My sister’s bedroom door was closed as I passed it.
I almost knocked.
She was younger than me, and I loved her more than I knew how to say at that age.
My hand rose toward the door.
Then I remembered my mother’s sentence.
I walked away.
I slipped out through the back of the house and kept walking until I reached a road where I knew I could find a cab.
By sunrise, I was on a bus three states away.
I sat beside the window and watched towns I had never seen pass in the pale morning light.
People around me slept.
Someone behind me snored.
A baby cried several rows ahead.
My entire life was collapsing, and nobody on that bus knew.
At one point, I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and nearly told myself to turn around.
Callum would be waking up.
My parents would discover my room empty.
Guests would start arriving.
Someone would find my dress.
I pictured my father calling hospitals.
I pictured my mother crying.
I pictured Callum standing somewhere in his suit, asking everyone what had happened.
Then I heard that sentence again.
“If Eloise finds out what happened that night, the wedding is over.”
