Page 3 of Fall For Me
I knew your mother shouldn’t have let you eat carbs this week. It clouded your judgment
Rebecca (second cousin)
Mom’s live-stream of the empty altar has gone viral
I’m getting drunk now as her social media has become more popular than mine
Also, is it okay if I hook up with Matt’s brother, or is there a waiting period?
A wave of nausea sloshes in my stomach, making me want to throw up. I shove it down. I can’t deal with any of them now. With a few frantic taps, I enable the Do Not Disturb mode, silencing the assault. The buzzing stops. I push the thought of the wreckage I left behind into a locked box in the back of my mind to reopen later. Or never. Never sounds nice.
I tap the map app. A little blue dot pulses, showing my location. I’m in a town I’ve never heard of called Blue Crescent Harbor. The name suits the curved shoreline of the bay.
I zoom out, confirming I’m still in Missouri. About two hours north of Springfield, where I’m from.
I switch to a travel app and search for “Hotels near me.”
Several options pop up, most with reasonable rates. Thank goodness they’re open even in the off-season.
At the top of the list is a place called “Rockwood Resort” with five-star average ratings, wide-angle pictures of luxury balconies overlooking the water, an infinity pool, and a swanky lobby. The room price per night makes me wince.
It’s four times what the others cost. But it’s also the closest option, less than half a mile away according to the map.
My feet throb in protest at even that short distance just as a raindrop lands on my screen, then another on my shoulder. Perfect timing. The storm that has been brewing all evening is making good on its promise while I’m still out in the open.
Between the cold, the pain in my feet, and the impending downpour, money seems like the most expendable resource.
My bank account can recover. My toes might not.
I search for an Uber, but the closest car is forty minutes away. I’ll be frozen by then. Resigned, I tap on the resort’s “Get Directions” link.
Two blue lines appear on the map, one lining the coast, the other continuing down Main Street with a right turn at the end onto Lakeside Drive. The second is two minutes slower, but the downtown buildings promise a little shelter from the elements. I tap that one.
A calm, disembodied female voice tells me to proceed to the route. I follow its instructions, my gaze locked on the phone, watching as my location dot inches forward. Another raindrop hits my screen. I wipe it away with my thumb, leaving a smear across the glass.
I trudge on. Each step feels like I’m walking on broken glass. I consider taking the shoes off, but limping barefoot on dirty, wet-cold concrete seems even worse.
My train catches on a crack in the sidewalk. I slip, catch myself, tug the fabric free, and keep stumbling ahead.
The hem of my skirt keeps catching under my shoes. I hold the excess fabric up with one arm, but it is not enough.
I trip again, and this time, my ankle gives out. My heel skids off the edge of the curb, and I pitch forward, landing in the middle of the street. I fly my arms out to keep upright, barely holding on to my phone as the underskirts snare my feet more tightly and I land on my hands and knees.
A sound rips through the quiet evening. A deep, guttural rumble that vibrates through the asphalt and up into my bones.
I lift my head and freeze. A beam of light, blindingly white, is rushing toward me. It pins me in its glare. The rumble escalates into the deafening roar of an engine pushed to its limit as a red sports motorcycle barrels down the street at full speed.
I register its advancement in fragments. The lacquered gleam of the bike. The dark figure hunched over the handlebars. The screech of brakes. And the smell of burning rubber filling the air.
The bike fishtails, the front wheel jerking to one side as the rider fights for control. But the headlights still fill my vision,inexorably rushing toward me along with the certainty, bone-deep and absolute, that I’m about to die.
In a wedding dress.
On a random street in an unknown town.
My last thought, absurdly, is that getting hit by a motorcycle sounds less painful than taking one more step in these heels.
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