Jo-Anne, a girl from town who always gives me a hard time, passes me on the sidewalk before I’ve reached my truck. She flips her jet-black hair and purses her lips. “Heard you were going off the market.”
“You heard right.”
Jo-Anne rolls her eyes. “There’s no way all the Mistletoe brothers are getting hitched in the same month. Especially you.”
“It’s none of your business, Jo-Anne.” I exhale, knowing this girl is always looking for an argument with me. She still holds the fact that I wouldn’t take her on a second date when we were juniors in high school against me. Truth is, she’s just not my type.
“Well, Dylan is devastated. You realize you strung her along for years, don’t you?”
I groan. Dylan is another girl I should never have taken home from the bar. This town is way too small and everyone remembers everything.
“She thought you were going to marry her.” Jo-Anne shrugs. “Though I hear Laura Hill thought the same thing.”
“Not my problem,” I tell her. “And you can let those girls know I was never going to marry them.”
Jo-Anne shakes her head. “It will never work out. You are not the marrying type, Hartley, you just aren’t. Unless it’s something negative, you never express yourself.” She scoffs. “What really ticks me off is that you think none of the girls you grew up with are good enough, yet you’ll marry a complete stranger.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I’m doing,” I say, feeling more adamant about the decision than I have all month. Mom doesn’t seem to think I can make this work. I’ve pissed off all the single women in town who don’t seem to believe I’m marriage material.
Screw that. I may not be the kind of man every girl dreams of marrying, but I sure as hell plan on making this work. And not because I believe it’s possible to fall in love with a complete stranger — but because I really fucking hate to lose.
2
Hattie
When I was a little girl, I would go into the attic of the farmhouse and stand in front of the large mirror there. Placing my grandma’s vintage veil on my head, I would hum the “Wedding March” and close my eyes, pretending to kiss the groom.
I’d turn on the old record player my grandad had tucked in a corner, lifting the needle and placing Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits on the turntable. I’d twirl around those creaky floorboards, light holding onto dust as it filtered through the tiny attic window. My feet catching on the fabric of the dresses my mom used to wear. The ones that were packed away after she died. I’d pull out the big, thick album dedicated to my parents’ wedding day, December 1st, 1998.
My fingers would trace their faces, my mom and dad, their smiles as they exchanged rings, their open-mouthed laughter as they fed one another cake. I loved the photo of Grandad dancing with Mom, the father-daughter dance always making me bite back tears. I thought one day I would have all those other things — the veil and bouquet, the big white dress and the glittering ring, the cake and music — but even as a little girl I knew I’d never have that. A dance with my dad.
And for a long time, I found solace in the idea that Grandad would spin me around on my wedding day. Telling me I looked beautiful, that he was so proud of me, that I deserved all the happiness in the world.
But now Grandad and Grandma are gone, just like Mom and Dad… and all those little girl hopes and dreams are gone too.
I’ve finished packing my suitcases, taking only the essentials with me — knowing so many of the family heirlooms must be left behind. The bank seized everything, and the fact I’ve been allowed to stay here in the house the last few months is more than I thought I would get. After Grandad passed from a stroke six months ago, Grandma and I tried our best to hold onto the family property. But as soon as I took a look at the bills I realized Grandma had been keeping the truth from me for years. They were bankrupt. She died of a broken heart a few months after Grandad passed and it felt like the entire world collapsed around me.
Now, I have a few suitcases and a one-way ticket to Snow Valley. And while I’ve always been an optimist, it’s hard to carry much cheer when I am saying goodbye to the only life I’ve ever known.
A taxi honks outside, and I walk to the front door, opening it up to the blustery winter day, calling out to the driver. “I need two minutes, please.”
Then I come back inside and grab my parents’ wedding album, and grandma’s veil, and gently tuck them in the suitcase before zippering it closed. The bank may believe they own everything — but they can’t take these memories. They are all I have left.