I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 1 HOPE

Chapter 1

H OPE

“Hope Mercy Barlowe, if you are not in the truck in five minutes, I’m leaving without you!” Mom yells through my bedroom door. If I had a dime for every time she’s told me that, I’d be richer than Bezos—but this time I have the perfect answer ...

“You’re not going anywhere without me, Mom. I’m the bride!”

I grin at myself in the mirror, quite proud of the once-in-a-lifetime retort. Surrounding my reflection are stickers from high school; Polaroids of my soon-to-be husband, Roy, and me at homecoming; and a good luck–kiss print I made the night we went on our first date. Behind me is the childhood bedroom I’m desperately ready to leave. College was short, but it showed me that I’m ready for more—more than coming home to my parents’ house, for sure. Last night was the final time I’ll sleep under the pink-and-purple comforter Mom bought for my sixteenth-birthday room makeover.

Because today I’m the bride, and tonight I’ll be a wife. Mrs. Roy Laurier.

“Hope Laurier,” I whisper, the way I have hundreds of times before.

This has been the plan since I was a sophomore in high school, and I’ve tried out the name dozens of times. I’ve written it over and over to figure out my new signature, practicing my new introduction. The completed paperwork for my updated driver’s license is already in an envelope in my purse, waiting for a copy of the marriage license. What can I say? I’m a planner to the nth degree, plus infinity.

It’s quiet on the other side of my door, and I can almost see Mom frowning at my sassy response to her urgency and coming up with one of her own. Finally, she says, “Well, fine, but if you’re late to your own wedding, the whole town’s never gonna let you live it down. You’ll be nearly fifty years old, planning your twenty-fifth-anniversary party at the lodge, and people will still give you hell about how you’re always late. They’ll say, ‘Hope’ll be late to her own funeral.’ All because you were late to your wedding when you were twenty-three years old.”

I sigh. Mom can be dramatic when it serves her, but in this situation, she’s not exaggerating. The people of Maple Creek have long memories and love nothing more than to rehash old gossip during dull moments.

I twirl one of the loose curls by my ear around my finger, careful not to damage the magic Bettye worked to make my straight, thin light-brown hair look full in the romantic upsweep she said would go perfectly with my dress and veil. Looking in the mirror again, I smile. But it doesn’t reach my eyes, which are blank and vaguely fear filled.

Mom’s right.

Today is the start of everything. All that I’ve planned, all that Roy’s planned, all that everyone expects from us.

Finish high school: check.

Go to college: check—me getting my dental hygienist degree, and Roy, a business degree.

Secure jobs? Check. I’m working at Dr. Payne’s office, and Roy’s been at the local bank for almost two years.

Get married on the banks of the creek where it meets the lake, surrounded by family and friends and the maple trees our town is known for? Half check.

Next? I’m moving into Roy’s apartment so we can save enough money to eventually afford a small house and a couple of acres outside of town. We’ll have two daughters, Olive and Sage (Roy’s picks—his favorite color is green), and a dog named Chester (my pick), a cattle dog who’ll wear a blue bandanna and herd the girls to the dinner table every night. And we’ll live happily ever after.

It might as well be inscribed on a granite tablet and put up in the town square with a velvet rope around it.

I just have to get in the truck.

So why am I still sitting here, unable to move from the bedroom I hated coming back to after college because it made me feel like a child? Why do my feet feel like they’re encased in concrete, not specially selected white cowgirl boots with blue stitching? Why does my stomach feel like I’m both starving and completely full of June bugs buzzing around a porch light on a summer night?

Oh God. Am I pregnant?

No.

I know I’m not. Roy and I have been sexually active since the night of his senior prom, but we decided to abstain for a little while before the wedding so that tonight would be extra special. Well, “special” was my phrasing; “horny as fuck” was Roy’s. Either way, I’m definitely not pregnant.

Just nervous, I guess.

I shouldn’t be. I’m getting all I’ve ever wanted. My every dream is coming true. Today’s ceremony is the official start of my life with Roy.

It’ll be a good life—I know that. It’ll be fine, perfectly picturesque and Instagram-worthy.

