Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Amelia

"Where to?" Robbie asks, the engine of his SUV purring to life with the push of a button.

Some people might be in awe of artificial intelligence or advancements in biotech. Me? I'm forever astounded by starting a car with the press of a finger. Maybe because my dad is of the opinion that cars should be driven into the ground. And since Toyotas never die, my little Camry may outlive me. I certainly don't see a push-button ignition in my near future.

Robbie—or Van?—clears his throat.

"Right. Where to, where to, where to," I mutter, like Dorothy clicking her heels together. As though chanting the words will give me an answer. It doesn't. My brain feels like it's been bleached. "Um, I don't know. I guess I didn't plan my escape very well."

"I think you're doing just fine." He glances over, a wry grin on his lips. "You got out. That's the important part. Keep thinking, and for now, I'll just get us out of here. You know, in case your idiot ex-fiancé tries to chase after you." He puts the car in reverse, then pauses, turning to fully look at me, his dark eyes intense. "Unless … you want him to chase after you?"

"If he does, will you run him over?" I deadpan.

"Yes," he says. No hesitation. And a small, pleased smile. A wicked one.

I love it.

I mean, assuming we're both kidding. I wouldn't literally commit homicide or ask anyone else to do so over Drew . He's totally not worth the jail time.

But I do think there should be laws in place over this kind of thing. Fines. Legal ramifications. A scarlet letter. Just not … vehicular homicide.

Would he actually run Drew over?

I study Robbie's— Van's —profile as he turns out of the church parking lot, headed west toward the mountains. When we met his head was almost shaved. I even reached up to run my fingers over the rough stubble at one point that night. Now, it's longer and softer. A bit unruly.

It suits him.

He has a wide, square jaw covered with a neatly trimmed beard; a nose that's either been broken a lot or is naturally somewhat crooked; and a scar threading through his eyebrow, extending down near the outside corner of one eye.

And let's not forget the hint of a tattoo peeking out where his shirt's unbuttoned.

It drove me nuts the night we met, and I spent too long trying to figure out what the ink peeking out of his V-neck was.

Now, his suit jacket is in the back, tossed casually like the man dares wrinkles to defy him, and he's unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. I still can't get a good look at the tattoo though.

I realize with a hot flush of shame that I'm staring. Admiring him, if I'm being honest. Then my gaze snags on the swelling in his face. Tomorrow, it will be worse. Guilt pricks me.

He took not one but two hits on my account. And he barely knows me.

"Your face." I start to reach out, then drop my hand to my lap in a fist. "Does it hurt?"

He shoots me a quick glance, as though my words or maybe the shift in my tone surprised him. "Nah. I mean, it's a little sore, but no biggie. I get hit all the time. Just usually not by an angel statue and my coach's fist."

He chuckles, a low sound that makes my skin hum like a plucked string.

"I'm sorry," I say with a wince, studying the red mark on his cheek. There's a tiny scrape too, one that might scab over tomorrow. "Sorry about everything."

Van frowns. "None of this was your fault. No apologies from you. It's a rule."

"I didn't realize there were rules for being a runaway bride."

"Oh, absolutely."

"Yeah?" I ask. "Whose rules are they? Is there a list somewhere?"

"The rules are yours to make." He shoots me a quick look and an even quicker smile.

"But you're the one who said no apologies is a rule."

"Fine," he concedes. "That's my rule. The rest are up to you."

I like this idea. New rules for what will be a new chapter in my life.

Though I'm not at all ready to think about that new chapter too hard. Because there are a whole lot of wayward sections of my old life I have to deal with first. Wedding gifts to return, finding a place to live since I moved in with my dad temporarily, and— ugh —finding a new job.

Because a few months ago, I made the ill-fated decision to apply at Drew's company. We don't work in the same department, but the company is small enough I won't be able to avoid him. I can't go back. It was a realization I had the moment I took off his ring.

"Are you comfortable?" Robbie asks. "Do you have enough room?"

