I didn’t turn my phone off, but I didn’t answer it again either.
I drove home, washed my peaches, and made a pot of coffee.
Over the next two hours, my phone lit up sporadically.
Texts from my sister, frantic messages from Brenda asking if I could pay for a block of rooms at the Marriott, and a single text from David saying, “This is entirely your fault.”
I didn’t reply to any of them.
I knew exactly what was happening.
Finding 25 hotel rooms on a Saturday in June during wedding season is nearly impossible.
They were scrambling, sweating in their nice clothes on buses that charged by the hour.
Sarah was probably sobbing, and David’s family was realizing exactly how poorly planned this entire weekend was.
A year ago, I would have been in my car, driving 80 m an hour down the highway, credit card in hand, ready to max out my savings to fix a mistake I didn’t even make.
I would have taken the blame to save Sarah from embarrassment.
But I sat in my quiet living room and drank my coffee.
The consequences belonged to them.
At 300 p.m., an hour before the ceremony was supposed to start, my sister texted.
“They found a cheap motel near the airport. Half the guests are furious. The wedding is delayed by two hours. Are you coming?”
I looked at the message.
I thought about the rehearsal dinner I wasn’t invited to. I thought about the years of being treated like an ATM and a maid.
I typed back, “No, enjoy the wedding.”
I put my phone on the charger in the bedroom and closed the door.
I heard later that the wedding eventually happened. My sister couldn’t resist calling me Sunday morning to spill the details.
The cheap motel near the airport that Colton, I mean David, had frantically booked turned out to be right next to an active freight train line.