Page 4 of One Week Hating You
I smile. Leave it to Corrie to make everything about her. I’m the one who’s nervous as hell, and waiting for her missing fiancé, and she’s the one moaning about her life… again. But underneath it all, she’s a sweetie. She’s always been there for me, as have Kayla and Gabbie.
The wedding planner is running around again… just the sight of her makes my stomach clench. She signals for Kayla to come with her with a curious expression; round eyes and a tight smile.
“Did something happen?” I ask. “Is Peter okay?”
She nods. “He’s fine,” she says absentmindedly as she drags Kayla along with her. Corrie springs off the loveseat and follows them, nosy as always.
My mind goes to the worst case scenario. He’s been in a horrible car wreck on his way here. He and the groomsmen are all laying in pools of blood on the side of the road. I shake my head.
I’m sure he’s fine. He’s just late.
My hands start to shake, and my throat suddenly feels tight. I’m losing it. I don’t want to lose it – I don’t want to ruin my makeup, I don’t want to make a scene. I can’t go anywhere in this get-up – this stupid dress is enormous. I bury my face in my hands and try to rein myself in. I cannot lose my composure.
Everything will be all right. He’ll be here.
But why isn’t he here already? Could he have changed his mind? Did he get cold feet? I can’t even fathom the possibility. Peter would never do that to me. He’s too sweet and considerate to leave me like this, surrounded by all these people. He knows me. He knows that would be my worst nightmare.
My gaze darts around the room and I spot Momma, speaking with Sylvia. She is the most beautiful mother-of-the-bride I’ve ever seen; shiny iridescent blue dress, her dark tresses in an intricate up-do, her ears adorned with silver dangling earrings. I’m not used to seeing her all dressed up like this – she doesn’t even look like Momma.
I study her more closely. Her face is long and she looks completely drained. The radiant glow she had on all day is gone. Something’s not right.
