I lifted the bottom of my dress, took one too many left steps, and fell backwards into my sister’s arms.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our destination,” the pilot announced over the intercom. “Welcome to Memphis, Tennessee. Local weather calls for a high of eighty five degrees and a low of seventy degrees with scattered thunderstorms.”
I glanced out my window and noted the heavy downpour.
I remained in my seat until the last passenger exited the plane. I was tempted to stay on board, tempted to ask how much they would charge for a one night stay.
Sighing, I stood to my feet and grabbed my carryon from the overhead bin. I managed to walk past two rows before my knees buckled beneath me.
I cried again.
“Ma’am! Ma’am!” the flight attendant stooped down and touched my forehead. “Are you alright?”
“No,” I slowly stood up. “No. I’m not alright.”
“I’m sorry,” she looked genuinely concerned. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll get someone to bring you a wheelchair?”
I was usually against people taking pity on me, but not this time. I waited for wheelchair assistance as the flight crew stood in a corner whispering. Every few minutes I caught pieces of what they were saying—“She just collapsed.” “Should we report this?” “How much did she have to drink on board?”—but I was focused on trying to hide the rest of my emotions until I was alone.
“Ma’am?” a young man entered the plane and reached out for my hand. “Are you ready to go now?”
I nodded my head.
He matched me step for step, and when we were off the plane he motioned for me to sit in the wheelchair. He wheeled me through Gate B, and I couldn’t help but to think of how many times Sean and I had traveled in and out of airports—how many times he’d taken me around the world: Sri Lanka. Brazil. Germany. Panama.
As he pushed me past baggage claim, I felt tears falling down my face.
We headed towards the pick-up zone and the doors leading out of Memphis International flew open. I pointed out my mom’s gray Jeep and he helped me into the car.
“Thank you sir,” I heard my mom say as she closed my door.
I saw her hand the wheelchair man a twenty and fastened my seatbelt.
“Welcome home Melody,” she slid into the driver’s seat.
“Thank you.”
“We were really worried about you,” she slowly drove off. “I don’t know why you didn’t want to come home with us right after. It must have been—”
I wasn’t listening. All I could think about were the wasted preparations, the wasted rehearsals, and the wasted time.
“We got you some of that fancy hot chocolate you like. And we’re going to—”
The custom Vera Wang gown. The Christian Louboutin shoes. The Max Mara veil.
“We had all your wedding gifts shipped down. Do you have any plans for—”
The flower arrangements. The twenty piece orchestra. The photographers.
“Melody? Melody? Are you there?”
The custom rings that took six months to complete. The matching tattoos. The vows.
“Hun, you look really sick. Do I need to pull over?”
“No mom,” I rejoined her in reality. “I just want to get home.”
She turned the radio up and placed her hand on my knee. I looked out my window and watched the rain fall in sheets.
The Jeep maneuvered onto our cobblestoned driveway and my dad made his way out of the house holding a yellow umbrella. He opened the door on my side and lifted me into his arms.
I couldn’t hold back anymore.
“He left me Daddy,” I sobbed. “He left me in front of everyone.”
“It’s okay Melody. It’s okay.”
Hours later, I awoke to the smell of hot chocolate and pumpkin pie. I dragged myself into the kitchen and pulled out a mug. On the counter was a note: “Left to get dinner—Corky’s BBQ. Your favorite. : ) Your loving parents.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I ate meat. Sean and I agreed to become vegetarians over a year ago.
I wonder if his blonde bitch eats meat…
I slowly poured myself a cup of hot chocolate and dropped the mug once I caught a glimpse of my engagement ring.
I feebly ran my finger along the small rubies that surrounded the four carat diamond. I didn’t have the heart to take it off yet. I was still in shock, in disbelief.
I was trying to pinpoint a moment in time when he may have started acting strange, when he may have shown a rare episode of suspicious spontaneity, but I couldn’t find one. I would’ve never guessed that Sean, my Sean, would leave me crying at the altar. He didn’t seem like the type.
Sean was an immensely talented jewelry designer. Four years my senior, he dropped out of law school to study under renowned jeweler Frances Durmont.
While I was in college, he treated me to small trinkets he created: tiny ruby rings with sapphire accents, beaded pearls with reversible clasps, and intricate charm bracelets—lots of charm bracelets.
He left Durmont during my senior year and opened his own shop, Belazi, a small storefront that once served as a book store.
Business was slow at first, but word quickly spread about his reversible beaded clasps, and he was able to move his store to a prime location on Fifth Avenue. His client list quadrupled in months and grew to include the likes of major celebrities and Fortune 500 CEOs.
With his newfound riches, he took me with him on business trips all over the world. He even took me to diamond mining sites, explaining the history of trade and manufacturing in great detail. He showed me all the places I’d read about, all the places I’d seen in the Hollywood classics.