Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
But what if there’s more? More to life than a checklist? More to the world than Maple Creek? More to me than a label change from Roy’s Girlfriend to Roy’s Wife?
I hear the truck start out front and know my time is up. Any grace Mom had has expired, and I’d best get my butt downstairs . . . now.
I shake my head, rattling the worries and doubts loose and shoving them into a deep, dark corner of my mind. “A little cold feet, that’s all,” I murmur, wiggling my perfectly warm toes in my boots. I catch the shaky uncertainty in my voice.
It feels like my body isn’t my own as I force myself to robotically walk to the front door. My wedding dress makes a swish-swish-swish sound with every step, but what I mostly hear is my heart racing and a dull roaring in my ears.
Outside, Mom meets me in the front yard and stops suddenly, her eyes glittery with unshed tears. “Oh, honey. You look beautiful.”
She’s already seen me all dressed up. In fact, she and my twin sister, Joy, helped me get dressed, but I imagine she’s going to be struck by seeing me as a bride all day. This is a check mark on Mom’s life list too.
“Thanks, Mom. For everything,” I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
She waves her hands, fanning her face. “Don’t make me mess up my eye makeup, young lady. I bought waterproof mascara that makes these fancy tubes on your lashes so I wouldn’t look a mess all day. It’s supposed to be what synchronized swimmers wear in the pool. Figured if it was good enough for them, it was good enough for me.” She flutters her lashes, which do look extra dark and long.
“Pretty,” I say, figuring a compliment is always a win.
“I was coming to light a fire under your butt. Joy texted and said people are already arriving to get a good seat, so we’ve got to scoot. Don’t want to be late for your special day.”
My dad, brother, and sister headed to the ceremony site a while ago to do last-minute preparations there. I suspect it was also to give Mom and me a moment alone.
Her smile is bright and warm, proudly telegraphing how happy she is.
Mom and Dad have always been amazing. Admittedly, when I was foolishly and desperately in love the way only a teenager can be, and dreamily announced my plans to marry Roy while trying on an ivory prom dress, my parents nodded and said, Sure, honey, which we all knew meant No way. It wasn’t that they didn’t like Roy, but that I was young, and they knew how likely things were to change as we grew up. Yet they didn’t argue with me or make me feel stupid for feeling that way. In return, I’ve never said I told you so to them for being right, now that those youthful plans are actually coming to fruition.
Especially when they might’ve been an itsy-bitsy, teeny-tiny bit right.
Mom opens the door and helps me climb into Dad’s big four-door truck, which is our only vehicle that would fit me and my dress—and that’s with the passenger seat pushed all the way back to touch the rear seat. She makes sure every inch of my satin-and-lace confection is in and then slams the door shut. In her own mother-of-the-bride dress—a gold sequined number she ordered online—she hikes around the front of the truck and climbs in behind the wheel.
“Ready?” she asks.
I almost say no. I almost ask if she had cold feet when she married Dad. I almost do something . . . anything . . . to give myself a minute to think because it’s so loud in my head. So overwhelmingly loud, with doubts, worries, questions, and, oddly, the song “Go Your Own Way” on repeat. But that might be because Dad was in control of the music at home this morning, and vintage Fleetwood Mac is one of his favorites.
I feel Mom’s focus land heavily on me, and I risk turning to meet her gaze. Silently, I blink and Mom tilts her head, calculations and concern filling her eyes in an instant. She can read me like a book. She’s always been able to do that, which pissed my brother and sister off when we were growing up because they couldn’t get away with anything. All Mom would have to do was stare me down and she’d know exactly what type of shenanigans they were up to. Because it was always them. I was then and still am the good kid, the good girl, the one nobody ever worries about because I’ll always do the right thing.
“Hope?” she questions gently, like she’s afraid I might burst into tears if she’s her usual blunt and bold self.