But what if there’s more? More to life than a checklist? More to the world than Maple Creek? More to me than a label change from Roy’s Girlfriend to Roy’s Wife ?

I hear the truck start out front and know my time is up. Any grace Mom had has expired, and I’d best get my butt downstairs ... now.

I shake my head, rattling the worries and doubts loose and shoving them into a deep, dark corner of my mind. “A little cold feet, that’s all,” I murmur, wiggling my perfectly warm toes in my boots. I catch the shaky uncertainty in my voice.

It feels like my body isn’t my own as I force myself to robotically walk to the front door. My wedding dress makes a swish-swish-swish sound with every step, but what I mostly hear is my heart racing and a dull roaring in my ears.

Outside, Mom meets me in the front yard and stops suddenly, her eyes glittery with unshed tears. “Oh, honey. You look beautiful.”

She’s already seen me all dressed up. In fact, she and my twin sister, Joy, helped me get dressed, but I imagine she’s going to be struck by seeing me as a bride all day. This is a check mark on Mom’s life list too.

“Thanks, Mom. For everything,” I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She waves her hands, fanning her face. “Don’t make me mess up my eye makeup, young lady. I bought waterproof mascara that makes these fancy tubes on your lashes so I wouldn’t look a mess all day. It’s supposed to be what synchronized swimmers wear in the pool. Figured if it was good enough for them, it was good enough for me.” She flutters her lashes, which do look extra dark and long.

“Pretty,” I say, figuring a compliment is always a win.

“I was coming to light a fire under your butt. Joy texted and said people are already arriving to get a good seat, so we’ve got to scoot. Don’t want to be late for your special day.”

My dad, brother, and sister headed to the ceremony site a while ago to do last-minute preparations there. I suspect it was also to give Mom and me a moment alone.

Her smile is bright and warm, proudly telegraphing how happy she is.

Mom and Dad have always been amazing. Admittedly, when I was foolishly and desperately in love the way only a teenager can be, and dreamily announced my plans to marry Roy while trying on an ivory prom dress, my parents nodded and said, Sure, honey , which we all knew meant No way . It wasn’t that they didn’t like Roy, but that I was young, and they knew how likely things were to change as we grew up. Yet they didn’t argue with me or make me feel stupid for feeling that way. In return, I’ve never said I told you so to them for being right, now that those youthful plans are actually coming to fruition.

Especially when they might’ve been an itsy-bitsy, teeny-tiny bit right.

Mom opens the door and helps me climb into Dad’s big four-door truck, which is our only vehicle that would fit me and my dress—and that’s with the passenger seat pushed all the way back to touch the rear seat. She makes sure every inch of my satin-and-lace confection is in and then slams the door shut. In her own mother-of-the-bride dress—a gold sequined number she ordered online—she hikes around the front of the truck and climbs in behind the wheel.

“Ready?” she asks.

I almost say no. I almost ask if she had cold feet when she married Dad. I almost do something ... anything ... to give myself a minute to think because it’s so loud in my head. So overwhelmingly loud, with doubts, worries, questions, and, oddly, the song “Go Your Own Way” on repeat. But that might be because Dad was in control of the music at home this morning, and vintage Fleetwood Mac is one of his favorites.

I feel Mom’s focus land heavily on me, and I risk turning to meet her gaze. Silently, I blink and Mom tilts her head, calculations and concern filling her eyes in an instant. She can read me like a book. She’s always been able to do that, which pissed my brother and sister off when we were growing up because they couldn’t get away with anything. All Mom would have to do was stare me down and she’d know exactly what type of shenanigans they were up to. Because it was always them. I was then and still am the good kid, the good girl, the one nobody ever worries about because I’ll always do the right thing.

“Hope?” she questions gently, like she’s afraid I might burst into tears if she’s her usual blunt and bold self.

I force a smile to my lips and swipe an imaginary tear from my dry eye. “I’m fine. I’m ready.” I nod, reassuring her that I mean it, even though I’m not sure I do.

Mom puts the truck into gear, and before I know it, we’re flying down McAdams Lane toward my wedding site, where Roy’s waiting for me. Along with most of the town.