"As comfortable as I can be. This thing isn't exactly made for car trips."

I gesture toward my dress, the skirt puffing up around me like spray foam insulation in a crawlspace. The gown is gorgeous if not horribly uncomfortable. My ribs ache from the bodice, which has some serious boning, which is seriously oppressive. It is definitely not a dress meant for car rides. Even in SUVs as spacious—and surprisingly clean—as this one.

I shouldn't have made the assumption that all hockey players would have messy cars that smelled like stank hockey gear. The interior of this car actually smells fantastic. Or maybe that's him?

I manage not to lean over and sniff him, though I'd like to know if the clean, masculine scent is him or some kind of hidden Sexy Dude Smell air freshener inside the car.

He notices my not-so-subtle perusal of his vehicle, frowning as he glances around the car. Hopefully he didn't notice me sniffing.

I swallow down a laugh because I cannot believe I'm sitting here in my wedding dress, thinking about how good he smells .

"What?" he asks.

"Your car is clean." A stupid thing to say. Especially because it reveals that I expected it not to be.

"I have two," he says with a grin. "My Jeep has all the hockey gear." He pauses. "And all the mud."

Mud? Okay, I guess he's one of those guys who does the whole off-roading thing. And he's also a guy who does the whole two-cars thing. I know Dad's team has reached some kind of superstar level for AHL in the past few years, but maybe I didn't realize how well the Appies were doing. Or maybe Robbie— Van —has family money.

I might have gotten along with him from the very moment we met, but I know almost nothing about him. Including his actual name.

"Important question: what should I call you? Robbie or Van?"

"You can call me whatever."

"Should I add that to the rules?" I tease.

"Totally."

"But what would you prefer?"

"Van is what I go by. Almost no one calls me Robbie. Or even knows that's my real name."

Interesting. Because the night we met, he said his name was Robbie. I immediately want to ask who "almost no one" is, but I don't.

"Did you introduce yourself with a different name the night we met because you knew who I was?"

He winces. "No. I had no idea you were Coach's daughter. Not until I saw him with you, put the pieces together, and?—"

"Then ran away like a coward?" I suggest cheerfully.

I wait for him to bristle. To bluster and argue the way Drew would at being told he was cowardly.

But Van only chuckles. "That about sums it up. I'm sorry. It was stupid. I should have come back over and dealt with the fallout." He pauses, then glances over. No hint of a smile this time. "I don't think I'm your dad's favorite."

"I have heard your name from him before—Van."

His dark brows practically hit his hairline. "Yeah? He's talked about me?"

"No. He uses your name as a curse word. You know, like, he'll stub his toe and yell, Van it! Or call things a Van shame."

This earns me a laugh, deep and husky. I catch myself grinning, then force my face back to neutral. Nothing should be funny right now. I definitely shouldn't be enjoying myself with some guy right after running from a wedding with another guy.

You make the rules , I remind myself, and it makes me feel slightly better. Because it feels good to laugh right now.

"I was kidding by the way. About my dad using your name as a curse."

Mostly. I mean, Dad doesn't use Van as a curse but I definitely have heard him muttering about Van before. He tries not to bring work home with him, which I think is mostly due to him wanting to keep me disconnected from his hockey guys.

And now … I'm running away from my wedding with one of the players he likes the least.

"Oh." Van seems relieved. "If you were serious, I'd be a little more worried about having you in my car right now."

"You might still need to be worried."

"Too late. I'm committed to seeing this thing through."

Though most of the conversation is light and teasing, Van's words have a warm bubble of happiness buoying my mood. He makes me feel less alone, like we're partners or a tiny team.

A comfortable silence falls between us as Van heads west, toward the rolling hills at the edge of town, feeding into the Appalachian mountains that surround Harvest Hollow. Something eases in me the farther we get from the church and today's events. I shuffle the skirt of my dress around so I can sink more comfortably into the seat.

