Chapter 10 Katie
Katie
A Few Hours Earlier
No.
This is not happening.
This is a nightmare.
I’m seeing things.
As my stomach crawls up my throat, my brain tries to rearrange the picture in front of me.
They’re hugging? They’re planning a gift for me?
But I don’t want a gift.
I want my almost-husband.
Who is sucking another woman’s face.
“Are you…” I can’t go on. Emerson squeezes my arm, and the encouraging touch from someone I trust drives me on. My face burns as I gear up to try again and spit out, “Are you kidding me?”
The man in the tuxedo breaks the kiss, wrenching away from the woman in his arms.
My mother.
Bile rises in my throat once more. How could she? How could she actually do this?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, shake my head, but the reality doesn’t change. “I cannot believe you,” I say to the woman who gave birth to me. Emerson grips my arm tighter, helping me to get through this horror.
I am livid and devastated.
Ashamed and enraged.
Shocked and disgusted.
I never thought it possible to contain all these awful emotions at once. But then, I never imagined I’d find my fiancé making out with my about-to-be-officially-and-finally-estranged mother.
Fight-or-flight indecision holds me frozen. I need to get the hell out of here, but one thought echoes in my head and won’t let me leave.
Say something before you take off.
My mouth feels like glue. The woman who raised me just kissed the man I was going to marry.
I dig down deep, searching for the right words, in the right order, but come up empty.
My mother reaches for my arm. “Darling, I tried to tell you it was a bad idea,” she says, getting the first word in, beating me to it.
“Don’t, Tracy,” Emerson hisses at my mother. “Don’t you dare.”
Like I’ve inhaled secondhand strength from my friend, I seethe.
My mother gets my fiancé and the last word?
My gaze drifts down to her fingers on my arm.
She is touching me.
She was kissing the groom.
No fucking way.
I recoil, jerking my arm away from her like she’s diseased.
“We’re in love,” my mom declares, gazing into the green eyes of the artist I was about to marry.
He shrugs in surrender, his crow’s feet crinkling, giving away the five years he has on me. “It happened so quickly. I didn’t even expect it. I barely had time to think of what to say.” Silvio meets my gaze. “But I wanted to tell you, love. Truly, I did.”
Love?
He’s calling me love, like he always has?
I snap out of my surreal, sluggish haze.
I laser in on the slithering tuxedoed snake of a man. “I’m sure it was difficult to find the time to say four whole words—I’m fucking your mother. But maybe in the ten minutes it took you to tie your bow tie, you could have called me and delivered the news.”
I inhale sharply, gearing up for another round of zing, and swing my gaze to her.
She’s no garden-variety snake. She’s an anaconda.
“By the way, wear the white ribbon. I bet it’ll look great on your wedding day.
” I thrust the bouquet at her. “And feel free to use these sunflowers. I get why you wanted them so badly, and since they smell like crap, they’ll go great with your secondhand groom. ”
I turn on my heel. Emerson wraps an arm tightly around me. “Let’s get out of here,” she whispers, and I’m so damn grateful for her because I don’t even know which direction to go.
My eyes sting.
Tears prick at the back of them, threatening to let loose geysers.
I grit my teeth.
I will not let them hear me cry.
I will not let them see me fall apart.
Oh hell.
The waterworks are coming, and I can barely hold them off.
Thank God Emerson is here.
I yank up my skirt and we run like the Legion of Honor is on fire.
Through the hallway, toward a side door—somewhere along the way Jillian, Olive, and Skyler join us. Jillian’s on the phone, giving instructions about the car.
When I reach the exit, my friends are still running by my side. We race down the long entryway steps, and I don’t even risk a glance at the lawn or rows of folding chairs. I can’t bear the thought of guests gawking, pointing. I must look like a runaway bride, only the opposite is true.
A few more steps, and I’m nearly there. My father waits for me by the limo, right at the edge of the car park.
I stumble into his arms, and I fall to pieces.
***
Go.
Just go.
That’s literally the only thing I can say, over and over.
We pile into the sleek vehicle—my dad, my sister, Emerson, Jillian, and Skyler.
My crew.
But Jillian stops before she gets in, her hand on the door. “Katie, why don’t I take care of all that?” She gestures to the lawn.
Ugh.
The freaking guests.
All those guests milling about in their pretty clothes, waiting for a ceremony. They’re here for my stupid wedding that isn’t happening. Soon, they’ll be able to whisper about the time they went to a wedding where the bride was stood up at the altar.
