31. Game Over. Hello, New Beginning
I positionedmyself at the hotel’s back hallway like a stealth game protagonist, ready to escort Whitney to freedom. Rachel had filled me in quickly over the phone, her voice full of anxiety and determination. Now, with Whitney in tow, it felt like we were in some co-op mission, sneaking through a level filled with potential alerts and NPCs, namely family members and nosy guests who could blow our cover at any second.
“Okay, team,” I whispered, peeking around the corner. “The coast is clear. Let’s move to checkpoint Bravo—that’s the second service door on the right.” Whitney looked at me, her expression bemused by my terminology.
“Is he always like this?” she whispered to Rachel, who nodded and grinned.
“Always,” Rachel replied, her voice low but amused. “Just follow his lead. He’s actually pretty good at this stuff.”
Whitney, still adjusting to the sudden shift from bridal candidate to escapee, shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe we’re sneaking out of my wedding like this,” she murmured.
“It’s the only way,” I reassured her. “Stealth mode is key in operations like this. Keep up, stay quiet, and follow my lead. We’ll get you out alive.”
Rachel rolled her eyes at my dramatics. “Honey, you don’t have to give a battle speech. We’re just avoiding my mom and the wedding planner, not diffusing a bomb.”
I grinned at her, enjoying the lightness amidst the tension. “Every mission needs a good pep talk. Keeps the team motivated.”
We hustled down the hallway, our steps soft against the plush carpet. At one point, I held up my hand like a traffic cop, and we froze as a group of relatives crossed in the distance, loud and oblivious to the covert operation happening under their noses.
“This is like that level in Shadow Ops where you have to dodge the searchlights,” I commented, earning a puzzled look from Whitney and a suppressed chuckle from Rachel.
“Except the searchlights are Aunt Marge and Uncle Bob,” Rachel added, pulling Whitney along as we ducked into a nearby alcove to avoid detection.
Just as Rachel and Whitney ducked behind another corner, leading to the service exits, I spotted Rachel’s mother, her eyes scanning the crowd, panic clear in her movements. Whispering a quick, “Operation distract, move, move, move!” I jogged toward her, intercepting her just as she seemed about to head down the hall where Rachel and Whitney had vanished.
“Everett, have you seen Rachel and Whitney?” she asked urgently, her voice trembling slightly.
I put on my best poker face. “Yes, they went up to our room to grab a few things,” I lied smoothly, hoping it would buy the girls enough time to escape.
As I faced Rachel’s mother, her expression was fraught with tension and suspicion. But as I prepared to deflect further inquiries, her gaze shifted, softening as she peered past me. Curious, I followed her line of sight, glimpsing Rachel and Whitney making their quiet escape through the service door.
Turning back to her, I saw the change in her demeanor. A single tear rolled down her cheek, her usual composed pretense giving way to a moment of raw vulnerability.
“Take care of my girls,” she murmured, her voice lower, and the commanding tone she usually carried was absent, replaced by a gentle, almost pleading quality. “And… tell Rachel to call me. I… I need to check on her more.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken regrets and a mother’s concern. “Of course,” I assured her gently, understanding the weight of her request.
She nodded, wiping the tear away with a quick swipe of her hand, as if embarrassed by the display of emotion. “Thank you, Everett,” she added, her voice steadying. “And, uh, if you could… just make sure they get out okay with no more… scenes. I’ll handle the guests,” she concluded, pulling herself back together as she turned to leave. “Just get them out safely.” Her last words, though spoken with a regained composure, echoed the vulnerability I’d seen—a mother still caring deeply beneath the stern exterior.
I nodded. “I will,” I promised sincerely.
Her shoulders slumped slightly as she walked away, the facade of the ever-composed mother crumbling just a bit. It was a rare glimpse into the emotional turmoil she was experiencing, and it reminded me that beneath the stern exterior was a mother worried about her daughters.
