The Runaway Bride
Greg stepped off the train, bid farewell to the conductor, and walked toward the old single-story station building. Inside was one large hall. Along the walls were a ticket booth, kiosks selling newspapers and drinks, and in the center, rows of bolted-down metal chairs. To the left of the entrance stood a small café with a stout woman behind the counter. About ten people sat waiting for their trains.
“Lad, could you spare twenty quid? I’m short for a ticket,” asked a woman of indeterminate age who approached him. Her face was flushed, her makeup smudged. The sharp scent of alcohol hit his nose.
“How about I buy you a meal instead?” Greg suggested, taking her elbow to guide her toward the café, but she yanked her arm free.
“Let go! And you look like a decent bloke too,” she shouted, drawing glances from the room. Conversations paused momentarily, eyes flicked toward them, then just as quickly, everyone turned away, and the buzz resumed.
“Sod off…” The woman stalked away.
Greg smirked and approached the woman behind the counter.
“Did right not giving her money, love. She begs here every day. Proper fallen, she has. Used to be a looker, too. That’s what love does to you.” The woman sighed and shook her head. “Fancy a cuppa and a pastry?”
“No, thanks. I need to get to Mayfield. Where’s the bus stop?”
“No buses to Mayfield today. Next one’s tomorrow at half five.” The woman noticed Greg’s disappointment. “There’s usually private cabs outside in the evenings, though they charge a pretty penny.”
“Cheers.” Greg adjusted the large sports bag on his shoulder and headed out.
Outside, evening had fallen quickly. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, dialed a number, and held it to his ear—no answer.
Just then, a silver Ford pulled up beside the station. A young woman jumped out and rushed past Greg into the building. Something about her was vaguely familiar. Impossible—he’d never been here before. He followed her inside. She was speaking to the woman behind the counter.
“Cuppa, love?” the woman asked.
“No, thanks, Aunt Mabel. I’m off.” She turned and collided with Greg. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
Greg stared into blue eyes like deep lakes, dimples pressed into her rosy cheeks—he’d never seen anyone more beautiful.
“Oi, Dave’s heading to Mayfield. Dave, give this lad a lift, eh?” the café woman called.
The young woman studied Greg.
“Bye, Aunt Mabel. Let’s go,” she said, already walking toward the exit.
Greg hurried after her. Dave—her name was Dave?—opened the passenger door and pulled out a large bag.
“Let me help,” Greg offered.
“No need. It’s my veil and bouquet,” she said with a smile, those dimples flashing. “Just open the back door.”
She set the bag on the seat and turned to him. “Hop in.”
“Wait. You’re Daisy! That’s why you looked familiar.” At her puzzled glance, he added hastily, “I’m here for Tom’s wedding. We served together. He was supposed to meet me.”
“Ah, he’s at his stag do.” The dimples reappeared.
“I’ve seen your photo—Tom showed me,” Greg said.
The car rolled down the winding forest road, headlights pushing back the darkness.
“Not scared driving through the woods at night?” Greg asked.
“Nah. Rarely do it alone. Tom couldn’t come to town with me today.”
“Couldn’t get flowers in Mayfield?”
“Course we could. But I wanted something special.” Daisy kept her eyes on the road.
“Wedding’s come up fast. Only a year since he left the army.” Greg regretted prying.
“We promised each other before he enlisted—wedding as soon as he returned,” Daisy said cheerfully.
Greg couldn’t look away from her dimples.
“So you’re marrying out of obligation? Not love?”
“Love too,” she answered, missing his skepticism.
They drove in silence for a while.
“You drive well,” Greg finally said.
“Tom taught me in school. Where in Mayfield should I drop you? A hotel?”
“Guess so.”
“Tell you what—I’ll take you straight to the pub. Sort things with Tom there.”
“Bit awkward with my bag.”
“Leave it at mine. Collect it tomorrow. Pub, then?” She glanced at him.
“Pub it is.”
Greg watched the darkness ahead, remembering another photo he’d seen in Tom’s possession—a sultry redhead.