"Are you taking me to an isolated spot to murder me?" I ask. "Because my dad would definitely murder you back. And my phone shares my location with Morgan, who is like the Liam Neeson of best friends."

"I have no murderous plans, aside from the one to run over your ex."

My ex . That is going to take some getting used to. Not as much in the emotional sense as the realization that I am now a woman who had a fiancé, almost had a wedding, and now has an ex. It says a lot about how I felt—or didn't feel—about Drew that I'm more concerned about the titles and the practical details than the person I lost.

Good freaking riddance .

"So, where are we?"

"This is a route I drive when I need to think," Van says. "Or if I'm in the middle of an audiobook, sometimes I'll just drive and listen. It's pretty."

It's more than pretty. The road loops and winds like a line of cursive written through the hills. It's late spring and the trees are lush and heavy with green. Every so often, we get a perfect view of Harvest Hollow down below, looking quaint and adorable. Which, really, it is. The sky also seems somehow closer up here, the colors richer, even as the sun lowers, casting longer shadows from the trees and hills.

I can almost picture what the sunset must be like—a whispered outline of gold edging the darkness as the stars blink awake. Then I imagine Van driving this way alone, an audiobook playing over the speakers. The thought makes my chest pinch, and I'm not sure why.

"Do you want to listen to an audiobook now?" I ask.

"Nah. I'm in the middle of a space opera. It would be weird to drop you into the middle of that."

I yawn. "I don't mind."

"You want to nap?" Van asks. "Nothing like a good angry nap when you need one."

"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 can't stop a giggle from escaping. This seems to please Van, who offers me a crooked grin.

"Good to know you have a plethora of naps at your disposal. I think I'm too keyed up to sleep."

My blood feels carbonated, a jittery edginess that fizzes through me. It reminds me of the time Morgan and I were up late cramming for exams and I thought it would be a good idea to take one of those six-hour energy drinks.

Spoiler alert: it was not a good idea.

I was too wired to focus on studying, then conked out with my face on my notebook. Morgan barely woke me up in time, and I had to sprint to class and take the exam with a spiral notebook mark on my cheek.

Right now, I'm feeling the same effervescence in my blood and am probably about six-degrees of separation from mild—or possibly medium—hysteria.

"You don't have to talk about it, but how are you doing? Today was a lot. And you seem surprisingly okay."

"I might be in temporary denial. I don't know exactly how I'm feeling," I admit. "But definitely not how I'm supposed to feel. I don't think? I wish there were some kind of guidebook."

"There probably is," Van says. "But you could write your own with the rules you make up. You told me you're a writer, yeah?"

He remembers . Such a small thing, but it feels bigger. Or maybe I'm attaching meaning to things I shouldn't. Getting attached to a man I hardly know who just so happened to play my hero for the day.

"I write," I hedge.

"Then you're a writer."

"But they're not, like, published things."

Just dreams. Aspirations I haven't quite pinned down yet. A Substack account with about seventy-two followers. Three of whom I suspect are Morgan using different email addresses.

"Can I ask a nosy question? One that's none of my business," Van adds.

"Oh, you're asking for permission now?" I tease. "After basically diving nose-first into my business today?"

"Not gonna apologize."

"I wasn't asking you to. By the way—thank you."

He waves off my thanks. "So, that's a yes to my nosy question?"

I laugh. "Sure."

"What did you see in that guy, anyway? Like, is he your type? The dream guy? Because he just seems so beneath you. No offense."

"Why would that offend me?"

His lips quirk. "Because I implied you have terrible taste."

"Okay, now I'm offended." But I'm not really, and Van clearly hears the lightness in my tone.

Which disappears when I start to think about Van's question. What did I see in Drew?

I fold my hands in my lap, feeling the absence of my wedding ring like a bruise. But I have Mom's ring, and I twist it on my finger while debating how to answer this.

In the end, I decide this is one topic I'd rather not examine too closely right now. And I definitely don't want to talk about it with Van.

"I plead the fifth."

"This car isn't a courtroom."

"Then I plead temporary insanity."

