Oops...I Kissed All Three

1. Chasity

CHASITY

The air in the boutique is thick with the scent of lilies and hairspray.

Three mirrors angle to show me every facet of the woman I am supposed to become in forty-eight hours.

The seamstress, a small woman with a mouth full of pins, kneels at my feet, her fingers plucking at the lace hem.

Ivory satin binds my ribs, each tiny pearl button a stitch in a cage I have built for myself.

“Just one more tuck, here.” Her muffled voice floats up from the floor. A sharp prick at my ankle.

My breath catches. It isn't the pin. The room tilts, the reflection splintering into a dozen identical strangers. My heart throbs against the boning of the corset, a frantic bird beating against a windowpane. The dress feels heavy, a shroud of expectation dragging me down. I see the life attached to it spool out before me: Sunday brunches with Jason’s parents, polite dinner parties where we discuss interest rates, two children with his blond hair and my quiet anxiety.

Jason isn't a monster. He is steady. He buys me flowers on the fourteenth of every month and remembers my favorite brand of toothpaste.

But when he looks at me, his eyes hold the same placid affection he has for his polished sedan.

There is no spark, no fire. Only the quiet, comfortable hum of a well-oiled machine chugging toward a predictable future.

We never fight because we never care enough to.

My hands grow clammy. The pristine white walls of the fitting room close in.

I see myself at fifty, my face a roadmap of smiles I never felt, living a life that fit me as poorly as this gown.

Another pinprick, this time at my hip. The small, sharp pain is an anchor in the dizzying spiral.

I can't breathe. I can't do this. The thought, once a whisper, is now a scream inside my head.

This isn't my life. It is a costume. And it is suffocating me.

I float out of the boutique, the seamstress’s final instructions a buzzing in my ears.

I don't go home. Not yet. I drive to the bank and pull out every penny from my personal savings account, the crisp bills a shocking weight in my hand. Back at the apartment, Jason’s car is gone.

He's at his weekly poker game. The air inside is still, holding the scent of the lemon cleaner he likes. It is a home preserved under glass.

My movements are jerky, mechanical. I pull a duffel bag from the back of the closet, ignoring the pristine set of monogrammed luggage meant for our honeymoon.

I shove in jeans, sweaters, my worn hiking boots, a toothbrush.

No plan. Just motion. My hands shake as I grab my laptop, hesitating for a moment before yanking the cord from the wall.

My phone buzzes on the counter. A text from my maid of honor.

Final dress fitting?? OMG you’re going to be stunning!

!! I drop the phone into the bag as if it burns.

On the hall table, the keys to my Civic sit next to Jason's spare set.

I snatch mine, my fingers brushing the cool metal of his key fob one last time.

I stop at the door, looking back in toward the living room as I fish my phone out of my purse. It’s now or never, and the sooner I get this off my chest, the less likely it is that I’ll come crawling back. My fingers shake as I open up Jason’s contact info on my phone.

I’m sorry. I can’t. I feel like I’m drowning……..it’s over.

A final, silent goodbye.

I am on the freeway before the adrenaline gives way to a seismic tremor of panic.

The city lights bleed into a smear in my rearview mirror.

What am I doing? Where am I going? The questions ricochet inside my skull.

Rain begins to pepper the windshield, fat drops that streak the glass.

I take an exit at random, the sign pointing toward mountain ranges I only know from postcards.

The road narrows, winding into darkness.

The storm breaks. Rain lashes down, a solid curtain of grey.

The wipers slap a frantic, useless rhythm against the deluge.

You-are-ruining-your-life. You-are-ruining-your-life.

My knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

Every flash of lightning illuminates a wall of impenetrable trees, a world closing in.

My breath hitches, a sob catching in my throat.

I am a ghost, fleeing a life that was never mine, driving headlong into nothing.

The car, my only ally, sputters. It coughs once, twice. Then, the engine dies.

The car coasts, a dead weight on the slick asphalt.

