THE CRAZY GOOD SERIES - Rachel Robinson Page 0,351

percent sure what was going on before, I am the second the man shocks me again and stuffs a gag in my mouth. The strip of duct tape on top of it is the icing on the fucking Vadim cake.

That motherfucker is going to pay.

_______________

White flowers are everywhere. They hang from trees that obviously do not flower, they drape over arches, on top of chairs, on the grass, in the sky. Wait, no, there are so many that it feels like flowers are falling from the sky. Guests have arrived at the outdoor venue and have parked themselves in the white folding chairs. There’s a lot of them and my nerves are causing my entire body to shake with unease. My teeth chatter.

“Calm yourself,” Chloe chides, rubbing my bare shoulders. The strapless dress was selected a long time ago. So long ago that I don’t tell anyone exactly when I picked it out to marry another man. It’s a beautiful dress. It should have its time to shine, that’s my thinking. Everything else about this day and wedding is different.

I nod. “It’s just a lot. After all that we’ve been through, I can’t believe this is actually happening. It feels so final. Like death,” I say, looking out of the window of the large bed and breakfast. A harpist plays a tune that sounds vaguely familiar.

“Did you seriously just say death?” Chloe asks.

I realize my mistake and try to cover it up. “Well, death is the most final thing that can happen to a person. And I’m feeling like this is pretty final,” I remark, petting the sides of the expensive beaded silk.

Chloe scoffs. “You’re so morose. Come on, everyone is waiting downstairs. You’re holding this crazy train up.” My mom appears in the doorway wearing her finest old lady suit. She looks like she’s supposed to attend brunch with the Queen. That said, she’s still beautiful. Her blonde hair that was similar to mine is now almost a silver color. Her complexion is flawless for a woman her age, and her smile is the smile of a mother who is finally giving away her daughter.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t get all emotional, please. I have so many of my own emotions right now that I think dealing with yours might set me over the edge,” I say in Russian. She laughs, but I see wetness in the corners of her ice blue eyes. I point a finger at her in warning. “I mean it.” She tells me that I need to indulge her. I let her hug me and kiss me and tell me a story about how when I was five years old I dressed up in an old sheet and forced the boy next door to marry me. I stuck a daffodil in the pocket of his jean shorts because he didn’t have a pocket in his shirt. She told me I was serious about it and expected our parents to attend. He ended up running away with tears streaming down his face because I told him he had to kiss me on the cheek to seal the deal. She tells me this as we walk down to the quaint lobby and then out of the back doors. I hang on to every word, like a sponge requiring water to breathe. I try to envision the scenario from her eyes, looking at myself trying to marry the little boy. It calms me down, makes me feel more at ease.

The wedding march starts and she clings to my arm tightly. I lay my hand over hers and we start down the aisle. I smile at familiar faces and even some faces I don’t recognize. We make it halfway down, and I finally look toward the altar at the man I am to marry.

I take a breath so deep that my mother feels it. She squeezes my hand a little and leads me forward as I lag behind. It’s him. He’s waiting for me.

He’s always waiting for me, I think. How long will he wait?

The flowers are everywhere. They cloud my vision. It’s a white blur of wedding and confusion. I can’t see my husband’s face anymore. It blurs like it’s a penis on daytime television. I squint and it still doesn’t make it any better.

“Who is it?” I ask. My mother doesn’t answer. She laughs nervously like I’m crazy. She’s the crazy one if she thinks I’m going to marry a man who has a blurry face.

“Who is