"Makes more sense," Van says.

Van goes quiet, either a sign of a good listener or a man who's wishing he never got involved with all this. With me. Or maybe he's disappointed I clearly dodged answering his question.

The trees lace their fingers over the road, dipping us in shadows, quieting the buzz under my skin. Slightly. I don't think it's going away anytime soon.

"I'm sorry," I start. "I just—Ow!" I rub my arm where Van just pinched me. Pinched me! "What was that for?"

"Whenever you say you're sorry, I'm pinching you. Got it?"

"New rule—I'm banning pinching."

"Impossible to ban. Pinching is a clause under my no-apologies rule."

"Any other clauses I need to know about?"

"I'll let you know," he says.

"At least don't pinch so hard ." I rub my arm, which has a tiny red splotch now. "I'm going to bruise."

"It wasn't that hard," he says. Then his smile drops. "Was it?"

"No," I admit. "I won't bruise. It's fine. Is pinching a hockey thing? I thought y'all punched each other. Not pinched each other."

"It's an I have three sisters thing."

"Three? That's … wow." I stare at Van's profile, processing this information. "I think you told me that, but I don't remember. Older or younger?"

"One older. Two younger."

"This must be where this whole protective vibe comes from. I bet you chased off so many boys."

"Too many," he growls, his eyebrows lowering like he's thinking of each and every boy who wronged each and every sister.

I think of him marching Drew into the bride's room, the same expression on his face. I didn't allow myself to think so then, but it's a good look on Van.

I smile. "Well, thanks for extending your services to a non-sister."

"You're Coach's daughter," he says, like it's a given.

Like that's the reason he's here.

Disappointment is a metal vise squeezing my ribs. Or maybe my dress has some kind of tripwire, where if you don't actually get married in it, the bodice becomes like a bear trap, squeezing the life out of you. Especially if you start getting any kind of ideas about a man than the one you were supposed to marry.

It's stupid to be disappointed. To think Van's actions today had anything to do with me .

Just like when he ghosted me at the restaurant, his decisions are about my dad .

"Right. My dad is your coach," I say, appointing myself Captain of the Obvious.

"I would have done something anyway," Van says. "I hate cheating. And cheaters."

I want to ask more questions. About his sisters, about why the mention of cheating has his hands curling tightly around the wheel until I fear it might break off in his hands.

But I chicken out.

"Can I borrow your phone?" I ask instead.

"Here."

I think Van's about to hand me his phone, but instead he reaches over, takes my hand, and places it on the steering wheel.

It takes me entirely too long to realize he expects me to steer. That his hands are no longer on the wheel as he lifts his hips and starts digging around for his phone in his back pocket.

"What—no! I can't steer like this!"

Especially not on a winding road. I am not known for my driving prowess. Just ask Dad's exorbitant insurance from my teen years. As if to prove the point, my grip tightens, jerking the wheel a little to the right.

"Just hold the wheel steady," Van says, somehow sounding still unconcerned.

But I am anything but steady. And I am concerned. What if a squirrel runs out into the road? Or a deer! Or a bear! I can't run over nature!

"Is your phone in some kind of locked pants-vault?" I say, my voice coming out squeaky and panicked. "You need to take the wheel!"

We're climbing uphill, a nasty curve coming up.

"Nah, I trust you."

The bend in the road is closer. Van isn't even slowing yet. I stomp on an imaginary brake.

"But you shouldn't! You barely know me! I don't trust me!"

I practically shriek this last part.

"You've got this," he says with far more confidence than I deserve.

He won't think this when I wrap his shiny SUV around a pine tree.

"And I've got you." Van locates his phone and tosses it in my lap, taking control of the car once more. My palm is sweaty when I peel it off the wheel. But I didn't kill us, so … celebrate the small victories?

Another un-wedding rule I can add to the list: always celebrate the little things.

"Nice steering," he says.

"Bad driving," I snap back. He only grins. "What's your passcode?" I ask, trying not to sound like I'm still breathing heavily from my anxiety about steering his car.

