His 99th Excuse, My Empty Aisle

I shoved the heavy oak doors open. The iron hinges groaned, a pathetic sound echoing through the cavernous space of the church.

"Hazel?" I shouted.

My voice bounced off the vaulted ceiling and faded into absolutely nothing.

No string quartet playing our song. No whispering guests eager for a show. No photographers blinding me with flashes.

Just the harsh, scraping sound of a push broom dragging across imported marble.

I checked my watch. Three o'clock exactly.

"I am only an hour late," I announced to the empty room.

A woman in a gray jumpsuit kept her head down. She swept a massive pile of crushed white rose petals into a plastic dustpan.

"Hey," I called out, marching down the center aisle. "Where did everyone go?"

The janitor didn't stop sweeping. "Gone."

"I can see that," I snapped. I yanked at my stiff collar. The starched fabric scratched my neck, irritating my already frayed nerves. "Where is the wedding party? Where are my groomsmen?"

"I just clean the floors, man."

"Useless," I muttered.

I bypassed her. My leather oxfords slapped aggressively against the red carpet. The fabric was littered with sticky green sap and broken flower stems.

Up near the altar, a young guy in a cheap black suit was stacking velvet kneeling cushions. He wore a plastic nametag pinned crookedly to his lapel. *David. Church Assistant.*

"You," I pointed directly at his chest. "Where is Father Thomas?"

David flinched. He dropped a heavy cushion. It hit the floor with a soft thud. "He went back to his private office, Mr. Croft."

"Go get him."

"He told me not to disturb him until the Romero baptism."

"I paid five thousand dollars for this sanctuary," I argued, closing the distance between us. "My reservation runs until four o'clock. Go fetch the priest."

"The bride canceled the reservation, sir."

"She does not have the authority to do that."

"She dismissed the guests an hour ago," David answered, taking a cautious step backward.

"She what?"

"She told everyone to go home."

I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Unbelievable. She is actually throwing a tantrum."

"Sir, I need to clear the altar."

"Leave it," I ordered. "She is coming back. She is just trying to prove a point."

"She left in a car, Mr. Croft. She is gone."

"She is punishing me," I told the assistant, needing an audience for my frustration. "Chloe had a concussion. The airbag deployed right into her face. There was blood on the leather dashboard. What was I supposed to do? Leave her to bleed out on the steering wheel while I drank champagne?"

David stared at me, his eyes wide and completely silent.

"Exactly," I said, pointing at him again. "I did the responsible thing. I stayed with a victim. Hazel is just making a public scene to force an apology out of me."

"I wouldn't know anything about that, sir."

"She thinks this little stunt will make me grovel."

I paced across the marble floor.

"Do you know how much a plated dinner for two hundred people costs?" I demanded, glaring at the assistant.

"No, sir."

"Thirty thousand dollars. And my mother is over at the country club right now, probably trying to entertain a room full of hungry lawyers."

"I am sorry, sir."

"You do not need to be sorry. Hazel needs to be sorry."

"I just need to clear the altar."

"I told you to leave it!" I shouted.

David shrank back against the wooden pulpit.

"Look at me," I ordered, gesturing to my clothes. "My jacket is wrinkled. I have hospital antiseptic on my cuffs. I sprinted from the emergency room to my car, broke three traffic laws to get here, and she couldn't even wait an hour?"

David blinked. "Father Thomas said it was an hour and fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes is a rounding error!"

I walked past him, stepping up onto the raised marble platform of the altar.

My foot hit something soft.

I looked down.

A pile of sheer white tulle lay crumpled on the crimson prayer cushion.

Hazel’s custom veil.

I stared at the expensive fabric. A dark, muddy footprint stained the delicate lace trim. Several metal hair combs were tangled in the mesh, bent completely out of shape. The pearls sewn into the edge were scattered across the floor.

She didn't just take it off. She ripped it out of her hair.

My jaw clenched. I kicked the edge of the velvet cushion.

"Childish," I muttered.

"Excuse me?" David asked.

"Not you."

I grabbed the knot of my black bow tie. I yanked it completely undone with brutal force. The silk ribbons dangled uselessly over my ruined white shirt.

I swallowed hard. My Adam's apple bobbed against my tight throat.

She wanted me to chase her. She wanted me to panic.

"She loves me," I stated confidently to the empty church. "She spent two years planning this wedding. She picked out the napkins, for God's sake. She isn't throwing away a thirty-thousand-dollar party over a minor delay."

"Are you sure about that?" David mumbled.

"Positive," I answered. "You want to play games, Hazel? Fine. Let's play."

I pulled my phone from my tuxedo pocket. The screen lit up.

Zero new notifications.

Not a single missed call.

A dry smirk twisted my lips. It was a classic Hazel move. The silent treatment. She always used silence as a weapon when she felt neglected.

I unlocked the device and jabbed my thumb against her contact name.

"Are you calling her?" David asked softly.

"I am going to tell her to turn her damn car around," I replied, pressing the phone to my ear. "We have a reception hall full of prime rib. She can stop pouting now."

I waited for the ringing to start.

Nothing happened.

I pulled the phone away and checked the screen. *Call Failed.*

I hit redial. I tapped the glass screen aggressively, my patience evaporating into the cold air of the sanctuary.

A flat, mechanical tone blared through the speaker.

*The number you have reached is unavailable.*

My stomach gave a sharp, unexpected jolt. I ignored it immediately.

"She blocked me," I said, the smirk freezing on my face. "She actually blocked my number."

"Sir," an older voice interrupted from behind me.

I spun around.

The janitor stood at the bottom of the altar steps. She held a heavy black trash bag in her right hand.

"What?" I barked.

"You need to move."

"I am not moving until I get my fiancée on the phone."

"You can call her from the parking lot."

"Do you know who I am?" I challenged, stepping down to her level. "I am the groom."

The woman looked me up and down. She noted the undone tie, the wrinkled jacket, the total lack of a bride.

She hoisted the black plastic bag.

The heavy sack landed directly on the tips of my polished shoes with a dull thud.

"Watch it!" I yelled, jumping back.

"Sir," the janitor said, her voice completely flat. "Before the bride left, she said this trash could just be burned."

I stared down at the black plastic bag slumped over my polished shoes. Through a tear in the side, I saw it. The cream cardstock where I had handwritten our vows. The velvet ring box. The framed photo from Paris. All of it, bagged for the incinerator.

She hadn't thrown a tantrum.

She had held a funeral. And she had buried me in it.

I told myself she would cool down by morning. She always did. By Monday she would be back at her desk, pretending none of this happened.

I had no idea that three miles away, Hazel was already sitting at a glass desk, her finger hovering over a single button that would erase me from my own life.