I take a deep breath, then another. The panic subsides, replaced by a strange sense of possibility. For the first time in years—perhaps ever—my time is completely my own. No job waiting for me, no fiancé to consider, no social obligations to fulfill. Just me and the lake and whatever I choose to make of this unexpected freedom.
First things first: coffee. I manage to work the old percolator after only minor struggles, and soon the cabin is filled with the comforting aroma of brewing coffee. Small victory, but I’ll take it.
Cup in hand, I wander back out to the dock, settling into what I already think of as “my spot” at the end. The lake is calm this morning, reflecting the blue sky and white clouds like a perfect mirror. A few boats dot the far shore, but otherwise, I have this view all to myself.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—another text from Greg. I don’t bother reading it. Instead, I open my email and compose a brief message to my boss, requesting two weeks of vacation, effective immediately, due to “unforeseen personal circumstances.” It’s vague enough to buy me time without inviting too many questions.
Chapter 1: The Woman in the Wedding Dress
I’m lying on my back in the middle of a field, wearing a wedding dress that cost more than my car.
The sky above me is a perfect, cloudless blue, the kind that seems almost artificial in its perfection. Like someone painted it that way just for today. Just for me. Just for this moment when everything in my life has gone spectacularly, catastrophically wrong.
My name is Eleanor Porter, and I was supposed to get married exactly forty-seven minutes ago.
Instead, I’m making grass angels in a $3,200 Vera Wang while my mascara creates modern art on my cheeks. The dress is going to stain. I know this. I also know that I don’t care. Not anymore.
“Eleanor?” A voice calls from somewhere behind me. “Eleanor, are you out here?”
It’s my best friend, Jess. Sweet, reliable Jess who’s probably been searching for me since I bolted from the church. I don’t answer. I’m not ready to talk to anyone yet, not even her.
The rustling of grass grows louder as she approaches. I keep my eyes fixed on the sky.
“Oh my God,” she says when she spots me. “What are you doing?”
It’s a fair question. What am I doing? Ruining an expensive dress? Having a breakdown? Making a life-altering decision? All of the above?
“Cloud-watching,” I reply, my voice surprisingly steady.
Jess stands over me, blocking my view of the perfect blue canvas. Her expression is a mixture of concern and exasperation. She’s still wearing her bridesmaid’s dress—lavender, because I’d been so sure it would complement the spring flowers.
“Everyone’s looking for you,” she says. “Your mom is having a conniption. The caterer wants to know if he should start serving. And Greg is…” She trails off, unsure how to continue.
“Greg is what?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know. Greg, my almost-husband. Greg, the man I’ve been with for six years. Greg, who I caught kissing my cousin in the vestry forty-nine minutes ago.
“He’s saying it was a mistake,” Jess says, twisting her hands together. “He’s saying it didn’t mean anything.”
I laugh, and it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Funny how the biggest mistakes in our lives are often the most revealing.”
Jess sighs and plops down on the grass beside me, propriety abandoned. Her lavender dress fans out around her like spilled paint.
“You know,” she says, “when I pictured how this day might go wrong, I imagined rain, or the cake toppling over, or your Uncle Frank getting too drunk during the toasts. I never imagined this.”
“Me neither,” I admit.
And it’s true. Despite my generally pessimistic outlook on life, despite my collection of failed relationships before Greg, despite the nagging voice in the back of my mind that had been whispering doubts for months—I never saw this coming. I’d convinced myself that Greg was different. That we were different.
“What are you going to do?” Jess asks softly.
I turn my head to look at her. “What would you do if you found your fiancé lip-locked with your cousin on your wedding day?”
“I’d probably be doing exactly what you’re doing,” she admits. “Except I might have opted for the vineyard behind the church instead of an open field. At least then I could raid the wine supply.”
That makes me smile, just a little. This is why Jess has been my best friend since third grade. She always knows exactly what to say, and when to say nothing at all.
“I can’t go back there,” I tell her. “I can’t face all those people.”
“Then don’t,” she says simply. “Let’s bail.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “What?”
“Let’s bail,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “I’ve got my car. We can be halfway to anywhere before they figure out where we’ve gone.”
“But… the guests. The gifts. The catering we’ve already paid for.”
Jess waves a dismissive hand. “Your mom can handle the guests. The gifts can be returned. And as for the catering…” She grins wickedly. “I say let them eat cake. Particularly Greg’s face.”
For the first time since I fled the church, a genuine laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me. It feels foreign, almost wrong in the midst of what should be the worst day of my life. But it also feels necessary, like the first breath after being underwater too long.
“Where would we go?” I ask, entertaining the idea despite myself.
Jess shrugs. “Anywhere. Everywhere. Nowhere in particular. Does it matter?”
And strangely, it doesn’t. Nothing seems to matter in the way it did this morning when I woke up believing I was about to marry the love of my life. The carefully planned honeymoon in Bali, the apartment we’d spent months decorating together, the future we’d mapped out with such certainty—all of it feels like it belongs to someone else now. Someone who wasn’t me.
I sit up fully and look down at my dress. It’s already sporting grass stains along the back, and there’s a small tear where I caught it on something during my escape from the church. It’s ruined, like my wedding day, like my relationship.
But maybe—just maybe—I’m not.
“Okay,” I say, surprising myself. “Let’s do it. Let’s bail.”
Jess beams at me, jumping to her feet and offering me her hand. “That’s my girl. Operation Wedding Escape is officially a go.”
As she pulls me to my feet, something shifts inside me. Not healing—it’s too soon for that—but something like the possibility of healing. The faintest glimmer of a future beyond this disaster.
“Wait,” I say, as a thought occurs to me. “I can’t exactly go on the run in a wedding dress. I’ll be a bit conspicuous.”
