Runaway Bride and Prejudice (Appies, #5)

by Emma St. Clair

People say when one door closes, another one opens. And maybe that’s true. But I wanna know what people say when one door opens and you find the groom hooking up with someone who’s not the bride—less than an hour before the wedding. In a church, no less. Classy.

We met randomly. Talked. Thought she might be my soulmate. Then I realized she was my coach’s daughter. The quintessential Romeo and Juliet story. But with more hockey and hopefully with less death and mayhem.

I mean, it was way too fast and definitely stupid to think about that, but Amelia stirred to life the kinds of feelings I’ve never had. The kind of easy enjoyment mixed with potent attraction that left me feeling woozy.

My parents’ excessive failings at monogamy might have left me barricaded behind a No Entry zone for relationships, but Amelia hit me like a runaway truck barreling down a mountain road with cut brakes.

So, for months I tried to forget her. I tried dating her out of my system, but it’s like meeting Amelia altered my brain chemistry. I compared every woman to the one with the sweet smile who stole my fries and made me feel like I was the living embodiment of a Taylor Swift song. One of the happy ones, not the breakup ones.

A lot of people might say trust your gut. But usually when I think my gut is saying something, it’s just hunger.

Anyone with a frontal lobe knows telling women to calm down is the equivalent of waving a whole barrage of red flags at an angry bull.

versus a random blow with whatever hit me. I glance down. See a small statue on the floor. Of course—I would get knocked in the face by an angel.

Feels like a colossal sign that maybe I should have minded my own business. But no, I think, glancing at Amelia again, who’s watching me while keeping the champagne pressed to my cheek. I would do it all over again.

No offense to Coach, but his brother seems about as smart as a bag of rocks. He and Drew are cut from the same cloth, purchased at the store that sells stupid by the yard.

“You take angry naps?” I ask. “Oh, yeah. I also post-game nap, sleepy nap, sad nap—you name it, I’ll nap it.”

I aim for the woods and let the garter fly. It immediately gets sucked right back into the open back window like some kind of bad boomerang. I twist around but can’t see where it went. Does this mean Van technically won the garter toss?

The tightness returns to my chest. No one has ever accused me of being a bleeding heart. But maybe it’s because I don’t choose to show that side to many people. Just my sisters, who know all my secrets. And hold them over my head often. With glee. Which might be why I don’t share with many other people.

Her words crack something open in me. I can almost imagine it. The picture of a perfect little family, and then Amelia in that white dress, beaming as she walks down the aisle on her father’s arm. Why she’s beaming and walking toward me in this image, I don’t know. Clearly, I’m not marriage material.

“I don’t come close to being good enough for Amelia. But if she were mine? I would never let her go. I would spend every waking day and every single breath just hoping I could show her the love she deserves.”

We’re in a backyard in summer, the scent of grass and something grilling close by. Dirt pressing into my knees and palms as I chase a little blond girl with pigtails, sudden weight digging into my back as a boy tries to tackle me. Amelia’s laughter rises over soft music playing from somewhere. She’s watching me with a wide smile, sitting in an Adirondack chair, a baby curled up against her chest, a tuft of dark hair like downy duck fluff on top of her head. I don’t know how I know it’s a baby girl, but I just do. The vision is so clear, so vivid, that for a moment I am completely frozen. It feels like I’ve been pummeled into the boards by a huge defenseman and had the wind knocked out of me. This is … I don’t know what this is. Unfamiliar. Terrifying.

But being with Van this week has, if anything, inflated and expanded my heart, like it’s pumping stronger and steadier than before. As though his presence hasn’t simply had a healing effect but one that multiplies me.

We talk, we laugh, we tease. Playfully … but an undercurrent of something sweeter and headier is growing. I can feel it in the way our touches linger, in the heat clambering up my spine when he’s near me, in the way his eyes darken when we stare too long.

The way he said my wife gave my goose bumps goose bumps.

Every step of the way, Van has been my cheerleader, my safety net, and my challenger. Fly, he told me when we were zip lining. Want to see what’s at the edge of the reef? he asked when we were snorkeling. Don’t miss this, he said, nudging me, as the sun was just about to dip below the horizon and I had been looking at him instead. I’ve never felt happier, nor so safe, nor so … loved.

“Oh.” I swallow, then link our fingers. Once again, Van is challenging me, telling me to fly. Offering a safe space to land.

Even though it says so much about his character to give me what he seems to know I need. But when I lean my thigh against his, he doesn’t shift away. He gives me a sidelong look and smiles. Sweet. Not sad. Patient.

His words, or maybe the throaty tone of his voice, makes me tremble. I’ve never been like this with anyone—embracing passion and playfulness like two sides of the same coin. It only works because the currency is trust.

Mills looked just as beautiful as she ever has. She also didn’t look like she’s been put through a blender, followed by a trash compactor, and then set on fire. Which is how I feel. It’s official: today sucks.

I haven’t been able to stand the sight of myself with a beard ever since I got back from Florida. I finally took a razor to it today. Like the facial hair was a reminder of her. How I looked when I was with her. How I felt. How she made me feel.