“Oh my gawd, there you are!”

Joy nearly attacks me as I climb out of the truck, which Mom parked behind a huge maple tree that must be at least three feet wide, with branches reaching up close to a hundred feet. Its leaves are broad and green, swaying in the slight summer breeze. “Everyone’s waiting for you. I think Roy’s nervous that you bailed on him.” She laughs like the thought is utterly ridiculous as she shoves my bouquet into my hand and Mom goes to find Dad.

“I’m here,” I tell her, stating the obvious, considering she’s currently fluffing my dress and scouring my face at the same time. I don’t know what she’s looking for. A wayward mascara smudge, maybe?

Should I be crying already? I don’t feel like crying. I feel like ... Never mind that, I tell myself, shoving those thoughts back into that deep, dark corner with the worries and doubts. “Who all’s here?”

It’s a stupid question, and Joy looks at me with an arched brow that says as much. “Literally. Everyone. The whole town.” With a bit of bite, she adds, “It’s not every day the sheriff’s son gets married, I guess.”

Right. Because they’re here for Roy, not me. Well, there are definitely people here who’ll be happy to see me get married. Old schoolteachers, patients from Dr. Payne’s office, family and friends. But Roy’s dad is the sheriff of Maple Creek, and that comes with an extensive guest list, apparently. Roy insisted we send an invitation to the mayor, for fuck’s sake, who of course RSVP’d that he’s coming, which means the Maple Creek Gazette is here, too, because one of the reporters follows Mayor Haven around like a Taylor Swift fangirl, writing a weekly “What’s New?” article about his every move that’s more supposition and wishful thinking than real journalism.

I almost peek around the tree to count how many people actually came, but Joy’s fussing over my dress keeps me in place.

“Do you think I’m going to be in the paper this week?” I say hollowly, not really caring one way or another.

Joy snaps her fingers in front of my face and then gets nearly nose-to-nose with me to peer into my eyes. Her pale-blue ones are near mirrors of my own, but hers look suspicious, while I suspect mine are more apprehensive. “Are you okay? Did Mom give you a muscle relaxer or something?” She lifts my arm and then abruptly releases it, letting it fall back to my side. I almost drop my bouquet of blush peonies despite my death grip on the stems. “ Shiiit , she did, didn’t she?”

I shake my head. “No, Mom didn’t give me anything. I’m fine.” One of those statements is true; the other, not so much. I am most definitely not fine, and a muscle relaxer that’d knock me out for a few hours of peace sounds like a welcome option. I bet someone out there has one tucked into their purse. If I could just get to them ...

Joy looks dubious, but Dad appears around the wide trunk of the maple tree, stopping any further interrogation. “There’s my girl!” he boasts before he winks at Joy, a running joke that she and I are basically a two-for-one package deal. Not girls , but a singular girl .

We’re technically not identical twins, but somehow, the DNA-mixing process didn’t quite get the memo on that and we look eerily similar for fraternal twins. Well, we did until a few years ago, when Joy got her hair cut into a long, sharply angled bob that she likes to style in beachy waves; started wearing cat eyeliner, which I can’t duplicate with a stencil, a magnifying mirror, or prayers; and began dressing like a newscaster, which makes sense because that’s exactly what she is. She’s the sports anchor for our local TV station, there every night at five and again at eleven.

She’s also the devil to my angel role, which means we balance each other out perfectly.

“That’s my cue. Handoff complete,” she tells Dad, gesturing at me like I’m a baton she’s passing off and then knuckle-bumping Dad. She spends way too much time with dude-guys and bro-athletes; it’s soaked into her everyday actions. She steps away, and distantly, I hear music swell as she begins the trek toward the gathered crowd.

“You look beautiful.” Dad takes my hands, holding them out wide so he can admire the dress he’s seen only in pictures but paid for without question. “You remind me of Lorie on our wedding day.” His voice hitches, and he looks off to the side. I think it’s so I don’t see the tears in his eyes at the memory of Mom as his bride.

