The Runaway Bride

Maren The landlady pushed open the bedroom door, and I followed her inside, my eyes slowly wandering around the space. It was smaller than I had imagined. Much smaller. The walls were painted a tired shade of cream, with a few faint stains near the ceiling. A narrow bed stood against one wall, covered with a faded floral duvet that had probably been fashionable twenty years ago. Beside it sat a wooden nightstand with a crooked drawer, and opposite the bed was a wardrobe that looked as though one strong breeze might convince it to collapse. A small window overlooked the neighboring garden, its thin curtains fluttering slightly in the breeze. There was barely enough room to turn around without bumping into something. This is where I'm going to live? I swallowed the thought before it could escape my mouth. "It isn't much, but it'll do," the old woman said cheerfully, placing her hands on her hips as she surveyed the room. "I've had everything cleaned. The bathroom is just across the hall, and the kitchen is downstairs. You'll have to share it for now, but I don't imagine that'll be much trouble." It'll do. I stared at the bed again. I had spent most of my life sleeping in rooms larger than this entire floor. My bedroom back home had its own sitting area, a walk-in closet, and a bathroom with a bathtub large enough to swim in if I were so inclined. The sheets were changed every morning, my clothes were arranged by color, and I had never once needed to wonder whether the hot water would work. Now I was standing in a room where the wardrobe looked like it had survived a war. "It won't do," I wanted to say. Instead, I bit down on my tongue. I hadn't come all this way to start complaining about the size of a bedroom. I had come here because I needed somewhere to disappear, and this little room, with its questionable furniture and faded curtains, was the first place in a long time where nobody knew what I was supposed to be. Nobody knew who I was supposed to marry. Nobody knew what I had done. And, for now, that was enough. "Thank you," I said, forcing a smile. "I'll wire the payment now." The old woman waved a dismissive hand. "There's no need to rush things. Settle in first, then you can decide whether you want to stay or not." I blinked at her. "Really?" "Of course, dear. I'm not going to throw you out before you've even unpacked." She chuckled, then glanced at my suitcases near the door. "Although I must say, you've brought quite a lot with you for someone who only plans to stay a little while." My smile faltered. I had packed in a hurry. Two suitcases and a handbag were all I had managed to bring without drawing questions. "Better to have what I need," I replied. "That's true." She nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer. "Well, I'll leave you to settle in. If you need anything, just call for me.” "Thank you. I really appreciate it." "Don't mention it, dear." She gave me one last smile before walking out. Her footsteps retreated down the hallway, followed by the soft click of the door closing. And then I was alone. Actually alone. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was nobody standing behind me telling me what to wear, where to go, or how to behave. Nobody asking whether I had remembered my fitting, whether the florist had confirmed the arrangements, or whether I had rehearsed my vows. Nobody reminding me that the Whitmore family did not embarrass itself. I stood there for a moment, listening to the unfamiliar quiet. Then I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My shoulders dropped. The smile I'd been wearing disappeared. "Well, Maren," I whispered to myself. "You've officially done it." I wasn't sure whether I wanted to laugh or cry. Perhaps both. I crossed the room and lowered myself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath my weight, releasing a faint creak that made me look down at it suspiciously. "Please don't collapse," I muttered. "You're all I've got." The joke fell flat in the empty room. I rubbed my palms against my thighs, then looked around again. The old curtains. The chipped nightstand. The tiny window through which I could see a patch of garden and a fence that needed painting. It wasn't home. But home had never really been mine to begin with. I leaned forward, pressing my elbows against my knees, and buried my face in my hands. I had imagined leaving a thousand times. In my head, it had always been dramatic, almost cinematic. I would walk away with my head held high, certain of my decision, unafraid of what came next. The reality was considerably less glamorous. I was exhausted. My feet hurt. My stomach had been twisting itself into knots for hours, and I had no idea what I was going to do tomorrow, let alone next week. I didn't even know whether I had enough money to survive here for more than a month without finding work. Still, when I closed my eyes, I felt something unfamiliar settle inside my chest. Relief. Small, fragile relief. Because I was here. Not at the church. Not in the back of the car with Claire beside me, watching the minutes disappear as we drove closer to the venue. Not standing before two hundred guests while a man I could barely stand waited to put a ring on my finger. I was here. And I had to keep