The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(10)

But I’m digressing.

So cue the music . . . “I’m going to the altar and I’m . . .”

Except, I’m not going to the altar—or to a church for that matter. I’m going before a justice of the peace at 3:00 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon. I wanted to wait for the weekend, but getting married on a weekday saves thirty-five dollars, and Graham—that’s his name, Graham Strickland—said there’s no reason to spend the extra money for the same service.

No, it’s not exactly the wedding every young girl dreams about—walking down a long aisle draped on my father’s arm with the veil trailing behind me—but that dream sailed nine years ago. I was thirteen when a drunk driver crossed the center divider, went airborne, and landed on top of our car, killing both my parents. Something about being in the backseat saved me, the doctors said, like it was a good thing to be trapped alive in a car for two hours with your dead parents. Can you say years of counseling?

I went from Santa Monica, where my father had been a doctor, to live with an aunt and uncle in San Bernardino, which is where my mother grew up, but where I didn’t know a soul. I should clarify that I only lived with my uncle Dale for about nine months. That’s when I told my counselor that my uncle liked to climb in bed with me at night. My counselor told the police, and they called Child Protective Services, and a whole shit storm hit. Can you say more counseling?

In addition to not having a father to walk me down the aisle, I can’t fill my cubicle, let alone a reception hall, with friends and family. I also don’t think we could find anyone to give even a thirty-second toast about Graham and me. We’ve known each other less than four months.

Besides, I’m not a big cake fan anyway. I know. I know. Who doesn’t like cake?

Me.

We are, however, going on a honeymoon—of sorts. We’re going to climb Mount Rainier. I know what you’re thinking because I was thinking the same thing. Hiking at 14,000 feet and getting frostbite. Great . . . Don’t get me wrong. I love the outdoors. I spent much of my summers hiking in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The outdoors is one of the reasons I moved to Portland. That, and it rains all the time here, which means I don’t have to come up with an excuse to stay inside and read, which is my absolute, number one passion. In fact, it’s what I would have preferred to have been doing the night I met Graham.

We met at a party—not so much a party as a business function sponsored by the insurance company I work for. Don’t ask me why a lowly assistant needed to be there. I mean, if the company’s incredible and wide array of insurance policies (sarcasm) or free booze and free hors d’oeuvres (definitely not sarcasm) didn’t entice new clients, I failed to see how my presence would. My boss, however, who has taken it upon herself to be my surrogate mother, said my attendance was “nonnegotiable.”

Brenda Berg walked into my cubicle the afternoon of the function and asked why I hadn’t RSVP’d.

“Because I’m not going?” I said, though my voice rose so it sounded more like a question.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not going,” I said more definitively, though not with any real conviction.

“Why not?”

I shrugged and resumed typing on my keyboard—rude, I know. “I don’t like parties. Most are boring.”

“More boring than going home and sticking your nose in a book?”

“Definitely,” I answered, though I’m certain she meant the question to be rhetorical.

“What, are you rereading Fifty Shades of Grey over and over again?”

“No,” I said, though again it was without force and I’m pretty certain I blushed. Truth was, curiosity got the better of me and I did read it. I ordered it online and had it sent to my post box, then smuggled it home in a plain brown bag like a fifth of vodka. Sure the writing was juvenile, but it’s like they say, “You don’t buy Playboy for the articles.” Not that I’ve ever bought a Playboy. I’m definitely not a lesbian.

“Then tell me what is so interesting at home that you can’t go to a party for a couple of hours?” Brenda asked, undeterred.

“It’s just not my thing,” I said. “I’m not good at mingling.”

“I’ll help you.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I can help with that also.”

I was quickly running out of excuses and racking my brain. The dog I don’t have ate my invitation. I’m actually Michael Jackson disguised as a woman, and I got too close to a pyrotechnic prop filming a Pepsi commercial and my hair caught on fire.

“You’re smart,” Brenda said. I know she meant it as a compliment, but it sounded kind of sad. “You pick up things faster than most of the people we hire who went to college and took our six-week training program. I’ve never seen anyone pick things up that fast, and you know more about computers than our IT guy.”

Did I mention I have a lot of free time on my hands?

“You just need to show a little initiative and you could have my job someday.”

Hooray! At least I’d have a window to throw myself out of when the boredom becomes unbearable.

“So you’re going tonight, and that’s final,” she said, sounding a lot like my mother used to. “You’ll never meet anyone going home and reading.”