There was no direct message from Sarah. There was no apology for her screaming fit the day before.
In fact, a few hours later, I saw photos on social media of Sarah, David, Brenda, and the bridal party laughing around a long table at Mario’s.
I hadn’t been invited.
I looked at the photos.
A younger version of myself would have cried. I would have felt guilty, wondering if I should have just rented a hotel for her guests myself to keep the peace.
But the woman I was now just felt a profound sense of relief.
They were punishing me by excluding me. But they didn’t realize that their exclusion was exactly what I wanted.
I turned off my tablet, cooked a small, perfect steak for dinner, and went to bed early.
Tomorrow was the wedding day, and tomorrow the buses were scheduled to arrive at a house that wasn’t mine.
Saturday morning, 10:00 a.m.
I was at the farmers market, picking out peaches, when my phone started vibrating so hard it nearly walked off the edge of the produce stand.
Five missed calls from Sarah, two from David, three from Brenda.
I paid for my peaches, walked to my car, and sat in the driver’s seat.
I called Sarah back.
She picked up on the first ring. I could hear the loud, heavy rumble of diesel engines in the background.
“Where are you?” she demanded, her voice bordering on hysterical.
“I’m running errands. What’s going on?”
“We are at the farm. There are two charter buses full of David’s family from Ohio. We pulled up, and that old man from yesterday is sitting on the porch with a shotgun.”
“Arthur does not own a shotgun,” I interrupted smoothly. “He probably has a garden hose or a broom.”
“He won’t let us in. He’s standing at the end of the driveway with two big dogs, telling the bus drivers they’re trespassing. Brenda is crying. David’s aunt is in a wheelchair. You need to come down here and tell him to let us in right now.”
I could picture it perfectly.