“Thank you, Jillian. That would be great,” my father says, answering for me.
“I can help too,” Skyler offers.
A sob wracks my throat and I nod savagely. “Just take care of it, please.”
“We’ll take care of all of it,” Jillian assures me, going full badass, problem-solving babe as they stay behind to clean up the mess my mother and fiancé made of my wedding day.
We peel off, away from the gorgeous art museum, high on the hill. As the Golden Gate Bridge looms closer, another burst of tears rains down my cheeks. I can’t believe what just happened.
I truly can’t.
My dad’s seated next to me, and he rubs my back gently. “Honey, I’m so sorry. But you’ve got to know—none of it is your fault.”
My heart clutches, and even through the tears, I do know the truth. “You’re totally right,” I say between sobs.
“Good. Glad you know that. Now, where can we take you? What do you need? Do you just need to cry it out some more?”
Those are all great questions.
I have no idea what to do next.
My heart thuds heavily. My hands are clammy. Hurt rages, clouding my thoughts. “I don’t know,” I whisper with a shrug.
“We can just drive,” Olive says from the seat across from me.
I look up, meeting their gazes. These people who are here for me. My sister, my best friend, my dad.
I should try—really, I should—to answer their questions. But I just want to get as far away from my old reality as possible.
“We could go out on your boat,” I say to my dad, casting about for options. Maybe that’s what’s next?
“My fishing boat? You hate fishing,” he says with a sympathetic smile.
He’s not wrong.
“We could go eat veggie burgers,” I say to Emerson, since that’s her thing.
Her brow knits. “You’re not a stress eater.”
“Maybe now is the time to start,” I say, my voice hollow as I try to figure out what the hell to do after being ditched. “Maybe that’s what I need to do. Scarf down french fries and wine. I bet that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’ve been jilted.”
My dad squeezes my hand. “If you want fries and wine, that’s fine.”
“Gah, I love you,” I say, all choked up. One of my parents understands the value of salt and liquor—the other stole my fiancé.
My phone bleats. I jerk my gaze to the device in my hand. My mother’s name flashes on the screen, and hate roils through me. I death-grip the device and lift my arm, poised to chuck it at the window.
My dad stops me with a hand around my wrist. “She’s not worth the cost of a new phone,” he says, gentle but firm.
I huff. I growl.
But he’s right. She’s not worth so much as a dime.
“And believe me, too, when I say this—you never need to talk to her again,” he adds.
Letting the phone fall to the seat, I drop my head into my hands. “My life is a telenovela,” I say. But after a moment, I look up, determination kicking in, replacing the self-loathing. Apparently, emotions for jilted brides ride seesaws.
Who knew?
“I know what to do.”
Emerson leans forward in her seat, eager. “Tell us.”
I’ve got a plan. Something my ex-groom would hate. Something his floozy would despise too. And, most importantly, something I love.
***
Twenty minutes later, the limo pulls over to a too-trendy axe-throwing brewery. I march inside, dress still on.
Ready to take on the goddamn world with my axe.
With a clenched jaw, I head straight for the lumberjack in green flannel at the check-in desk. “My fiancé left me for my mother twenty minutes before my wedding,” I bite out. “I need a big-ass bucket of axes.”
The bearded man blinks, his brown eyes etched with sympathy. “It’s on the house.”
For the next hour, I toss axes at a target.
It’s cathartic until Olive’s phone rings, and she steps away from our throwing stall.
“Hey, Jillian, what’s up?” she asks softly.
I turn away from the lane, my ears pricked, eager to hear what’s going down at the crime scene where my marriage was pronounced dead on arrival at four forty-five on a Saturday.
Olive’s jaw drops to the wood shavings on the floor. “For real?”
I groan in misery, my axe in hand, my heart in my throat. What now? I don’t know how this day could get worse, but I’m certain it’s about to.
Olive hangs up, takes a bracing breath, and says, “They’re flying to Dublin right now. They’re taking your honeymoon. He just posted it on social. They’re at the airport on their way.” She winces in sincere sympathy. “I’m sorry.”
But fuck sympathy. Fuck my mom. Fuck my ex.
I see red. I see all the bull’s-eyes in the world.
I turn to the target, raise the axe over my head, channel all the rage, and throw. The blade slices deep into the bull’s-eye.
Then I spin around, dust one hand against the other, and adopt a smile.
Apparently, I am making my way through the seven or seventy stages of getting-left-at-the-altar grief, lickety-split.
And right now, I’ve entered the burn-his-stuff-down phase.
