Left At The Altar - A Short Story

Left At The Altar

A short story by Damien L. Malcolm.

For a PDF copy of this, click here. 
Also a part of my recently released ebook, The Tiny 1st Volume: A Short Collection of Short Stories
Available for FREE on Kobo, Smashwords, iBooks, Google Play and other ebook retailers

I never thought this could happen to me. Never.

I mean, in all my twenty-six years I've always considered myself a practical sort of girl. Pessimistic, even. Mainly because bad things had a habit of coming my way. But the idea of having a man actually leave me on our wedding day was not something that had ever crossed my mind before that day.

And through a text message!

To his BROTHER!

The bloody nerve!

And there I was six hours later sitting at the bridal table in my dress—my beautiful white lace goddam fifteen-hundred-dollar dress!—with a vacant chair next to me where my groom should have been sitting, and more empty wine glasses than I would care to count.

“What?” I hear you ask. “What were you thinking, Susan? You still went on with the reception???”

Yes, of course I did! Couldn't exactly turn away a hundred and forty embarrassed guests and a pre-paid twelve-hundred-dollar hall booking just because my idiot-brain, spineless fiancé couldn't face the music. I mean half of them had travelled from bloody Perth to come to “Peter and Susan's wedding”! The question you should be asking is, why the hell did I stay?

Answer to that is simple. His brother. Yes, yes, the very same brother who had gotten that gutless text from moron-head. He had to come to the back room, five minutes before I was to walk down the isle, to tell me that his good-for-nothing brother had chickened out. Richard Dalton had sat with me while I cried for ten straight minutes, then helped me go out and tell all my friends and family that the wedding was off.

Then he sat with me for another hour while I cried some more. You'd think my mother might have been there for me, but not surprisingly she was too busy wallowing in her own disappointment. She'd never been good at tears. After bawling, when I was about to run home to hide in a corner to drink away my sorrows, he had convinced me to stay. And for some God-unknown reason, I'd let him talk me into it.

But thankfully, he hadn't left me alone to face the hundred-plus guests all walking morosely past me at the table like I was some cadaver lying in an open casket. Instead, he had sat with me all night, fending off their pitiful looks and sad questions. All this, and I'd only met him for the first time that morning, when he had flown in from England for his brother's wedding.

I could see him now, weaving his way back through the half-dancing crowd with a fresh glass in each hand; orange juice for him, white wine for me. Looking at him, even the way he casually and respectfully negotiated the moving people, I saw just how different Richard was from his brother. He actually had manners.

Peter, while I thought I had loved him for the last three years, was the sort of man you couldn't put a finger on. Like, when you ask yourself, “So, what do I really see in him?” you actually have nothing that immediately springs to mind. Sure, he was tall and handsome with an accent like James Bond, good hair and a decent job. And sure, he bought me stuff every now and again, had stayed with me for three years and was ok in bed.

Just ok, that is. I'd had better... and worse.

But when I would ask myself why exactly I loved him, the answer that came back was always vague, abstract somehow. On the other hand, arrogant, pig-headed and somewhat narcissistic were a few words that came to mind when we were fighting and I was trying to find reasons not to like him. He could be all of those. Not really a good basis for a marriage, I know. But come on! It had been three years. Longest relationship I'd ever had. Surely if you've been with someone that long marriage is the only logical conclusion.

Though now I think about it, perhaps my current predicament negates that last statement.

My seat jolted a little as Richard slipped into the Groom's chair beside me, waking me from my thoughts. I turned to him with feigned nonchalance, trying so hard to hide how broken I still was underneath. A broad smile crossed his lips.

“Hey Susan,” he said with his smooth British swagger. “You know, I think I might look too good in this chair. What do you think? Perhaps if I sit here long enough, people won't notice which Dalton brother you married.”

“I'm not going to marry you!” I retorted playfully, sounding a little too drunk and trying to block out the emotional quiver in my voice. “What's to say you won't do exactly what your idiot brother did and leave me at the altar?”

Suddenly his expression changed, a mask of seriousness taking over. He stared into my eyes with incredible intensity and took my free hand in his.

“Susan Kemp, the way my brother has treated you is beyond comprehension. From what I can tell he has been disrespecting you for a long time, hasn't he? I could never condone such abhorrent behaviour, and wouldn't think of doing anything like that to you. I don't believe I could forgive my brother for what he did. Nor will I be in any hurry to talk to him again, in fact. He should never have hurt you like that. You deserve so much more.”

