Since I’d gotten out of bed this morning, a ball of awful had been kicking in my stomach. And it wasn’t nerves. I’d been in pageants since I was four years old and I knew how to deal with butterflies in my tummy. As each hour passed, that ball of awful was getting bigger and bigger, and it was starting to affect the rest of my body. There was a ringing in my ears. My fingers and toes felt buzzy. My tongue felt thick. And my eyes kept filling with tears. My pulse was racing, my hands were clammy, and words were thundering up my throat, literally begging to get out.

Scary words. Like no. And stop. And seriously stop this.

But it was just wedding nerves, right? The cold feet I’d been phantom feeling for a month or so? Not so phantom now. They were blocks of foot ice. But normal, right? It wasn’t like my entire body was turning in on itself for protection, trying to manifest real doubt into some kind of action . . . right?

“I just need a little quiet time, I think,” I managed to get out past the other words fighting to follow, fighting desperately for breath.

Choke. Breathe. Choke. Breathe. Please breathe. And . . . Crumple.

Terrance took one more look at me and told the glam squad to scram. Bridesmaids whooshed out in a wave of orange juice and champagne, my curls were quickly pinned to my head, and then I was all alone.

I put my head into my hands and just sobbed. As you do on your wedding day, right? Oh, so wrong. This felt wrong, all of this, just felt so very wrong. I was beyond nerves; I was into panic. Panic that needed space to move and give voice to what was raging inside.

My mother entered the room and asked, “Care to tell me why there are five bridesmaids, two nail technicians, and a makeup artist drinking mimosas on the patio right now?”

And as I sat there, surrounded by tufted crinoline and pretty, I finally threw up the words that had been cooking all day. “I don’t want to marry Charles.” Oh. Oh.

Have you ever had those moments when words just seem to hang in the air? I could literally hear them echoing back to me in the stark silence. I lifted my head to see peep-toe pumps, one of them now tapping furiously against the dark teak wooden floor. I saw tanned and toned legs, knees that were just beginning to wrinkle, an off-white linen afternoon skirt, a peach silk wraparound blouse, a ruby, an emerald, a diamond, Chanel lipstick (Rouge Coco Shine, thank you very much), and wide green eyes accented by more than a touch of irritation.

“Pardon me, young lady?” she asked, concern crossing her features for the first time.

Concern over how I was feeling? Or concern that I might unravel her perfect day? I know which horse I was betting on.

“I don’t want to marry Charles Preston Sappington.” Oh, that felt pretty good.

Sigh. “Chloe, do you mind telling me what’s going on?” she asked.

So I told her once more, with feeling: “I don’t want to marry Charles Preston Sappington! Not today. Not any day.” My body had an immediate reaction to saying those words out loud. My spine straightened as if a weight had been lifted, and my head was floating on a tiny string twelve inches above my body.

If I’d been in a factory, I’d have written it on a piece of cardboard and climbed on top of a table to wave it around Norma Rae style.

“Okay. I don’t know exactly what has gotten into you today, but I’m beginning to get a little peeved.”

Peeved? Here’s some word vomit to go with your peeve.

“I don’t want to marry Charles Preston Sappington. Not today. Not any day.”

Fudge me, I was starting to feel good. My head was now floating a full two feet in the air, light as a feather. And oh boy, now I was smiling? Small, but it was there. Smiling.

The same could not be said for my mother. “Explain yourself,” she commanded, and when my mouth opened she said, “and if you say that one more time I’ll—”

I laughed out loud. With a saucy Latin rhythm I repeated, “I don’t want to marry. Charles Preston Sappington. Not today, not any day,” finishing with a hip bump that shook my pinned-up curls.

“I’ve had just about enough of this nonsense!” my mother snapped. “Now straighten up and get it together. We’ve got a house full of people and I won’t have them witnessing a breakdown.”

“Breakdown?” I laughed again. “I think maybe I’d better go get some air. Yeah—air is good.” I hiccup-giggled, my smile now wrapping across my entire face. “Bye, Mother.” I whirled for the kitchen and grabbed my purse and the keys to my convertible. Convertibles were good for one thing only, something I needed desperately right now. Built in air. Let’s go.

“You’ll do no such thing, Chloe. Chloe, you listen to me!” she yelled after me as I raced out the front door, cackling. Wow, breakdowns happened fast. I slid behind the wheel of my BMW, turned the ignition, and was out of the driveway before she made it to the front door.

“I’m calling Charles!” she yelled as I waved madly at my glam squad peeking over the backyard gate.

“I’m not marrying Charles Preston Sappington. Not today. Not any day!” I yelled once more, this time in full opera voice to the tune of Ode to Joy.

I sped out of my neighborhood, took a few crazy turns, and headed out onto the highway, top down, music at full blast. Still in my nightgown and pinned curls.

Point: mother-fudging Chloe.

My mother called my phone. Seventeen times in a row. Then Charles called. Fourteen times in a row. Then my father called. Once. I let them all go to voice mail. My text box was filling up by the minute. I didn’t look once. After driving for a while, I ended up at the beach. I sat on the sand, picked the pins out of my hair, and let the sun shine down through my thin cotton nightgown. I ran my fingers through my curled hair, not caring that there was sand clinging to my fingertips.