Its momentum carries me forward into the unbroken dark.

Useless. I twist the key again. And again.

The dashboard stays black. The engine offers only a defeated click in response.

My headlights flicker one last time and die, plunging me into absolute blackness.

A crack of lightning splits the sky, and in the blinding white flash, I see them.

A line of spectres in the road. A mother possum and three joeys, their eyes glittering beads in the stark, momentary light.

My hands, slick with sweat, wrench the wheel.

The car, still rolling, veers sharply. It leaves the road with a sickening lurch.

There is a deafening crunch of metal on rock, a violent shudder that rattles my teeth, and then a final, jarring halt.

The sound is swallowed by the incessant drumming of rain on the roof.

Silence, inside. My own ragged breathing fills the void.

I push the door open, the frame groaning in protest. Cold rain hits my face, instantly soaking my hair and the thin fabric of my shirt.

A plume of steam hisses from under the crumpled hood of my Civic.

The front right wheel sits at a nauseating angle, tucked uselessly beneath a mangled fender.

Lightning flashes again, illuminating the possum family as they scurry into the undergrowth, safe.

Gone. Even a possum family gets to scurry off into the night to live another day.

And look at me. My grand escape, my bid for freedom, dies in a ditch on a forgotten mountain road.

The irony is a bitter pill in my throat.

Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself, the wet fabric clinging to my skin.

The rain feels like tiny needles. Through the dense curtain of water and trees, I see it.

A faint, smudged glow. A cluster of lights, warm and distant.

A town. Not close enough to be a comfort, just close enough to mock me.

I am stranded. Completely and utterly stranded.

No phone signal. A dead car. A wedding dress I will never wear waiting for a bride who no longer exists.

A sob escapes my lips, part laughter, part despair, and the storm swallows it whole.

I crawl back into the car, slamming the door against the storm.

The silence inside feels deafening after the chaos of wind and rain battering the metal shell around me.

My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel, knuckles white against the worn leather.

The dashboard clock blinks 11:47 PM in sickly green numbers.

Forty-seven hours until I'm supposed to walk down that aisle.

The thought hits me like a physical blow.

My chest constricts, and suddenly I can't get enough air.

The wedding dress hanging in my closet. The flowers already arranged.

The cake with our names piped in elegant script.

Jason's mother's ring on my finger, a family heirloom that never felt like mine.

Two hundred guests expecting to watch me promise forever to a man who makes me feel like I'm drowning in beige.

"What have I done?" The words come out as a whisper, then louder. "What the hell have I done?"

The tears start slowly, hot tracks down my cheeks that I swipe away with the back of my hand.

But they keep coming, faster now, until I'm gulping air between sobs.

My carefully constructed life lies in ruins behind me, and ahead there's nothing but darkness and uncertainty.

I've thrown away everything safe, everything predictable, for what?

To die in a ditch on a mountain road like some tragic heroine in a bad romance novel?

I press my palms against my eyes, but the pressure only makes the tears flow harder.

My shoulders shake with the force of it, twenty-eight years of holding everything together finally cracking apart.

The rain drums against the roof like impatient fingers, and I cry until my throat is raw and my chest aches.

"Brilliant, Chasity. Absolutely brilliant." I laugh through the tears, a sound that borders on hysteria. "Run away from your problems and die in the wilderness. Very mature."

My phone sits dead in my bag, as useless as everything else.

Even if it worked, who would I call? Jason, to tell him his bride-to-be has lost her mind?

My parents, to explain why their investment in my perfect wedding has gone up in smoke?

My sister, who warned me this day would come but probably didn't expect it to be quite this dramatic?

The storm shows no signs of letting up. If anything, the wind has picked up, rocking the car with each gust. I'm going to freeze to death out here, and they'll find my body clutching the keys to a life I couldn't live.

That's when I see them. Two pale beams cutting through the rain and darkness, growing stronger as they approach. Headlights.

Is this help, or certain death at the hands of a crazy mountain man?