Jess considers this, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “You’re right. We need to get you changed. But your stuff is all back at the church.”
“And I am not going back there.”
“No,” she agrees. “But I know somewhere we can go.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling up outside a small thrift store on the edge of town. Jess parks her old Honda Civic—which looks ridiculously incongruous with our formal attire—and turns to me with a gleam in her eye.
“I once found the most amazing vintage leather jacket in here,” she explains. “The owner’s cool. She won’t ask too many questions.”
“About the bride who clearly just fled her own wedding?” I ask dryly.
“Exactly.”
The bell above the door jingles as we enter. The shop is empty except for an elderly woman behind the counter who looks up from her crossword puzzle with mild interest that quickly morphs into astonishment.
“Well,” she says, setting down her pencil. “This is a first.”
I suddenly feel very self-conscious in my now-rumpled wedding dress. The romantic updo that took my hairstylist two hours to perfect this morning is coming undone, tendrils of hair falling around my face. And I’m fairly certain my mascara-streaked face makes me look like a reject from a Tim Burton film.
“Hi,” Jess says brightly, as if there’s nothing unusual about our appearance. “My friend here needs a change of clothes. Something comfortable for a road trip.”
The woman—whose name tag reads ‘Martha’—looks me up and down, taking in the grass stains, the tear in the fabric, and no doubt the devastation on my face.
“Honeymoon canceled?” she asks, not unkindly.
“Wedding canceled,” I correct her. “Mid-ceremony.”
Martha clucks her tongue sympathetically. “His loss, dear.”
The simple words, spoken with such conviction by a complete stranger, nearly undo me. I blink rapidly, determined not to start crying again.
“Do you have anything that might fit her?” Jess asks, coming to my rescue.
Martha nods and shuffles out from behind the counter. “I think I have just the thing. Something that says ‘I’m fabulous’ rather than ‘I’ve been crushed by a man.'”
Despite everything, I find myself following her through the shop with curiosity. The racks are organized by color rather than size or style, creating a rainbow effect that’s oddly soothing to my frazzled nerves.
Martha stops in front of the blue section and begins rifling through the hangers with purpose. After a moment, she pulls out a sundress in a shade of turquoise that reminds me of tropical waters.
“This,” she says decisively. “With these.” She moves to another rack and selects a lightweight white cardigan and then to the shoe section for a pair of flat sandals.
“The changing room is in the back,” she tells me, handing over the items. “Take your time, dear. No rush on a day like today.”
The changing room is barely bigger than a closet, with a faded velvet curtain for privacy and a mirror that’s seen better days. I stand there for a long moment, staring at my reflection.
I hardly recognize myself. The woman looking back at me seems older, sadder, but also strangely determined. There’s something in her eyes—my eyes—that wasn’t there this morning. A steeliness that says, I will survive this.
Carefully, reverently, I begin to remove my wedding dress. Despite everything, I can’t bring myself to treat it carelessly. It may represent a dream that’s died, but it was still my dream, and for a while, it was beautiful.
As I slip into the sundress, I feel pounds of weight lifting from my shoulders—literally and figuratively. The dress fits as if it was made for me, flowing around my body in a way that feels liberating after the structured confines of the wedding gown.
When I emerge from the changing room, both Jess and Martha look up. For a moment, neither speaks.
“Well?” I ask, suddenly nervous. “How bad is it?”
“It’s not bad at all,” Martha says, her voice warm with approval. “In fact, I’d say it’s the beginning of something rather wonderful.”
Jess nods in agreement, her eyes suspiciously bright. “You look like you again, Ellie. Not Bride Eleanor. Just you.”
And strangely enough, I feel like me again too. A me that’s bruised and shaken, certainly. A me that’s going to have a lot of explaining and apologizing and crying to do in the coming days. But still, fundamentally, me.
I turn to Martha. “How much do I owe you?”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Consider it a gift. For your un-wedding day.”
“I can’t accept that,” I protest. “Please, let me pay.”
Martha regards me with kind eyes. “Then pay it forward, dear. When you meet someone else having the worst day of their life, be kind to them. That’ll be payment enough for me.”
I’m not too proud to admit that I tear up at that. It seems I haven’t cried all my tears for the day after all.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Now,” Martha says, all business again. “What shall we do with the wedding dress?”
I look down at the crumpled white fabric in my arms. Part of me wants to burn it, to erase all evidence of this disastrous day. But another part—a wiser part, perhaps—knows that someday I might want to remember, if only to remind myself of how far I’ve come.
“Can I leave it here?” I ask. “Maybe someone else can use it. Someone who’ll have better luck than I did.”
Martha smiles, taking the dress from me with careful hands. “I’ll take good care of it. And who knows? Maybe its next owner will find the happiness you deserve.”
As we leave the shop, the bell jingling merrily behind us, I feel oddly light. Not happy—I’m nowhere near happy yet—but something adjacent to it. Something like possibility.
“So,” Jess says as we climb back into her car. “Where to? The world is our oyster.”
I look out the window at the town I’ve lived in my entire life. The town where, until today, I thought I’d grow old with Greg, raise our children, live out the comfortable, predictable life I’d planned.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t made an unplanned decision in years.”
Jess grins, turning the key in the ignition. “Then it’s about damn time, don’t you think?”
As we pull away from the curb, I don’t look back. I don’t need to. Whatever lies ahead—heartbreak, healing, or something I can’t yet imagine—I know one thing for certain: the woman in the wedding dress, the one who was lying in the grass watching the sky, isn’t gone. She’s just beginning.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the hurt and humiliation, I’m curious to find out who she might become.
Waiting For You