God I loved the way he said my name. He held my stare for so long that even through the on-setting drunken haze gradually filling my head, I felt a strange tingle go down my spine. I knew he meant every word. He was so unbelievably good-looking. So rugged and masculine. I'd only ever seen a picture taken years before, when Peter and him were fishing on a beach in Wales. But the man before me now... just... wow.

Abruptly, the jovial sparkle returned to his eyes and he smiled warmly at me.

“Susan, if there's one thing I know, it's a drunk lady when one I see. Come, I'll take you home now.”

“I am not drunk,” I protested, doubtless with an encroaching slur belying my words, “I'm just a bit tipsy. And I'm no lady, either, mister.” I shook a finger at him. “Besides, I can't leave yet; it's still only early.”

“It is almost eleven o'clock. Plenty late enough. Come on.”

With that, he helped me to my slightly wobbly feet. We went around a few people—close friends, mainly, and my mum—and said our goodnights. Didn't do that for too long, though, because after the first five or six, I just got plain sick and tired of everyone's puppy-dog eyes and cagey words. They must have thought if they said the wrong thing, I'd crack like an egg.

They couldn't have been further from the truth.

By that point, whether from letting it all out with the earlier crying or covering it up with the wine afterwards, I felt beyond caring, past the hurt. Sure, I'd probably have another cry tomorrow, and the next day; maybe all week, even. However after sitting there with my thoughts for the evening, I'd found a way to work through the initial shock. Great tool called anger, actually. I simply pointed every angry bone I had in Peter's direction and instantly I felt so much better.

Peter the slime-ball had made his choice and done a runner. Good for him. May the loser get genital crabs and be itchy for evermore!

I fell asleep in Richard's car on the drive home, leaning across in my slumber and drooling on his shoulder. Yet another thing to be proud of. I didn't vomit, though, so at least that's something. He had to gently shake me awake after he'd pulled up outside my apartment building on the esplanade. We sat there for a moment in silence while I woke myself properly. After a few minutes, he asked me how I was doing.

Bad mistake.

Obviously I wasn't as good as I thought I was, because after stumbling off on a monologue rhetorically asking how I could have been so stupid, with multiple “why me” variants thrown in, I abruptly fell apart again, sobbing into poor Richard's shoulder for only the hundredth time that night. That man was amazing, though, you know. He never told me to buck up, or get over myself like Peter would've done. He didn't once push me away or hurt my feelings further.

Instead, Richard just held me. That's all. Everything I needed. There was only one thing he said the whole time, as barely a whisper in my ear.

“You are worth so much more than him, Susan. Remember that.”

The words were lovely, and exactly what I needed to hear. Though my only reaction was to cry even louder.

When I finally did settle down, Richard pulled back and studied my face. I must have looked like a melting raccoon by then. He reached up with one gentle hand and brushed his palm across my cheek, wiping tears and running mascara.

“You look a mess, Miss Kemp. About time we get you some rest, I think.”

“Yeah.” I sounded the way I felt; like a lost little girl. His fingers pushed aside a length of hair from my face, ran to the tip of my chin, then softly fell away.

He got out and came around to my side, opened the door and helped me out of the car. I could hear the waves crashing behind the small sand-hill across the road as the cool sea-breeze caressed my face. Crickets chirped in the bushes, probably laughing at me like they did every time something stupid had happened in my life. Little bastards, I thought with a hint of pointless vindictiveness.

I had some trouble negotiating the stairs to my floor, and Richard had to help. Only problem was the one place he could lay a hand to balance me was around my lower back and upper-right butt cheek. He didn't mean anything by it, of course, and ordinarily such a thing wouldn't have caused too much fuss. Except it did. The way Richard had been so caring all night, and shown me such respect and attention, stirred an odd set of feelings inside of me. His hand felt hot, and sexy.

I had never experienced such a thing before. My track record with men had been nothing if not a wobbly path from one disaster to the next. Peter hadn't exactly been a catch, proven nicely by today's abandonment, and the one thing not one past boyfriend had ever done was treat me with respect. I had felt loved before, sort of, and lusted after, but never respected. Not until tonight.

