Ducking?
Fucking* goddamn auto correct. Pic?
No! It’s bad luck!
Ur lucky 13. You have good luck.
Ur marrying me. So clearly u don’t. And don’t call me that.
Love u baby.
Love u too. See u soon.
Nervous?
Of course. Aren’t you?
Only about ur cold feet.
Feet r toasty warm.
I wish I could explain to u how happy I am right now.
U don’t have to. I can relate.
<3
I sat the phone on the bathroom counter and looked into the mirror, touching the end of the lip gloss wand to my bottom lip. After pinning one last piece of my hair back, I went over to the bed, where I’d laid the dress. It wasn’t what my ten-year-old self would have chosen, but it was beautiful, and what we were about to do was beautiful. Even why I was doing it was beautiful. I could think of much less noble reasons to get married. And, besides that, we loved each other. Was getting married this young so awful? People used to do this all the time.
I shook my head, trying to shake off the dozens of conflicting emotions swirling around my mind. Why go back and forth? This was happening, and we were in love. Crazy? Yes. Wrong? No.
I stepped into the dress and then pulled up the zipper, standing in front of the mirror. “Much better,” I said. In the store, as lovely as the dress was, without hair and makeup done, the dress didn’t look right. With my red lips and painted lashes, the look was complete.
I pinned the diamond butterfly into the base of the messy curls that made up my side bun, and slipped my feet into the new strappy pumps. Purse. Phone. Trav’s ring. The chapel would have everything else. The taxi was waiting.
Even though thousands of women were married in Las Vegas every year, it didn’t keep everyone from staring at me as I walked across the casino floor in my wedding dress. Some smiled, some just watched, but it all made me uncomfortable. When my father lost his last professional match after four in a row, and he announced publicly that it was my fault, I’d received enough attention to last two lifetimes. Because of a few words spoken in frustration, he’d created “Lucky Thirteen” and given me an unbelievable burden to bear. Even when my mother finally decided to leave Mick and we moved to Wichita three years later, starting over seemed impossible. I enjoyed two whole weeks of being an unknown before the first local reporter figured out who I was and approached me on the front lawn of my high school. All it took was one hateful girl a single hour of Friday Night Googling to figure out why anyone in the press cared enough to try to get a “Where Is She Now?” headline. The second half of my high school experience was ruined. Even with a mouthy, scrappy best friend.
When America and I left for college, I wanted to be invisible. Until the day I’d met Travis, I was enjoying my newfound anonymity immensely.
I looked down from the hundredth pair of eyes watching me intently, and I wondered if being with Travis would always make me feel conspicuous.
CHAPTER SIX
Dead or Alive
Travis
The limo door slammed hard behind me. “Oh, shit. Sorry. I’m nervous.”
The driver waved me away. “No problem. Twenty-two dollars, please. I’ll come back with the limo.”
The limo was new. White. Abby would like it. I handed him thirty. “So you’ll be right back here in an hour and a half, right?”
“Yes, sir! Never late!”
He drove away, and I turned around. The chapel was lit up, glowing against the early morning sky. It was maybe a half hour before sunrise. I smiled. Abby was going to love it.
The front door opened, and a couple came out. They were middle-aged, but he was in a tux, and she was in a huge wedding dress. A short woman in a light pink suit dress was waving them good-bye, and then she noticed me.
“Travis?”
“Yes,” I said, buttoning my jacket.
“I could just eat you up! I hope your bride appreciates what a looker you are!”
“She’s prettier than me.”
The woman cackled. “I’m Chantilly. Pretty much run things around here.” She put her fists at her side, somewhere in the area of her hips. She was as wide as she was tall, and her eyes were nearly hidden under thick, fake lashes. “Come on in, sugar! Come in! Come in!” she said, rushing me inside.
The receptionist at the desk offered a smile and a small stack of paperwork. Yes, we want a DVD. Yes, we want flowers. Yes, we want Elvis. I checked all of the appropriate boxes, filled in our names and information, and then handed the paper back.
“Thank you, Mr. Maddox,” the receptionist said.
My hands were sweating. I couldn’t believe I was here.
Chantilly patted my arm, well, more like my wrist, because that’s the highest she could reach. “This way, honey. You can freshen up and wait for your bride in here. What was her name?”