Kate squeezes my hand and drags me out of the church at a run before anyone can react. We stop at the massive wooden front doors and let go of each other’s hands to push them open in a collective effort. And we’re out.
Only Mick’s Cadillac is parked outside, as per the church’s strict no-parking-except-for-the-bride’s-car policy. But we don’t have the keys.
What now? I’m lost, but Kate grabs my hand again and drags me down the narrow pedestrian pathway that leads into town. In her white fur and low-heeled boots, she’s the perfect winter runaway bride. But without my coat, I’m the will-freeze-to-death-soon runaway groom companion. I’m wearing only a suit, and December in northern Michigan should not be tackled without, at minimum, a parka.
I’m about to tell Kate how ridiculous this escape is, that we don’t need to run away. The worst part is over. We came clean. We should go back and enjoy the reception with our friends and families. We’ll call it a New Year’s Eve party instead of a wedding celebration, and after a few drinks, no one will care. But then I turn my gaze toward the church doors, I see our parents standing on the steps, staring after us. The dads are mostly astonished, but the moms have murder in their eyes.
Guess the parents are not ready to be philosophical about the whole canceled wedding business. I wonder if they’re madder at the public embarrassment, the forsaken dreams of a Warren-Rose dynasty, or the derailed Chucokate campaign. Probably a bit of all three.
No matter the answer, going back is not an option. The view of the four parents of the apocalypse spurs me forward and I manage to keep up with Kate even though I haven’t been training for a half-marathon. Another hundred yards, and we tumble off the cobbled church road onto the main concrete street below.
In the distance, up the hill, a car engine roars to life. They’re taking Mick’s Cadillac to chase us. We need to get out of here fast.
A bus is approaching from the left and, without thinking, I jump in the middle of the road, waving my hands.
Either the bus stops, or I’m dead. At this point, I’ll take either.
It’s close, but the bulky gray vehicle screeches to a halt a few inches shy of splattering me on the concrete. The driver, visibly shaken even through the windshield, rolls down his window and yells at me. “Are you crazy?”
“Sorry,” I say. “But this is a life or death situation.”
“Please, help us,” Kate says.
Her wedding dress does the trick. The driver’s expression quickly changes from anger to shock to curiosity, and he asks, “What happened to you two?”
“No time to explain,” Kate says. “But could you please give us a ride?”
“Where are you going?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I reply. “Anywhere. As long as we leave right now.”
The driver stares at us another second, then shakes his head amused. “Sure. Jump in.”
He opens the bus doors.
Kate and I mutter a stream of thank yous and head for the open doors. Kate’s in front of me and climbs the first two steps without trouble, but as she reaches the double doors her skirt gets stuck in the entrance.
“Hurry,” I say, looking behind my shoulder as Mick’s black Cadillac takes the last turn downhill before the main road. They’re gaining on us.
“Help me instead of complaining,” Kate protests. “Can’t you see I’m stuck?”
I gather all the skirts and underskirts in my arms and push Kate forward until she explodes into the bus in a white tulle bomb. I pull myself up after her, then beat my hand on the console. “Go, go, go!”
We pull away and sprint down the road just as the Cadillac comes to a stop at the crossroads.
I tear my eyes from the window and have a first look at the inside of the bus and its passengers.
From the twin rows of seats lining the bus, at least twenty pairs of young, shocked eyes stare up at me. We’ve crashed a Girl Scout bus!
Kate and I stumble to the middle of the coach until we find two empty seats and sit down nonchalantly as if it were perfectly normal to go around in wedding clothes hijacking strangers’ buses.
I’ve just about caught my breath when a mad honking behind us makes me jump again. It’s our parents. They’re following us.
“Is there any chance you could speed up a little?” I ask the driver.
“Sorry, pal,” he says, looking disapprovingly in the rearview mirror. “But in case you haven’t noticed, this is a bus full of kids.”
I wince. “Ah. Right.”
The two adult troop leaders seated in the front row—a blonde with short hair, and a brunette—turn and scowl at us. Okay, we probably deserve that.
If the girl scouts throw us out, we’re toast. So I refrain from making any further requests and hope we’ll still manage to lose our parents somehow, despite driving at a lamentably legal speed.
Thankfully, a few miles ahead we pass through a traffic light just as the light switches from green to yellow. Mick has never run a yellow light in his life. In fact, I glance through the rearview window, and rejoice as the black Cadillac promptly stops while we sprint away.
Bye-bye parents.
Kate and I can finally share a sigh of relief. And I know it’s completely nerdy, but I lift my hand for a high five. Kate slams her palm right into mine, smiling.
“We’ve lost them!” she cheers.
We nod at each other, satisfied, and focus ahead to the road and an unknown destination.
A blonde girl with pigtails climbs onto the seat in front of us and turns back to face us. “So, are you going to tell us what happened, or what?”