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)
I step off the trail, ducking behind a tree that’s nowhere near wide enough to cover even half my body, and rack my brain for tips and tricks on how to survive a bear attack. Seems like that should’ve been covered in the gas station book, but I flipped through the whole thing and there was nothing bear-specific. I’m left with snippets from old cartoons, internet memes, and bullshitting sessions with the guys after watching Cocaine Bear, in which we bragged about how we would’ve handled ourselves.
Play dead? Look bigger than you are? Stop, drop, and roll?
No, the last one is when you’re on fire. Not being stalked by a bear.
“Go, go, go . . . ,” I hear a voice panting.
Do bears talk? Is that something I’ve missed while I’ve been hibernating with a sole focus on music? Or maybe it was grunting I heard, and I imagined that it sounded humanesque.
“Shiiiit,” a definitely human—not ursine—voice hisses. In fact, it sounds rather like a feminine voice who’s in trouble.
So I step out and nearly run headfirst into . . . a bride?
“Aaaahhh!” she screams in terror at my sudden appearance, her arms flailing wildly like she’s trying to fight off a bear attack herself. Her dress swirls around her noisily, trapping her legs, and her veil is hung up on a tree branch a good foot behind her. “Friend, not food!” she shouts, and I think she’s trying to tell a bear not to eat her. Which is sort of ironic, considering my thoughts three seconds ago.
When she swats at my face, I catch her arms in my hands, forcibly holding her still. Bending down to look her directly in her eyes, I try to keep my voice calm because Miss Bride is completely hysterical. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“You’re not a bear,” she says wonderingly, like she doesn’t quite believe what’s right in front of her. She’s still looking at me as if she’s not sure of her assessment, like maybe I’m hiding pointy teeth and a fur pelt under my skin. I know some women are into the whole shape-shifter thing, but I’m just me. Human.
I stare back at her in confusion. “Where did you come from? Are you okay?” I ask again. She doesn’t look it. I’d guess at some point today, her hair and makeup were professionally done, but now? She’s disheveled and messy, with sticks in her brown hair, mascara and eyeliner running under her eyes in telltale rivers of tears, and dirty smudges on her white gown.
I take a mental snapshot because whatever is happening with her, she’s an entire song.
Tear-soaked angel, vision in white. Wasted and washed away. Promised tomorrow slips into disarray.
I must have drifted off into my head for a moment, because she starts struggling in my hands, fighting to break free of my hold. “Who are you? Are you just creeping in the woods like a creepy creeper?” she demands, like I’m the one who obviously doesn’t belong here, with my jeans, T-shirt, and boots, while she’s wearing an actual wedding gown.
While her descriptive language leaves something to be desired, I answer her question anyway. With some of the truth. “Hiking. I’m taking a walk, supposed to be looking for tufted titmouses—titmice?—but instead got run over and attacked. By a bride.”
“Oh,” she says, startled by my framing of the last few moments. “Sorry. I’m . . .” She smooths her dress, like that’s going to do a fucking thing for the mess it’s in, and then horror strikes her face. “Oh my God! I ran away from my wedding!” she whisper-screams as she slaps her hands over her mouth.
“Okay,” I drawl out, not sure what to do with that information. I mean, it makes sense. Why else would she be out here in a wedding dress, running for her life? It’s not every day one gets dropped into the middle of a Hallmark-meets-horror movie. All I know is that if a secret prince or a motherfucker in a hockey mask shows up, I’m bailing faster than you can say, He always seemed so normal. “Is your fiancé an asshole or something? Are you in danger?”
She blinks rapidly, her eyes getting sparklier with every flutter of her lashes. “No, he’s . . . Roy’s fine. Nice. But I couldn’t . . .” Big baby-blue eyes land on me, pleading with me to understand what she’s saying, though it makes less than zero sense. “I couldn’t marry him.”
“Do you have to? Can’t you say no?” It’s a logical question—reasonable, even, given that it’s the twenty-first century and we’re not in cult territory. I don’t think. Though that probably wouldn’t have been highlighted in the scavenger hunt book, so what the fuck do I know?
She narrows her eyes, pinning me in place with a cold stare. There’s a newfound thread of strength as she snappishly informs me, “I thought I wanted to marry him, but then I wasn’t sure. I was standing there; he said his vows—which sucked and were not the sweet, romantic things he was supposed to say—and when it was my turn, I . . . ran. And now here I am.” She looks at the trees around us. “My mom’s gonna kill me. Do you have a phone so I can call her? I need to tell her I’m okay, just crazy.”