Page 17 of The No Try Zone
My shoulders slump. That’s exactly what would happen. She’s gorgeous, full of life and driven to become someone even more amazing than she already is. Hell, she moved to a differentcountry. She’s far braver than me, and definitely smarter. Way out of my league. I’ll be the disappointment that my dad always said I was.
So no. I can’t stay. In fact, I need to leave and figure this out far, far away from here. I glance at the desk, hoping that I at least followed protocol when I came into this room. Sure enough, my wallet is on the desk, and my shoes are beneath it. A move I do in every hotel room, no matter what. I breathe a sigh of relief as I shove my feet into my shoes, tuck the wallet into my front pocket, clutch my phone, and head for the door.
Wait.
No way am I leaving that wedding certificate here.
I pluck it off the coffee table, fold it up small enough to fit into my back pocket, and leave.
I’ll have this fixed in no time.
I hope.
Chapter6
Sam
THE CABIN LIGHTS come on, dashing the bits and pieces of memories to the shadows. I remember his smile, and the feeling of safety. A kiss in a dark bar. I remember a coin flipping, and something about Elvis impersonators. But I can’t remember how I ended up with a ring on my finger, or even how I made it to the hotel room.
I squeeze my shaking hands together, my knuckles blanching with the effort. The facts swirl around my head, restless and unable to land. I got married to someone, and I can’t remember it. I got married to someone, and they bailed. I got married to someone, and there are no records. And I think the marriage is real. Worse, a deep part of me curls up and purrs at the thought of it, warmed by the fire of comfort he gave for those precious few hours. It’s infuriating.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more pissed off I get. So no, the shaking isn’t because I’m sad – it’s because I’m furious. What was I thinking?
I wasn’t. I broke my cardinal rule.Andthat’s what youget, a part of me whispers.
I reach up, seeking the comfort of the sea turtle charm on my necklace, but it’s not there. A gasp issues from me, unbidden, as I frantically touch my neck and look down my shirt.
“Nooo,” I whine softly, biting my lip against the tears that prick at my eyes. My seatmate, a businessman in a perfectly pressed suit, shifts uncomfortably next to me. I probably still smell like alcohol, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I know it’s not in my suitcase. I know it like I know my own name, and yet it takes everything I have not to stand and yank my suitcase from the overhead and rifle through it.
I let a tear fall. One tear. That’s all I’m allowing this entire shit show to have: one single, solitary tear.
I clear my throat and straighten, the memory of my mum giving the necklace to me at graduation still so vivid. It’s the only real piece of jewelry I own, and I’ve treasured it for so long. For it to be gone, too, is heartbreaking. I’ll never get that back.
The plane lands with a jostle, and I jump in surprise. My seatmate grunts, no doubt judging me, but I can’t find it in myself to care. As we taxi down the runway, I turn my phone off airplane mode and it pings with messages.
KARI
Do you need a ride?
You’re not answering so I asked your brother.
I’m in the cell phone waiting lot. Text me when you’re off the plane and I’ll come get you.
Thank you. I’ve landed.
I make my way through the Atlanta airport, taking in the sights that I was too jet-lagged to notice when I landed here from Melbourne a few months ago: people of every type and nationality abound, some flat-out sprinting to get to their terminal or gate, and others off to the side wrangling kids, dogs, coffee, or all of the above. It’s bright, loud, and chaotic – a lot like the city itself. Announcements for gate changes and calls for final boarding ring out as I head to the exit, the wheels of my carry-on suitcase ka-thumping along. Outside, the scene is far from calm, with people darting in and out of traffic as they aim for taxis, rideshares, and hotel buses. I spot Kari as she swerves her Jeep into the pickup lane, smiling broadly and waving like a maniac. I toss my suitcase in the back before climbing up and settling in.
She doesn’t even let me buckle the seatbelt before she starts in. “Well?”
I sigh, knowing exactly what she means. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know where he is?” she asks, darting into the row of vehicles.
“Don’t knowwhohe is,” I correct. “Don’t know his last name. Can’t confirm if we’re actually married, because the clerk’s office doesn’t have a record.”
Her face brightens. “That’s a good thing – no record means no evidence. You’re not married.” She states it with full authority, as though she’s solved all my problems with a simple declaration. To be fair, sheisin public relations, so it makes sense that this is a done deal to her.
But it’s not to me. I know we’re married. And the part that makes it so bad isn’t that I married someone, because if I could find him, we could fix that. No, the part that I can’t get past is that I broke my one rule. Not only did this man somehow convince me to break it, but heleftafterward. Despite my feeling of safety with him, I wasn’t. I was the opposite of safe.