“Who’s this?” he’d asked.
“Fancy her?” Tom smirked. “Dream on.” Snatching the photo back.
“Daisy’s prettier,” Greg had said.
Tom stayed silent. That night, he bragged about his conquests. “Just crook my finger, any girl’s mine.”
A decent bloke, but his bragging grated. Greg pitied Daisy. Tom would cheat, ruin her. Then came the wedding invite—why not visit an old army mate?
“Let’s drop the formalities,” Greg suggested.
“Sure.”
She dropped him at the pub. Light spilled onto the road from large windows. Daisy gave her address, asked him to keep Tom from overdoing it, and drove off.
Greg watched her go. The evening chilled him. An ache of loneliness struck. Music thumped from the pub, but all he saw were blue eyes and dimples.
*Daisy—like a fairy tale. A girl like her doesn’t belong with a womanizer.* He shuddered, pushed open the heavy pub door.
“Greg! Finally!” Tom swayed as he stood, waving. “Me army mate, lads!”
Greg hugged him—Tom was already plastered. Someone shoved a whiskey into Greg’s hand. Music blared; girls in tight dresses danced…
He woke disoriented. No memory of the night’s end, how he’d gotten here, undressed. The room spun. His mouth was sandpaper. The watch read 8:50.
In the kitchen, he gulped tap water. Peeked into the next room—Tom lay tangled with someone. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought it was Daisy. He prodded Tom’s shoulder.
“Get up. Registry office in three hours.”
The girl turned—not Daisy.
“You know he’s getting married today?” Greg said. “I’ll step out—you wake him and leave.”
In the shower, the hammering in his skull eased. The apartment door clicked—the girl was gone.
*How can he? In hours, he’ll kiss Daisy at the altar. How can she marry him? Love? Why do I care? Tomorrow, I’ll leave…*
“Blimey, I’m wrecked,” Tom groaned in the kitchen.
Greg forced him into the bath. Ice-cold water. Screaming. Hot water. More cursing.
Reconciled over coffee, Tom grinned. “Cheers, mate. Saved me. Nearly ruined my own wedding.”
“Exactly. Who was that girl?”
“Lily—old flame. Fancy her?”
Greg clenched his fists. The doorbell rang.
Daisy stood there, his bag in hand, hair and makeup perfect. His chest tightened.
“Tom alright?” she asked.
Greg wished she’d asked about *him*.
“Don’t be late,” she called from the stairs, her voice echoing long after the door slammed.
“Lily?” Tom blinked when Greg mentioned Daisy.
“She’s *mine*,” Tom slurred.
The registry office awaited. Nervous, Tom vanished. The registrar called their names.
Greg found him in a supply closet—with Lily.
A gasp behind him. Daisy fled.
Outside, wedding guests gawked at the sobbing bride.
“Your choice—go back or end this.”
“I can’t.” Mascara streaked her cheeks.
The driver hesitated.
“*Now*.”
At her flat, Daisy washed her face, changed.
“Come with me. Start fresh.”
She packed in a daze.
Voices on the stairs—Tom and his mates, pounding the door. They waited, slipped out, caught a cab to the station.
The attendant eyed Daisy’s tear-streaked face.
“Please,” Greg said.
They boarded as the whistle blew.
“Regrets?” Greg asked as Mayfield disappeared.
Daisy shrugged.
***
Three years later
“Daddy, wake up!”
Greg opened his eyes to his wife and their toddler.
Daisy handed him a gift—a laptop.
“From all of us.”
Shaving later, he studied his reflection.
“Happy?” he asked himself.
“Yes.”
A home. A job. A car. A wife who glowed. A daughter’s laugh.
“Who’re you talking to?” Daisy called.
“Just thinking aloud.”
At the kitchen table, cake and steaming tea waited.
“Love you,” he said, kissing her, then their giggling child.The morning sun spilled through the curtains, painting their little family in gold, and Greg knew no fortune in the world could compare to this.