"Never give this out," he warns.

I scoff. "Who would I possibly give it to?"

"Anyone. But especially your dad. Or my teammates."

"Why? What's on here? Loads of blackmail material?" I realize after I ask that maybe I don't want to know.

Van gives me a sidelong glance. "Nah. I just don't want them all up in my business. You can look through whatever you want."

I would love to snoop to my nosy heart's content. Especially considering Drew never let me look at his phone.

Now, of course, I know why he didn't. I'd like to find his phone and smash it with a sledgehammer. Then run over it. Then shove it down a garbage disposal. I try not to think at all about Becky. Because that betrayal, even if she and I weren't ever very close, cuts deeper. You don't do that to family.

"The passcode is ten-ten-ten." Van's voice shakes me free of a dark mental path and I'm glad.

"October tenth, 2010?" I ask.

"Nah," Van says with a smirk. "It's perfect tens. Like me."

"Oh my gosh ," I say. "Are you for real right now?"

He totally is. I can tell by the way he's grinning unapologetically. Smugly.

Okay, so Van has a mad case of overconfidence. He scores a perfect ten on the self-esteem scale. And, okay, fine—maybe close to ten in terms of looks. But he's edging pretty far into cocky territory.

Today at least, I don't mind overly confident. Or even cocky.

Maybe I just don't mind Van . Whether it's his protectiveness or the unapologetic way he barged into someone else's business just to do the right thing or maybe it's the allure of the tiny bit of ink creeping out of his shirt collar, I like him. I feel comfortable and safe around him, like we've known each other for years.

A strange reality, but there it is.

"You've got a whole lot of missed texts," I tell him. "What's the Dream Team?"

"Ah," he says. "That's a group text with some of the guys. A reporter called our line that once and it stuck."

"Your line ?"

He laughs. "You really don't know hockey, huh—even with your dad as a coach?"

"I really don't know hockey."

"A line is the guys you're usually out on the ice with. Technically, my line is only offense with Logan and Eli, but the Dream Team is all the guys who start: Alec and Nathan on defense and Felix in the goal. We also just added two new guys to the thread: Camden and Wyatt."

"Okay, well, they're still blowing up your phone." Texts are coming through even while the phone's in my hand. Too fast for me to even read them.

Though I'd like to.

"Can you mute the conversation? They won't stop anytime soon."

I do, catching only a glimpse of texts asking Van if he ran off with the bride and if he thinks this will get him his starting spot back. Did he lose his starting spot? Another question I wonder but don't ask.

I tap in Morgan's number, one of the only ones I've got memorized. Before I call my dad, I need some intel. I can only hope she answers. I never pick up when it's numbers I don't know. Despite putting myself on a Do Not Call list, I get daily calls asking me to donate to all kinds of things or scammers telling me I have a computer virus and need to download their software.

"Hello?" she says, sounding slightly breathless.

"It's me. I'm on Van's phone."

"Oh, hey, Julia."

I wrinkle my nose. "Julia? It's me, Amelia."

"I meant Julia Roberts, a la Runaway Bride ," Morgan says. "Too soon?"

I laugh. "No. It's fine. The shoe fits, I guess."

I actually prefer thinking about this situation as something active I did—running away—than the passive idea of me being a jilted bride.

"How are things? I wanted to call my dad but thought I'd check in with you first to see how things are."

Morgan whistles. "You missed quite a show."

"What kind of show?" I glance at Van, then say, "Hang on. Putting you on speaker. What happened?"

"Basically, a team of hot hockey players in suits stormed into the bride's room, pulled your dad off Uncle Bobby, then proceeded to both cause chaos and also create order. They booted Bobby, Becky, and Drew right out of the church, then one of them—the pretty one?—"

Van snorts. "That would be Alec."

"Yeah, him. Alec went and made an announcement in the church about it. He's very professional and well-spoken in addition to being pretty. Then the woman who runs all the social media stuff?—"

"Parker," Van supplies.

