All heads turn toward William. He looks like a corpse. Ghastly skin, bluish bags under his eyes, and hollow cheeks. He doesn’t look like someone who’s getting married but more like someone who’s walking down death row.

“Tell me it’s not true,” Amelia squeals. “Tell me.”

William stares at her, petrified.

“William?”

He finally breaks.

“I’m sorry…”

“Sorry? You’re sorry?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me? Tell me what, exactly? That you don’t love me? That you’re in love with someone else? That you cheated on me for a year?”

“I-I’m sorry…”

“No. NO. You don’t get to be sorry, you bastard.”

That’s when she goes Carrie-Bradshaw-after-Mr.-Big-leaves-her-at-the-altar crazy and hits William on the head with her bouquet. “You humiliated me,” blow. “You cheating,” blow. “Lying,” blow. “Loser,” blow. “I hate you,” blow.

Petals fly everywhere. When there’s nothing left of the bouquet, Amelia throws it away and stares at the room, disoriented. She catches my gaze and something switches on her face. She runs toward me and I’m afraid I’m going to be next on her hit list, but instead she grabs my hand and pleads, “Get me out of here. Get me out of here as quick as you can.”

Hand-in-hand, we run out the door, down the long, carpeted hallway, and burst onto the grassy lawn.

“I don’t have a car,” I say.

“How did you get here?”

“On a truck full of chickens. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

A whistle resounds behind us, and we turn to see Amelia’s brother running after us.

“Dad says to take his car.” He throws the keys at me and gathers Amelia in a bone-crushing hug. “Call us when you’re a little calmer—promise?”

“I promise,” Amelia says. “But now I just want to get the hell out of here.”

I follow her panicked gaze to the chapel’s entrance door where the first guests are streaming outside. I catch a glimpse of my trolley lying against the wall.

“My bag,” I say to Malcolm. “I need my bag.”

“I’ll get it. You get the car around.” He hugs me and whispers in my ear, “Thank you, and sorry. We owe you.”

I wave him away, embarrassed and close to tears again, and follow Amelia to the car. Malcolm puts my bag in the trunk and bangs his hand on it twice to signal we can go. I push my foot on the accelerator, sending grit flying under the tires as I steal the bride away.

I look at her. She’s staring out of the window and I can’t see her face.

“I’m sorry I had to tell you this way.”

“I can’t talk about it. Not yet.” Her voice is broken, as is my heart for her.

“Where do you want me to take you?”