a colony of suited men, whipping through the water across the grounds.
Nick wouldn’t have thought he had it in him to run right then. But off he went, one foot flying in front of the other, relying on the rhythm of soles squashing into earth to propel him forward. He ran and ran, gulping from the bottle that Connor had not reclaimed, and whooping it up along with the pack. His voice echoed full and fierce in the wet air. He felt fantastic, leaping and spinning and skipping through the night. He imagined he was one of those African phenoms who could sprint entire marathons, their lanky limbs like liquid steel. On and on, the ground disappearing fast behind him.
Nick wasn’t sure how long had passed when he realized that the rest of the guys were missing. Where were they, and where was he? He found himself surrounded by trees of nightmares, massive with gnarled trunks and branches like tentacles. Spooky shadows seemed to be playing tricks on him. He was shaking and shivering. He halted his run and made a move to turn around. But his toe went sliding on something mossy, which sent the bottom half of his body flying out in front of the top half. The last thing he heard was the sharp shatter of glass against hard ground, and the soft splash of bourbon.
Chapter 9
I n retrospect, Emma couldn’t understand why it had taken her so long to notice Nick’s absence. That she felt guilty was an understatement, but she was also troubled by her lack of scrutiny. She was usually a noticer, sharply attentive to details. Besides, she was at a wedding whose soundtrack was saturated with love songs, music that would’ve usually sent her clinging to her boyfriend’s frame, head heavy against his shoulder.
Still, Emma had been preoccupied. Delivering her speech had elated her. After its favorable reception, she was already fantasizing about abandoning her snotty teen clients in favor of a more glamorous career in speech writing. Maybe she could specialize in wedding toasts; a package deal could bundle in the vows and the programs—plus bonus recommendations for poetry at the ceremony (though not Edith Wharton).
Plus, Emma had been busy. After Annie had pumped her full of champagne, she’d made a beeline for the bathroom, where she’d gotten caught up experimenting with all the toiletries and goodies in the baskets by the sinks. She’d floofed her hair back up with military-grade hairspray, and then was painting over her nail art with sparkly silver when Annie found her and dragged her back to the dance floor to sway with her to “At Last.” Emma crooned along with the bride, the two of them doing their best Etta James impersonations (embarrassingly off-key). They made it through two verses before it occurred to Emma to ask, “Where’s Eli?”
“All the guys went running like madmen into the storm,” Annie said, flinging Emma off to the side, then spinning her back in. “They tried to get me to come, but ruin this incredible updo by choice? They’ve got to be kidding.” Annie expertly dipped Emma, who shrieked with glee, feeling as if all the bubbles from her many glasses of champagne were now pop-pop-popping in her upside-down head. Her nose tickled, too.
Only when Eli and Connor and the rest of the groomsmen burst back into the ballroom did Emma realize that Nick had also been gone. But he was not among the guys now literally wringing out their shirtsleeves to create little puddles at their feet. One by one Emma questioned the group: Where was Nick? They shrugged, or said “Who?” or “We must’ve lost track of him,” or “I bet he’ll be back in a minute.”
The late-night sliders were served, the band announced the last dance, and guests began lining up to retrieve their shawls and jackets from the coat check. Still no Nick. Emma didn’t want to unload her worry on Annie, who seemed to be savoring the last moments of her wedding by drawing smiley faces on the foggy windows with the flower girls. She approached
Nick wouldn’t have thought he had it in him to run right then. But off he went, one foot flying in front of the other, relying on the rhythm of soles squashing into earth to propel him forward. He ran and ran, gulping from the bottle that Connor had not reclaimed, and whooping it up along with the pack. His voice echoed full and fierce in the wet air. He felt fantastic, leaping and spinning and skipping through the night. He imagined he was one of those African phenoms who could sprint entire marathons, their lanky limbs like liquid steel. On and on, the ground disappearing fast behind him.
Nick wasn’t sure how long had passed when he realized that the rest of the guys were missing. Where were they, and where was he? He found himself surrounded by trees of nightmares, massive with gnarled trunks and branches like tentacles. Spooky shadows seemed to be playing tricks on him. He was shaking and shivering. He halted his run and made a move to turn around. But his toe went sliding on something mossy, which sent the bottom half of his body flying out in front of the top half. The last thing he heard was the sharp shatter of glass against hard ground, and the soft splash of bourbon.
Chapter 9
I n retrospect, Emma couldn’t understand why it had taken her so long to notice Nick’s absence. That she felt guilty was an understatement, but she was also troubled by her lack of scrutiny. She was usually a noticer, sharply attentive to details. Besides, she was at a wedding whose soundtrack was saturated with love songs, music that would’ve usually sent her clinging to her boyfriend’s frame, head heavy against his shoulder.
Still, Emma had been preoccupied. Delivering her speech had elated her. After its favorable reception, she was already fantasizing about abandoning her snotty teen clients in favor of a more glamorous career in speech writing. Maybe she could specialize in wedding toasts; a package deal could bundle in the vows and the programs—plus bonus recommendations for poetry at the ceremony (though not Edith Wharton).
Plus, Emma had been busy. After Annie had pumped her full of champagne, she’d made a beeline for the bathroom, where she’d gotten caught up experimenting with all the toiletries and goodies in the baskets by the sinks. She’d floofed her hair back up with military-grade hairspray, and then was painting over her nail art with sparkly silver when Annie found her and dragged her back to the dance floor to sway with her to “At Last.” Emma crooned along with the bride, the two of them doing their best Etta James impersonations (embarrassingly off-key). They made it through two verses before it occurred to Emma to ask, “Where’s Eli?”
“All the guys went running like madmen into the storm,” Annie said, flinging Emma off to the side, then spinning her back in. “They tried to get me to come, but ruin this incredible updo by choice? They’ve got to be kidding.” Annie expertly dipped Emma, who shrieked with glee, feeling as if all the bubbles from her many glasses of champagne were now pop-pop-popping in her upside-down head. Her nose tickled, too.
Only when Eli and Connor and the rest of the groomsmen burst back into the ballroom did Emma realize that Nick had also been gone. But he was not among the guys now literally wringing out their shirtsleeves to create little puddles at their feet. One by one Emma questioned the group: Where was Nick? They shrugged, or said “Who?” or “We must’ve lost track of him,” or “I bet he’ll be back in a minute.”
The late-night sliders were served, the band announced the last dance, and guests began lining up to retrieve their shawls and jackets from the coat check. Still no Nick. Emma didn’t want to unload her worry on Annie, who seemed to be savoring the last moments of her wedding by drawing smiley faces on the foggy windows with the flower girls. She approached
Similar Books
