This short story was written three years ago for a creative writing class and revised extensively for this article.

Heading east on Highway Twelve. She’s in the passenger seat, wearing her wedding dress and crying silently. How she got to the gas station ten miles from the chapel, I don’t know. Why she ran, I don’t know. Why she called me, of all people, I might know.

Passing over Braeburn City. We pass the Braeburn High School gym where we met in PE our junior year. It had taken me three months to ask her out. We pass the bowling alley where I took her on our first date. We pass the 7-Eleven where we used to stock up on Mountain Dew and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos before our weekend road trips. We pass the movie theater that was our consolation prize on weekends we couldn’t afford the gas to get out of town. We pass the McClellan suburbs where we’d both grown up. I had promised to buy her a house there. Her parents still lived in the red brick house on the corner and the elementary school was the best in the county. We pass the gas station where we broke up five days before graduation. We pass the Lowe’s where I’d first seen her with him three months ago.

Slow to take the off ramp at Creston. Left on Bailey, right on Davenport. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her sit up and crank her window down. I just know she’s hanging her hand out of the window to feel the breeze even though the AC is on. Just like old times. I stare straight ahead. One look and I might tease her about the time she broke her wrist opening a pickle jar or tell her that I still love her. Tell her that right now, in this moment, we are exactly where we were five years ago; me in the driver’s seat and her next to me, her picking the destination and me getting us there. Where we belong. Because when she picks the destination, we find ourselves stranded in the desert or hydroplaning. Because when I’m driving, I know who to call or how to steer. Because right now, in this instant, I could turn this car around, pick up right where we left off and take her back west to see the canyons, the last place she wanted to see before graduation. Because being together was the real destination. But this will be the second—and last—time I ever choose where this car takes us.

Three blocks down. The chapel rises before us. I pull up next to it, passenger side closest to the monstrous doors. The doors burst open and he sprints out of the chapel in a tuxedo, a coral colored rose in the lapel. It must still be her favorite color. She turns to me, eyes rimmed red and chin quivering. I nod to her. She opens the door, steps out and shuts it. He embraces her, relieved to no longer carry the shame of being left at the altar. I pull out of the parking lot.

Three blocks back, left on Davenport, right on Bailey. Into Creston, then the on ramp. Passing back above Braeburn City, heading back west on Highway Twelve.