Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
I force a smile to my lips and swipe an imaginary tear from my dry eye. “I’m fine. I’m ready.” I nod, reassuring her that I mean it, even though I’m not sure I do.
Mom puts the truck into gear, and before I know it, we’re flying down McAdams Lane toward my wedding site, where Roy’s waiting for me. Along with most of the town.
“Oh my gawd, there you are!”
Joy nearly attacks me as I climb out of the truck, which Mom parked behind a huge maple tree that must be at least three feet wide, with branches reaching up close to a hundred feet. Its leaves are broad and green, swaying in the slight summer breeze. “Everyone’s waiting for you. I think Roy’s nervous that you bailed on him.” She laughs like the thought is utterly ridiculous as she shoves my bouquet into my hand and Mom goes to find Dad.
“I’m here,” I tell her, stating the obvious, considering she’s currently fluffing my dress and scouring my face at the same time. I don’t know what she’s looking for. A wayward mascara smudge, maybe?
Should I be crying already? I don’t feel like crying. I feel like . . . Never mind that, I tell myself, shoving those thoughts back into that deep, dark corner with the worries and doubts. “Who all’s here?”
It’s a stupid question, and Joy looks at me with an arched brow that says as much. “Literally. Everyone. The whole town.” With a bit of bite, she adds, “It’s not every day the sheriff’s son gets married, I guess.”
Right. Because they’re here for Roy, not me. Well, there are definitely people here who’ll be happy to see me get married. Old schoolteachers, patients from Dr. Payne’s office, family and friends. But Roy’s dad is the sheriff of Maple Creek, and that comes with an extensive guest list, apparently. Roy insisted we send an invitation to the mayor, for fuck’s sake, who of course RSVP’d that he’s coming, which means the Maple Creek Gazette is here, too, because one of the reporters follows Mayor Haven around like a Taylor Swift fangirl, writing a weekly “What’s New?” article about his every move that’s more supposition and wishful thinking than real journalism.
I almost peek around the tree to count how many people actually came, but Joy’s fussing over my dress keeps me in place.
“Do you think I’m going to be in the paper this week?” I say hollowly, not really caring one way or another.
Joy snaps her fingers in front of my face and then gets nearly nose-to-nose with me to peer into my eyes. Her pale-blue ones are near mirrors of my own, but hers look suspicious, while I suspect mine are more apprehensive. “Are you okay? Did Mom give you a muscle relaxer or something?” She lifts my arm and then abruptly releases it, letting it fall back to my side. I almost drop my bouquet of blush peonies despite my death grip on the stems. “Shiiit, she did, didn’t she?”
I shake my head. “No, Mom didn’t give me anything. I’m fine.” One of those statements is true; the other, not so much. I am most definitely not fine, and a muscle relaxer that’d knock me out for a few hours of peace sounds like a welcome option. I bet someone out there has one tucked into their purse. If I could just get to them . . .
Joy looks dubious, but Dad appears around the wide trunk of the maple tree, stopping any further interrogation. “There’s my girl!” he boasts before he winks at Joy, a running joke that she and I are basically a two-for-one package deal. Not girls, but a singular girl.
We’re technically not identical twins, but somehow, the DNA-mixing process didn’t quite get the memo on that and we look eerily similar for fraternal twins. Well, we did until a few years ago, when Joy got her hair cut into a long, sharply angled bob that she likes to style in beachy waves; started wearing cat eyeliner, which I can’t duplicate with a stencil, a magnifying mirror, or prayers; and began dressing like a newscaster, which makes sense because that’s exactly what she is. She’s the sports anchor for our local TV station, there every night at five and again at eleven.
She’s also the devil to my angel role, which means we balance each other out perfectly.
“That’s my cue. Handoff complete,” she tells Dad, gesturing at me like I’m a baton she’s passing off and then knuckle-bumping Dad. She spends way too much time with dude-guys and bro-athletes; it’s soaked into her everyday actions. She steps away, and distantly, I hear music swell as she begins the trek toward the gathered crowd.
“You look beautiful.” Dad takes my hands, holding them out wide so he can admire the dress he’s seen only in pictures but paid for without question. “You remind me of Lorie on our wedding day.” His voice hitches, and he looks off to the side. I think it’s so I don’t see the tears in his eyes at the memory of Mom as his bride.