I joined them behind the service door without incident, but just as I was congratulating myself on our smooth escape, the door creaked loudly as we opened it, sounding like every horror game’s telltale warning of impending doom.
“Seriously?” Whitney hissed, her eyes wide as she glanced nervously back towards the main hall.
“Just a little more stealth, and we’re home free,” I assured her, holding the door as we slipped through one by one.
Our escape plan had been executed with near-perfect precision, weaving through back hallways and dodging familiar faces with the finesse of seasoned spies. We found ourselves in the kitchen and headed toward the exit. The tension was palpable, yet, amid this high-stakes operation, a moment of unexpected levity broke through as Whitney let out a soft giggle. The sound was so out of place in our clandestine mission that it momentarily lifted the gravity of our situation.
However, the brief respite was shattered as abruptly as it had appeared. As we rounded a corner into the service quarters, aiming for a discreet exit, a scene unfolded before us that yanked us back into stark reality. Brad, Whitney’s soon-to-be husband, was there, but he was far from alone. Entwined with one of the bridesmaids, his actions were far from the devoted fiancé he pretended to be. Their embrace was fervent, marked by the reckless abandon of those who believed they were unseen.
The shock of the scene hit us like a physical blow. Whitney’s initial reaction was a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth as if to stifle the scream that threatened to escape. Her eyes were wide, her expression a combination of disbelief and betrayal as she took in the sight of her fiancé’s infidelity.
Rachel’s reaction was similarly visceral, her sharp intake of breath echoing in the cramped space. Her gaze darted between Whitney and the illicit couple, her protective instincts for her sister kicking into overdrive.
Then, she let out a roar.
It was like HuntraTheRed was actually in battle with a dragon. But the dragon was this cheating good-for-nothing almost brother in law and Huntra was actually a fucking incredible sister.
“You bastard! I’ll end you!” she yelled.
With the hall still echoing Rachel’s gamer-inspired battle cry, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of adrenaline. The situation was surreal, yet here we were, living it. Rachel’s determined face matched her words as she marched forward, transforming her anger into a moment straight out of a game’s climax.
I fell into character beside her, feeling part of an unplanned but thrilling side quest. As she shouted her accusation, her voice was fierce and carried the weight of every wronged video game character who had ever faced a final boss. I played my part by stepping in, my right hook landing squarely on Brad’s jaw—a move that I might have regretted under different circumstances but felt disturbingly right at the moment.
The bridesmaid, caught in the drama, retreated with a sob, her escape quick and flustered. Whitney, meanwhile, remained still, her initial shock morphing into something fiercer as she witnessed the scene unfold.
Brad, now on his feet, was red-faced and disheveled. His attempt to take back some dignity only made him look more ridiculous as he shouted threats about legal repercussions.
“You’ll hear from my lawyer!” His voice echoed off the walls, full of bluster but undercut by his ludicrous situation—pants half-undone, shirt askew, and a bright red mark blooming on his cheek.
That’s when Whitney snapped from her daze, her eyes sharpening as she grabbed a nearby pitcher of iced tea on the kitchen countertop. With a glare that could have melted steel, she dumped the contents over Brad’s head, drenching him in a cold, tea-scented reality check.
“I’m not your trophy wife, Brad!” Whitney declared, her voice trembling with rage and liberation. “You suck, and I’m done!”
The cold tea dripped down his stunned face, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The room fell silent for a heartbeat, the only sounds the dripping of tea and Brad’s sputtering.
As hotel security’s footsteps approached, signaling our time to exit stage left, I grabbed Rachel’s hand, ready to make our escape. Whitney, her moment of triumph complete, followed close behind, her earlier resignation replaced by a fierce determination.
Rachel glanced back at me, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the confrontation. “Let’s get out of here before the real boss fight starts,” she joked, pulling me along with a laugh that rang clear and victorious.
And as we disappeared around the corner, Brad’s spluttered protests fading into the background, I couldn’t help but think that in this unexpected game of life, I’d lucked out with the best co-op partner I could ever have asked for.