How much I look like Mom today is intentional. I used pictures of their wedding to style myself. I wanted to highlight how similar we look, but I’m only now realizing that subconsciously, I was hoping that by looking like her today, I could shape my upcoming marriage into one like hers and Dad’s.

There’s only one issue with that plan: my groom is nothing like my father. Roy’s not a bad guy—not at all—but Dad is basically Superman to me. Nobody compares to him.

“Thanks, Dad. For everything.” I tell him the same thing I told Mom, meaning every word of it. They’re the best parents I could’ve hoped for, and a shining example of what love is.

It ain’t always easy, but if you do it right, it’s the foundation for everything else in your life.

I’ve heard that phrase more times than I can count. To the point where we used to joke about getting it painted on a wood sign to hang over the couch. Actually, we should do that for Mom and Dad for Christmas next year. I bet they’d like that. And by we , I absolutely mean me . I’m the sibling who handles the group presents, along with everything else. That’s me—dependable, reliable, trusty, responsible Hope.

“Thank you, kiddo, for making an old man proud. You’ve always been your own person, known exactly what you wanted and never stumbled in chasing after it. Keep doing that, Hope. Follow your dreams.” He dips his chin once, like he’s practiced that speech dozens of times before and said exactly what he wanted to.

Follow my dreams.

That’s what I’m doing. Following a dream I’ve had for years.

Can dreams change?

I don’t answer the question, instead launching myself into Dad’s arms for a hug. There’s nothing Dad’s bear hugs can’t fix.

Maybe this clusterfuck?

He pats my back, careful not to mess up my veil, and then wraps my arm around his elbow. “We’d best get to getting down the aisle, or Lorie’s gonna kick my ass. Shep already escorted her down.”

My older brother, Shepherd, was supposed to walk with Mom and then sit with her. Dad will join them after walking me. Joy will stay by my side as my maid of honor. I wouldn’t dream of getting married without her.

“Last chance to run,” he jokes. I should laugh and tell him that he’s being silly, but we step around the maple tree’s trunk, and in the distance ahead, I can see everyone standing and turning to face us.

Run? What about fly? Not to Roy, but to a land far, far away, where I don’t know anyone or anything. Where I can be someone other than Hope Laurier.

But Dad’s leading me closer and closer to the crowd ... to Roy ... to my future.

Cold feet is a misnomer. I’ve got cold everything. It might be a warm June day, perfect for an outdoor wedding at the best spot in town—the place where dozens of happy couples get married every year—but my whole body feels like ice.

The next few minutes happen in flashes.

Dad kisses my cheek and shakes Roy’s hand before leaving me.

Joy smiles when she takes my bouquet, but her eyes look weird, like she’s yelling with them.

Roy’s hands are soft when he takes mine.

He looks at me and smiles—no, smirks. He seems ... perfectly fine. Confident, with no nerves at all.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of Roy Laurier and Hope Barlowe in wedded matrimony ...”

Oh shit! I’m doing it! I’m actually marrying Roy Laurier.

I lose a second, or maybe a minute, staring at Roy. He’s good looking, always has been. He was the big man on campus in high school, and I was proud to be his. His hair isn’t quite blond and isn’t quite brown, but rather somewhere in between, and is stiff with gel today because he didn’t want the wind to mess it up. His lips are full, with a perfect Cupid’s bow, and behind them, I know his teeth are straight and white thanks to Dr. Payne’s orthodontics and cosmetic dentistry. His eyes have a dark rim around his blue pupils, and his lashes are sparse and straight. He’s quite a bit taller than me now, having grown several inches through high school and college. He says he’s six-one, but I know he’s five-eleven in his bare feet. It never mattered to me because I’m five-five and would never wear heels tall enough to make our heights even. He’s in good shape, especially since we’ve been going to the gym regularly to get in “wedding condition,” as he called it. I’ve lost ten pounds, and he’s put on that much in muscle.

Mostly when I look at him, I see my past, present, and future.

“I’d like to direct your attention to 1 Corinthians 13,” Judge Silverthorn says. He’s a friend of Roy’s dad, and Sheriff Laurier specifically requested that he officiate the ceremony.

