Royally Not Ready(141)

I can feel the eyes of family and friends on me, and not because of my not-so-subtle guffaw but because most of these people know the truth.

I’m the reason Annalisa made it into the movies.

I’m the reason Simon got his big break.

And I’m the reason their latest flick was so well received—not only am I now a highly sought-after screenwriter, but I wrote the screenplay that made audiences fall in love with them.

So, the question is, Why am I standing here next to an ex–best friend who was nervous the Botox in his armpits wasn’t going to keep him from sweating through his suit on his wedding day, watching my ex-girlfriend heap praise on him—praise the double-crossing nitwit doesn’t deserve?

I shouldn’t have to stand here, supporting them.

The movie is done.

The press is over.

The audience has gone wild.

There’s nothing holding me back. The studio can’t offer me any more threats.

I put my time in.

Nothing making me stand at this altar and take this abuse.

So . . .

I decide to leave.

In that moment. I know it’s time to go.

I take a step forward as Annalisa stares up at Simon.

Then another step.

And another, which draws their attention.

Annalisa sizes me up with those crystal-blue eyes. “What are you doing?” she says through a clenched smile.

I clear my throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I must announce to the masses that I have better things to do than stand through this mockery.” Simon moves to the side so he can look at me in absolute horror. Hinging at my hips, I make a graceful bow—because it feels right—and when I straighten up, I lift both of my middle fingers, one for each of them. “I pray to the Holy Spirit that this marriage goes down in flames.”

I offer my apologies to the pastor for my straightforward verbiage with a quick wave, then spin on my heel and jog down the aisle while camera phones flash and a cacophony of whispers echo against the forty-foot vaulted ceiling. One particular camera flash—a light so deathly glaring it’s like looking directly at an eclipse—momentarily blinds me, making me stumble down the rose-petal-dotted aisle and step on the shoelace of one of my shoes.

Whoa boy. I nearly fall flat on my face. A litany of curse words flies from my mouth before I quickly regain my balance, courtesy of the second-to-last pew coming to my rescue.

Mentally praising God for the assist, I dip two fingers into the bowl of holy water resting just inside the entryway, throw a peace sign up to the big guy, and then push on the handle to the doors.

Not so gracefully—thank you, undone shoelace—I stumble out the cathedral doors as a wave of cameras flash, blocking me from my unscripted breakaway. But their greedy flashes quickly turn into disappointed clicks when they realize I’m not the much-anticipated newly united.

If only they knew the moment they just captured will bring a hefty price when the news hits—the fleeing groomsman. They’ll find out soon enough.

Spotting my escape vehicle, I jog down the stairs of the cathedral, only for my untied and ill-fitting shoe to slip off my foot midjog on the second-to-last step. The loss of footwear careens me into the stair rail, and I perform a spin move so epic, the greatest running back of all time would be jealous. Catching my balance, I glance back at the shoe just as Simon comes into view at the top of the steps, an expression of pure murder crossing his eyes.

Yikes, time to go.

Goodbye, shoe.

“Someone stop him!” Simon calls out dramatically, as if I’ve just stolen his wallet. And I take that moment to book it.

I run—well, hobble on shoe and socked foot—through the parking lot, all the way to my car, trailed by the few paparazzi smart enough to chase after me.

With cameras flashing through my tinted windows, I turn my car on and grip the steering wheel tight with one thing on my mind: time to get the hell out of here.

And just like that, with no plan attached to my lead foot, I drive.