“Can you guys go to my apartment, get rid of all of Silvio’s things, change the locks, and then bring me a key?”
The answer from everyone is a resounding hell, yes.
***
A few hours later, the deed is done.
My ex-fiancé has been kicked out of my place, where we lived together for the last month.
Good riddance. The man can’t tie a bow tie but can untie the knot like Benedict Arnold.
I push open the door and enter my now emptier apartment, fearful of how much it’ll hurt.
I brace myself as I drink it in.
His stacks of hardcover biographies are gone from the coffee table.
His framed photographs of moody skylines are nowhere to be seen.
His paintbrushes have vamoosed from the kitchen.
What’s left are my pink and purple pillows scattered across the couch, my Wine is my friend corkscrew on the kitchen counter, and my For Fox Sake collection of pun art hanging on the walls.
This home is for someone who doesn’t take herself too seriously.
Only, I did take commitment seriously.
I sure as hell did.
And he did not. So I suppose I’m glad he showed his true colors now. Glad he revealed his trickery before I said I do.
Maybe that’s why seeing his stuff gone doesn’t lacerate me. Maybe I’m a little bit lucky.
I turn around and meet the eyes of my crew. “Thank you. I appreciate this so much.”
“Do you want me to stay the night?” Olive offers, all kind big eyes and giant heart.
“Anything you need, I’m here for you,” Emerson adds, and my other friends chime in with similar sentiments.
“Thank you, but I’m good,” I say. I love them, but I need a break from sympathy.
“Do you want to stay with Janice and me in Sausalito?” my father offers; he and his new wife have a lovely home on the water, with a view of Richardson Bay from the guest room.
“I appreciate the invite, but I’ll stay here,” I say, because it sort of feels like mine again.
And mostly because their pitying looks—though well-intentioned—might drive me crazy, especially when I’m feeling the tiniest bit of this-is-a-blessing-in-disguise.
“Call me tomorrow,” Emerson says, making her way to the door.
“And don’t answer your mom’s calls,” my dad adds.
“Not a problem. I blocked her already.”
“Good girl,” he says, and they leave.
Once I shut the door, the walls instantly close in.
I’m all alone.
The silence is claustrophobic.
I was wrong. This is the last place I want to be.
Even with all his things gone, I can’t stand being here alone. I don’t want to be by myself, but I don’t want to be with friends right now either.
What do I want?
To be with this city.
Yup. That’s what I need.
I kick off my stupid white satin heels, march into my bedroom, and yank open the closet door, scanning for something to wear that’s not this dress.
Maybe a cute V-neck, or some jeans and cowboy boots. Something that’s the opposite of a wedding gown.
I pluck at the chiffon.
But damn. I like this dress. Hell, I love it. I bought it because it’s my style. It’s fun and pretty.
Screw it.
Might as well make some new memories in this dress.
I’ll make it the perfect outfit for a solo night on the town with these babies. I grab a pair of fuchsia cowboy boots from the closet, tug them on in a flurry.
Yup. This is me now.
My dress, my boots, my style. From a shelf, I grab a purple wristlet that Emerson gave me for my birthday. Go Ahead, Underestimate Me adorns one side in a curlicue font.
Indeed, world.
Underestimate me.
I am not staying in.
I am not curling up and downing a carton of H?agen-Dazs.
I am taking myself out in my goddamn dress.
Stuffing my phone into my colorful clutch, I get the hell out of my apartment, hitting the sidewalk on a Saturday night.
I wander through Russian Hill, weaving unnoticed through crowds. Across the street, a woman dressed as a leprechaun skips down the block. As I round the corner, a man in a porkpie hat rides a unicycle. No one gives the woman in the wedding dress a second look as she wanders the city solo.
San Francisco is awesome and wonderful, and this is why I loved and missed this city when I was in Los Angeles building my business.
I walk, and I walk, and I walk into the night until I see a sign for Pinup Lanes advertising a Saturday-night special on tequila and bowling.
I’ll take what’s behind door number one, thank you very much.
I head inside. It’s so old school, and this is what I need right now.
Brimming with orange Formica and fifties tunes, this place is nothing at all like the Legion of Honor, my mural-artist almost-husband, or the ceremony I didn’t have.
I head to the bar, order a shot, and knock it back.
It burns all the way down.
I order one more, and when the bartender sets it down, I notice footsteps growing louder on the linoleum behind me.
I turn my head. Glance over my shoulder.
Is that…?
No way.
Tonight, after all these years, my eyes land on the guy who got away.