Marrying The Wedding Crasher

Vince choked on his bite of chip. The rest of it crumpled to the table.

“If not, we don’t want you here.” The old man pushed off and wobbled backward. “Had enough of that with your father. He jumped me in a bar fight once. No warning. Just pow.”

Because of the shock, Vince couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He could only watch the old man shuffle away.

“Are you okay?” Harley switched chairs so that she sat next to him. She slid her hand to the nape of his neck. “Breathe in, breath out, remember? What was that about?”

Vince drank half the water in his glass before he attempted to speak. “My dad...” His voice sounded like sandpaper on metal. “My dad...”

He didn’t want to tell her.

“Drink some more.” Her hand shifted lower, rubbing across his shoulder blades. “But don’t rush it.” A minute passed, maybe longer.

He wanted to lean into her touch. He wanted to get up and run away without explaining.

One thought coalesced: it was a mistake to have brought her here.

With every greeting, with every event, his past was catching up to him. And Harley, as witness, was curious and wanting answers.

On some level, he supposed he owed her some.

“My dad had schizophrenia.” His words came out drenched in emotion and vulnerability, when he wanted to be detached and strong. He couldn’t meet her gaze, but he couldn’t stop speaking, either. “And depression. He was diagnosed late in life. That man...” Whoever he was. “He could have been referencing a time before Dad was diagnosed.” Or not. There was no magic solution for mental health challenges.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your pity.” There was the strong, detached tone he’d been looking for. Inappropriate now.

“I wasn’t offering pity.” Harley’s hand dropped away. She moved back into her chair. “I’m sorry your dad had mental health issues. And I’m sorry that man was rude to you.”

Harley was compassionate. Genuine. And the first to give the benefit of the doubt.

“That was...rude of me,” Vince said, struggling to find words when he was unaccustomed to explaining himself. “I didn’t have my guard up and he got to me. I took it out on you. I’m the one who should apologize.” And he did.

She stared at him a little too long, not smiling. Earlier in the summer, he would have held her gaze with a hint of a smile and then coaxed a smile out of her. He would have reached for her hand and drawn her close. He’d always felt better when she was near.

“I understand,” Harley said.

Vince wasn’t sure she did.

* * *

THE LAMBRIDGE BED AND BREAKFAST was a large, beautiful, Queen Anne Victorian home painted green with cream colored shutters.

Harley took in the large front porch, dominant Dutch gables, and asymmetrical façade. The kind of straight-lined architecture built to endure generations of family disagreements, brutal storms and intense heat.

Vince had endured much the same. He’d weathered family gales and ill winds from the community. Given his mom had left her family and his father had braved mental illness, was it any wonder he had no interest in getting married and having children?