We only had two flights to climb up to my room, but by the time we reached the door my cheeks were burning, I was breathing kinda heavy and starting to break into a sweat. None of that was from the walking. Everything Richard had said or done since I had met him that morning was filtering slowly though my groggy mind, turning me on like I couldn't believe.

I fumbled with the keys and unlocked the door. The moment it was open, I spun around and grabbed his shirt collar. He was surprised, but didn't stop me from pulling him into my apartment. My back hit the opposite wall of the entryway. I held him fast and drew his lips to mine. I knew it was crazy, however I was suddenly so aroused that controlling myself simply wasn't an option any more.

His lips were soft and warm, and knew exactly where to go and what to do. I could feel the fire rising up from my loins as he kissed me, and I instinctively pushed my hips outward to drive closer to him. With one hand gripping my waist tightly, his other hand dropped from the side of my face, where it had been gently caressing my hair-line and neck, and started moving slowly down my shoulder, then arm, before crossing over and brushing my left breast one finger tip at a time. I could feel him swelling against my upper thigh. I wanted him so bad. Oh god, the tingling from my nipples was electrifying!

Then it stopped. One second it's on, the next he'd backed away and was standing against the opposite wall, half illuminated in the light from the hall outside the still-open door. Hot to cold in an instant. I knew at once what was wrong. The look on his flushed face said it all.

“We can't, Susan.”

“Why?” I asked despite knowing the answer, with every feminine chemical loose in my body giving my voice a shaky quiver. “Why not?”

“We just can't. You got left at the altar this afternoon. No great loss, because my brother is an idiot, but it is still affecting you. You've had a terrible day, and far too much to drink. You're maybe not thinking right, and I certainly know I'm not. We both need sleep. We should talk again in the morning.”

I stared at him for a long while, trying in all honesty to do two things at once, firstly attempting to cool myself down a little, and secondly willing him to change his mind. I mean, I knew he was right. I knew that. But damn it if that didn't make me want him even more. What man turns down a chance to get a woman into bed because it goes against his morals? None I'd ever met before. Not least Peter. But this man had so much honour and respect for me as a person, he was willing to hold back and not take advantage.

It was the sexiest thing that'd ever happened to me!

Then the idea struck me that he was most likely going to leave now. My heart sank. With tears welling in my eyes at the thought, I looked down at my feet and asked, “So what now?” I knew his answer would involve him going back to his hotel. I so didn't want that, but had no idea how to say it.

“What now, you ask?” Richard smiled and stepped across to me. He wrapped his strong arms around my shoulders and hugged me warmly.

There was no way to tell what exactly I was feeling at that point. Confusion was about the strongest. All I knew was it felt so good to be supported and cared for by him. Too good. Could it just be leftover feelings from my ordeal that day, or was I starting to feel something for this man? Couldn't be real, surely. I'd known him less than fourteen hours. No, must just have been feeling needy again; clinging to anyone who seemed to care the slightest bit.

My therapist says I do that because my dad left mum for a bikini model when I was ten. I think it's just because actually all men are pigs, but when one shows a little heart I draw too much into it because I refuse to believe the truth.

Richard's breath right next to my ear rumbled like a sleeping lion, and it threatened to rekindle my passion for him. I struggled so hard to keep my hands on his back, not drifting downward. Finally he pulled back just a little and whispered.

“What we do now is, I help you to bed. You fall unconscious and dream away today. I sleep on the couch. In the morning, I'll make us breakfast and we'll talk, ok?”

Oh thank God, he's not leaving. He's not going to leave me. I let him pull out of the embrace and gently lead me down the hall into the living room. It must have been from the sudden excitement, but I was completely exhausted. It just fell on me like a weight. Once in the bedroom, Richard helped me get out of my wedding dress like a total gentleman, never touching me unnecessarily despite my still totally wanting the opposite. Then carefully removed the bulk of my smeared make-up with some wipes I kept on the bedside table. He lay me on my bed, kissed me softly on the forehead and wished me a goodnight, then he quietly left the room.

For a little while I could hear him quietly shuffling around in the kitchen and living areas, probably getting his own bedding sorted. But soon I was fast asleep and dreaming of the morning. The start of a new day, a new life.

With any luck, I could stop the constant hoping for something better to come along.

Richard was here now, and better than anything I could have wished for.

Don't feel like you've had enough? Click here for Part Two