"Yeah—Parker. She helped your dad deal with all the aftermath. Basically, the team saved the day. It was awesome. Your dad is loved."

My dad is loved . Right. That's why they were helping, not because they know or care about me .

Dad is also probably the reason Van is still driving aimlessly through the darkness. Not because of me .

That thought makes me a little sad, and so I push it away. I've got enough sad for a few dozen Amelias.

In the grand scheme of things, Van being here for my dad—not me—shouldn't even be on a top ten list of terrible things to be upset about today. And yet it's this I fixate on, my thoughts circling around and around it like a dirty drain.

"So, you think I should call him?" I ask.

"Honestly," Morgan says slowly, "I wouldn't right now. I mean text him you're okay, and I can tell him in person. But he's still breaking stuff."

"My dad is breaking stuff?"

"Like a toddler hopped up on juice boxes being told it's time to leave Chuck E. Cheese." She pauses. "He threw a chair through a window."

"Of the church? "

"Of the church. At least it wasn't stained glass," Morgan adds. "It'll cost less to replace. Is this kind of thing covered when you book a wedding?"

"Doubtful," I say. "I still can't believe this. I've never even seen him get that mad coming home after losing a game."

"He does get mad," Van says. "But he's never thrown a chair through a window. I think this situation warrants it."

"Take me off speaker for a sec," Morgan says, and I comply, putting the phone back up to my ear.

"Just me now. What is it?"

"I have an idea," Morgan says. "I just want you to think about it before you say no."

"Your caveat already makes me want to say no."

She ignores this. "You've got the reservations all set up for the honeymoon, right?"

"Ugh, don't remind me. More money lost." Drew and I split it half and half. He did most of the planning for our Florida trip, and then we traded off paying for reservations. Dollar signs dance like sugar plums through my head and leave me a little lightheaded.

"You should go," Morgan says.

I almost drop the phone. "What?" I hiss. I glance over at Van, who's trying very hard to pretend like he's not listening. And failing.

"I would go with you, but you know how my work is this time of year."

Morgan does something with accounting and right now is a particularly busy season. Honestly, it seems like all the seasons are busy for her. I wish right now she had some normal job that would let her take a last-minute trip with her best friend whose world just crashed.

Oh. My. Gosh . My world totally just crashed, didn't it?

It feels like someone just gave my corset strings a vicious yank.

Morgan continues. "Going alone would be a chance to, I don't know, come to grips with things. Make your plans for the future. Or the opposite: drink a thousand pi?a coladas with absolutely zero guilt and zero thought to the future."

I can see the allure. There's a tug of desire at the idea of escaping, for sure. Especially right now, when Van's large SUV feels like a tiny clown car and the bodice of my dress just keeps tightening as Morgan keeps talking.

Suddenly I remember Becky's comment about splitting my seams and there's a sharp pain in my abdomen.

"Say something," Morgan urges.

"I don't know."

Going on the honeymoon trip Drew and I—okay, mostly Drew—planned … alone?

While there are plenty of introverted people in the world who might love the idea of a solo vacation, the idea of even having dinner alone makes me break out in metaphorical hives. My circle might be small, but I like being around people.

Plus, it would feel like a slap-in-the-face reminder of being rejected by Drew. Being glad it's over between us doesn't take the edge off the humiliation of how it happened.

"You could always ask Restaurant Robbie to go with you," Morgan suggests, her voice sounding sly. "He certainly seemed keen on helping out earlier. Almost like he wanted to go with you."

"That was different—he was just—I mean. No. That's one thing. This would be … another."

My face flushes. Not just my face—my neck and my chest too. I lean forward, yanking the temperature dial on my side of the car down. Van frowns and adjusts the vents to be blowing more in my direction. The tiny, thoughtful gesture has me biting the inside of my cheek.

"Suit yourself. But if it were me? I'd be asking that hunk of man to be my plus-one. I mean, the team has a break now, right? That's why you and your dad picked this date—to work around your dad's schedule?"