The crowd doesn’t have Bibles or books to read, but he continues, reading from his tablet. “‘Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no records of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’”

I’ve heard the reading before, but it hits differently when it’s being directed at you as an instruction manual on how best to live and love your spouse. If those are the expectations of marriage, I don’t meet them. Neither does Roy. We’ll have to work to get there, but we can do it. Marriage isn’t perfect; nothing is.

I take a shuddering breath as Judge Silverthorn finishes his reading. “Roy, do you have vows you’d like to say to Hope?”

Roy nods and clears his throat.

We talked about this. I wanted our vows to be our own, from our hearts, specifically written for us, not the cookie-cutter ones everyone else has. He knows I’ve been working on mine for months, writing and rewriting to get them perfect by thinking about and remembering our years together. Roy’s been doing the same—or at least, he says he has. I haven’t seen him working on his, but I trust that he has since he knows how important this is to me.

“Hope,” he starts, then swallows thickly. I think he’s a bit choked up at first, and a secret aww echoes in my mind at the cuteness of it, until he says, “I’m not sure where to start ... You’re smoking hot—I mean, gorgeous. And you’re so sweet and kind, so I know the love, honor, and obey part of the vows won’t be an issue.” He grins like that’s supposed to be a joke, and I can feel an embarrassed heat flushing my cheeks. Indeed, there’s a titter of laughter from the audience, which seems to fuel him to speak more freely, obviously off the cuff and not at all prepared. “You’ve been by my side since I was a stupid kid, and I can’t wait to make more memories with you.”

That’s better, I think.

“And babies.” He smiles at me, and I don’t know what to do. I mean, yeah, we’ve talked about kids, given that we’ve named them, but it sounds like he’s telling the whole crowd about our sex life right now. Awkwardly, I attempt to smile back, but I can feel the fake brittleness twitching along the corners of my mouth. “Hope, you are the jelly to my peanut butter, the burger to my fries, the marshmallow to my s’mores. You’re the sun to my horizon, the water to my ocean, and the love of my life.”

He smiles again, like his words were the sweet, well-thought-out, personal vows I wanted. They’re not. Not at all. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen them in one of those ninety-nine-cent Valentine’s cards they keep by the register for the people who forget until 11:58 p.m. on February 14. Or worse, on one of those wall signs at Hobby Lobby. He might as well have said Let’s live, laugh, love together for all the thought he put into it.

At least he memorized them. That had to take a little effort. Am I supposed to be thankful for that?

“Hope?” Judge Silverthorn prompts.

I reach into my pocket—of course my dress has pockets because who would choose a wedding dress without them?—and pull out the piece of paper with my vows printed on it. As I unfold it, certain words catch my eye.

Forever.

Love.

Heart.

I look up, meeting Roy’s eyes. They’re twinkling, the blue seeming extra intense. Nervously, I glance to my right, seeing the crowd. Turning more, I see Mom and Dad, watching intently. Joy steps forward, lending me her strength the way she has so many times before. She intends for me to use it to read my vows.

And I plan on it.

But nobody told my boots the plan.

Suddenly, I’m high-kneeing it as I run away from the picturesque water’s edge, my vows fluttering to the ground behind me. I dash toward the woods, heading straight for a break in the tree line. I almost trip when someone shouts from behind me, so I hitch up my poofy dress, not wanting to step on it and fall.

I run through the forest, my boots clomping through the dirt and grass as I find a pathway. The “no, no, no ...” in my head turns into a muttered “Go, go, go.” Deeper and deeper into the trees I run, not letting the slap of the branches slow me down. I frantically scan left and right, not sure if I’m looking for a way out or a way back.

My heart is racing, nearly beating out of my chest. My breath is coming in loud pants that belie all the cardio training I’ve been diligently doing at Roy’s behest. My mind is yelling, What are you doing?

Fight, flight, or freeze? Oh, I’m flighting . I’m flighting big-time.

But I don’t stop. I can’t. I might have to run forever.

I’m a runaway bride. In a small town. With everyone watching and the freaking newspaper here to report on it.

I’m going to keep running until I cross the county line and disappear. Forever.