels like the only place my feet might remember how to stand.
My blinker clicks on, loud in the quiet cab.
I take the exit.