reminding myself that I had chosen this. My fingers curled into the fabric of my dress. The memory came back so suddenly that I could almost smell the roses again. Three hours earlier, I had been on my way to my wedding. The car smelled of fresh flowers and expensive leather. White roses had been arranged along the dashboard, their delicate petals trembling whenever we passed over a bump in the road. Sunlight spilled through the tinted windows, catching the diamond bracelet around my wrist and the tiny crystals sewn into the bodice of my wedding dress. Everything was beautiful. Everything was perfect. That was what everyone kept telling me. The dress had been designed especially for me. My mother had personally approved the flowers. The church had been decorated weeks in advance, and the reception venue had cost more money than some people would earn in several years. My father had invited business associates from three different countries. The society pages had already announced the wedding. There was even a photographer waiting at the entrance to capture my arrival. I had everything a bride could possibly want. So why did I feel as though I was being driven to my own funeral? My hands were clasped tightly in my lap, my fingers tangled together beneath the layers of white fabric. I had been squeezing them so hard that the ring on my right hand was digging into my skin. I loosened my grip. A moment later, I tightened it again. Beside me, Claire shifted in her seat. She had been unusually quiet for most of the journey. That wasn't like her. Claire could talk through an entire movie, complain about a restaurant while eating its food, and turn a five-minute trip to the grocery store into a detailed account of everything happening in her life. But today, she had barely said ten words. I knew why. She had been watching me. "Maren?" I turned my head slightly. "Hmm?" "Are you okay?" "Of course." The answer came too quickly. Claire studied me for a moment, her brows drawing together. "You've been staring out of that window for twenty minutes." "Have I?" "Yes." "Oh." I turned back to the window. Outside, the city was moving along as though today were just another ordinary day. People crossed the streets carrying shopping bags. A man stood outside a coffee shop, talking animatedly on his phone. A woman hurried past with a little boy who was dragging his feet and refusing to cooperate. Ordinary lives. Ordinary problems. I wondered what it would feel like to be that woman. To have a morning in which the biggest problem was getting a stubborn child to walk faster. I wondered what it would feel like to wake up tomorrow and know that my life belonged to me. My throat tightened. "Maren," Claire said again, more gently this time. "Talk to me." I wanted to. God, I wanted to tell her that I couldn't do this. That every time I thought about standing at the altar beside Graham, something inside me recoiled so violently that I could barely breathe. I wanted to tell her that I had spent months convincing myself that the feeling would pass. That once the wedding was over, I would learn to love him. That perhaps all brides were frightened before their weddings and I was simply being dramatic. But Graham's face appeared in my mind. His perfectly measured smile. The way he spoke about our future as though it were a business acquisition. The way he had told me what kind of wife I would be, where we would live, which charities I would support, and how often I would accompany him to his business dinners. He had even chosen the house we would live in. Every decision had already been made. I was merely expected to show up and sign my name to the arrangement. My stomach lurched. "I can't," I whispered. Claire turned fully toward me. "Can't what?" "I can't do this." She stared at me. For one suspended moment, neither of us moved. The hum of the engine seemed to grow louder, and the roses on the dashboard trembled as the car changed lanes. Then Claire reached for my hand. "Maren, look at me." I tried. I really did. But my vision was blurring, and my chest had begun to tighten. I pulled at the neckline of my dress, desperate for air that didn't seem to be reaching my lungs. "I can't breathe," I gasped. "Maren?" "I can't—I can't breathe." Claire's face changed immediately. "Sir, please pull over!" she called toward the front of the car. But I was already leaning forward, one hand pressed against my chest, the other gripping the edge of the seat. "Stop the car," I managed. The driver glanced at us through the rearview mirror. "Miss?" "Stop the car!" I cried. He pulled toward the side of the road and brought the vehicle to a halt. The moment it stopped, I fumbled with the door handle. "Maren, wait!" Claire caught my arm. "Where are you going?" "Out." I didn't wait for her answer. I pushed the door open and stepped onto the pavement, nearly stumbling as the hem of my dress caught beneath my shoe. The sun was too bright. The traffic was too loud. My corset was too tight. Everything was too much. I stumbled toward the pavement and sucked in a breath, then another, pressing my hands against my knees as I tried to steady myself. Behind me, I heard Claire ordering the driver to get some water. "Maren, sweetheart, look at me." I shook my head. "I can't marry him."