Redhead On The Run (RedHeads #1) - Rebecca Royce Page 0,4
I could understand it if I did. I wasn’t Hope or Bridget. No one talked to me about real things that mattered.
My heart rate picked up. Zeke was gorgeous in a way that other men just were not. He was four years younger than my dad. Thirty-eight. Dad aged, but Zeke didn’t ever seem to. He was somehow more virile than he’d ever been before in that moment as I walked down the aisle. I couldn’t even believe he was here. He never came to anything he didn’t have to when it came to us. Not birthdays or graduations. He sent checks and someone deposited them for us.
But Kit and I were getting married in Paris, and he lived here. I guessed he didn’t have any choice but to attend. How could he get out of being here at my terribly boring wedding when he’d rather be anywhere else?
Movement caught my attention toward the front. Kit was there. He didn’t look bored. No, he was sweating, and his hands were shaking. That wasn’t nerves. He was coming down from something he’d taken. We were getting married while he was withdrawing. Was I just…fine with that?
When had I become okay with everything being so mediocre?
“No.”
The music was loud, too loud. I hated it. Who had picked this song? I didn’t want to get married to some traditional bridal march like I was just another marching bridal doll scooting down the happy married walk so we could get on with things.
My father stared at me. We were almost to Kit. Everyone was smiling. Some woman on his side dabbed at her eyes. Why were they crying? Because it was so beautiful, or because they felt so sorry for the two of us since there wasn’t an ounce of bravery in either of our bodies?
I hated Kit, but I’d spare him this. I’d do this for the both of us.
I yanked my arm from my father’s hold. “No. I can’t do this. I’m sorry, Daddy, I just can’t.”
I must have shouted because despite the timbre of the music blaring like it wanted to bring down the Eiffel Tower, I made myself heard. There were gasps and people started yelling.
“Layla.” My father spoke through clenched teeth. “You can’t do this to me.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Oh thank God.” Hope’s voice reached me, but I had no time to consider what she said. I was too busy turning and running down the aisle in the opposite direction. I couldn’t think or consider what I’d just done. This was right. It had to be. Kit and I could live in abject misery the rest of our lives, or we could not do this to begin with. I was voting for plan B.
I ran and ran, leaving everyone in my wake. This was problematic. I was never alone, couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent any time by myself. I always had at least one security person with me because of some issue Dad had with people who wanted to harm him by getting to us. I didn’t even care. No one was going to hurt me. Not if I kept moving and never let myself stop.
I was in Paris, right by the Louvre actually, and I had no idea where I was going. I didn’t speak French, not a word of it. Languages didn’t work for me, like many other things my brain just couldn’t do. In my wedding dress, I didn’t have pockets or any money. Not even my cell phone. That didn’t matter. Crowds of people waited outside of the Louvre, and I rushed past them.
It had to be a bizarre sight, some redheaded woman running in a wedding dress past tourists in the middle of Paris.
I ran until I lost my shoes. No one stopped me. By contrast, people seemed very happy to get out of my way. Eventually, I felt like I’d actually been running in a circle and not getting anywhere particularly far. I stopped to catch my breath. No one chased me. I was all on my own in the middle of who knew where Paris without a friend in the world. I’d left all of them back at the Palais Royal, what few I had. Most of them were more like acquaintances I did things with when I wasn’t seeing Kit that night. Or after I left Kit to go do whatever partying he was going to engage in without me.