"Yeah, but … I don't know."

Dad actually put pressure on the team owner for this mini-break in hockey stuff before the playoffs. It served a dual purpose: leaving him time to enjoy my wedding but also giving the guys a much-needed break right before the last few games and then playoffs. Apparently, the team's social media success means a lot of extra events on top of regular season games, and more than once, Dad has come home grumbling about them being overworked and overscheduled.

"My ticket isn't until tomorrow," I say.

"Get them to switch it. You can get out tonight. There's one more flight leaving in three hours. You can make that."

"I can't pay to change the ticket," I admit, though Morgan already knows my financial situation, which is categorically not great.

"I'll happily help with anything. Call me. I'll charge it to my card and you can pay me back. Do not argue ," she orders in a sharp voice as I start to protest. "I'll help if you need it, and you've got enough to cover food, drinks, tips, whatever. Everything else is reserved and paid for, right?"

She knows it is. Because she knows too much about me. "You've really thought this through," I say dryly.

"I'm not going to push you," Morgan says.

I laugh, and it sounds just slightly tinged with hysteria. "Isn't that exactly what you're doing—pushing me? It's kind of your trademark."

"Look. I'm morally opposed to the idea of using another person as a rebound," she says. "So, it's not like I'm saying you need to go get wild with the Appies' resident bad boy. But I think you'd be safer with him. And maybe have a better time than you would by yourself. I don't like thinking of you alone. Van definitely seems like he'd bring the party. He'd keep you from wallowing, that's for sure. What have you got to lose by asking?"

Nothing. I've already lost it all.

"I'll meet you on the way to the airport. I'll send a text to this number telling you where." Morgan hangs up.

I drop Van's phone back in the cupholder. He glances over, but I can't look at him. How must I look right now? I'm sure my hair is falling out of its careful updo. My dress takes up half the car.

I'm suddenly aware of the garter, cutting into my upper thigh.

I hate the garter tradition and tried to talk Drew out of it, but he has a bunch of friends who think the garter toss is the best moment of any wedding. He joked that they were training for it like some kind of Olympic event. I'm sure it would have devolved into a drunken wrestling match.

Hoisting my skirt up, I manage to wrangle an arm inside without flashing my underwear to Van. "Can you roll down the windows?" I ask.

"Um, yeah. Are you sure you're okay?"

"No. But I will be." I yank the garter down my leg. I might end up with a little fabric burn.

Worth it.

The wind whips my hair around my face as I line the garter up on my finger like I'm shooting rubber bands at someone across the elementary school lunch table. This doesn't count as littering, right?

Who cares , I tell myself. Some squirrel will make it into a very nice nest.

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?

I start to laugh. What starts as a little giggle erupts into a hearty guffaw, awkward and loud. Van keeps shooting me glances like he's fully expecting my head to start spinning around, Exorcist -style. Wouldn't be all that surprising.

I feel a little possessed. All the fizzy bubbles in my blood have been shaken, and I can feel the pressure on my figurative cork.

"Can I do anything?" Van asks.

The question is sweet, and cuts right through my freakout. I think about what Morgan suggested—almost demanded. Could I ask Van? The idea feels preposterous. So stupid.

He wouldn't want to go.

Would he?

Would I want to spend the next four days with a man I barely know on the honeymoon I was supposed to take with a man I thought I knew?

Yes , I think, glancing over at Van.

He makes me feel safe. It's like I've known him for years, even though we're practically strangers. I trust him. And even though I shouldn't have any kind of even mild feelings of attraction toward another man today of all days, I do. That's probably a reason not to have Van go.

But I can't ignore the pull toward him. We could just be friends. Totally. Friends who are taking a supposed-to-be honeymoon together. It could be totally fine and platonic.

And really, really fun.

When Van reaches across to touch my hand, wild abandon takes over.

"How would you like an all-expenses-paid tropical vacation—with me?"