Two days before our wedding, I stood barefoot in the catering kitchen of a beautiful North Carolina estate, still wearing the white dress from our rehearsal dinner, and heard the man I was supposed to marry explain why he had chosen me.
and Mom five years earlier, so Linda had helped organize nearly everything.
Willow Crest Estate covered forty acres of magnolias, stone terraces, and an old white mansion seemingly designed for luxurious wedding photographs.
On Saturday afternoon, I was supposed to walk down a flower-lined aisle toward Ryan.
He offered me champagne.
“There you are.”
“Here I am.”
He kissed my forehead.
“You okay?”
“Just tired.”
“You’ve been doing too much.”
I nearly laughed.
Instead, I asked, “Are you happy?”
Ryan smiled.
“Baby, look around.”
I did.
One hundred and forty guests.
A twelve-piece reception band.
Fourteen thousand dollars’ worth of flowers.
A wedding fund that should have contained thirty-one thousand dollars before final vendor payments.
And a man whose breath still carried bourbon from the conversation where he’d told his best friend I was too old to leave him.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I’m looking.”
That night, Ryan slept in
