“Baby, go to sleep. And then tomorrow, I’ll be waiting at the end of that aisle. You’ll be gorgeous. We’ll say some words, slip on some rings, and then you’re all mine. Sound good?” he crooned as he spun me around, then set me down to open the limo door.
“Mm-hmm,” I managed, a bit dizzy from all the spinning.
“There you two are! Now, Charles, scoot. She’s all yours tomorrow, but she’s still mine tonight,” my mother cried, appearing at my side with a grand smile.
“Yes, Mother Patterson,” Charles replied, knowing how much she hated when he called her that.
I giggled in spite of myself, and my mother frowned at me.
“Say good night to Charles,” she said primly, keeping any comments about Mother Patterson to herself for a change.
“Good night, Charles,” I echoed, leaning in for a kiss on the forehead.
“Night, ladies. See you tomorrow,” Charles said, packing us into the limo in a swish of silk and satin.
Sitting next to my mother, I listened to her chatter as we pulled away from the restaurant and headed toward our home. Where I’d lived since college.
Parents’ house. Sorority house. Parents’ house. Husband’s house? Sigh.
An hour later, I was in the bedroom I’d been sleeping in since I was seven. Canopy bed. Pom-poms. Tiaras. Sashes. Trophies. Pageant girl, remember? Elbow elbow wrist wrist.
Curled up on top of the covers, I was hot, my heart beating faster than normal. Nervous about tomorrow, I suppose. Marrying Charles. Becoming a Sappington and everything that meant.
I looked at the picture of us on my nightstand, taken the evening he’d proposed. The ring shone as brightly in the photo as it shone on my hand now. It was the largest diamond I’d ever seen, almost embarrassingly so. I slipped it off, setting next to the picture.
I’d met Charles eleven months ago. We were engaged five months to the day after we met. Whirlwind to say the least, and Charles was the most perfectly put-together whirlwind you’ve ever seen. Never a hair out of place, never a spot of food on his tie, or a piece of spinach in his teeth. The spinach would never dare.
But any piece of spinach would love to get the chance to lodge there. Charles Preston Sappington was the man about town, the bachelor every woman from San Diego to Santa Barbara had been trying to land for years. Any piece of spinach would count herself extremely lucky to be trapped between his pedigreed teeth; it was the dream tiny spinaches were told by their spinach mothers. Tall. Handsome. Rich. Good family. And if you do as you’re told, you too can go for the brass ring.
I was Miss Golden State. He was my final tiara after a lifetime of pretty and prancing. Now I could go quietly into that beautifully manicured good night, my wedding veil firmly in place. And a silent scream in the back of my throat.
With that comforting thought—and if by comforting, I mean abject terror—I turned out my light.
Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn. Tears.
Looking back, I wish I could tell you there was one particular thing that tipped the scales and made me run away from my wedding. But all I know was that from the moment I set my feet on the floor that morning, I knew something was off. And not just my stomach, although that had been burbling and gurgling since 3 A.M. Too much artichoke soufflé? I’ll never tell.
I ate oatmeal practically every morning of my life. Steel-cut oats, the slightest sprinkling of Splenda, fresh fruit (blueberries were my mother’s preferred choice—antioxidants are our friends), with a splash of nonfat milk. But today when I shuffled into the kitchen, I saw something I had never seen there before.
Donuts.
Actual. Beautiful. Sugary. Fatty. Gorgeous. Donuts.
Like, with the sugar and the fat.
I looked around to make sure that, yes, I was still in my own house. My oatmeal bowl was set out, place mat and utensils laid with care, as it was every day. Slow cooker was plugged in, with my preportioned amount piping hot and ready for eating. The small pitcher of nonfat milk sat by my place setting, holding exactly a half cup of gray, watery, not-so-much milk.
But . . . did I mention there were donuts?
On reflection, I was wrong when I said I didn’t know what tipped the scales that morning. Donuts were where I went off the rails.
Taking one more look around to make sure no one was there to witness this culinary mortal sin, I walked over toward the platter. And regarded the donuts, piled high and arranged with attention toward making a beautifully delicious display. These confectionary wonders, these puffy delights, these sugary and fatty diet cheats—I chose one toward the back, sticky with chocolate glaze and full of spite toward every diet I’d ever been put on.