"I-I'm sorry," he stumbled over the words as if he was just starting to learn how to talk. She didn't answer, just stared ahead at his face, looking but not seeing before turning around and walking away from him.
He remained persistent. "Is there a reason you're in a wedding dress?"
She didn't talk; she was actually walking away from him, though he didn't take the hint. "Is there a reason you keep following me?" she asked loudly. Wasn't she supposed to be in pain, sad, her fiancé just cheated on her for Christ's sake! But here she was, talking to him as if he were just an annoying stranger. Which he was.
She turned and looked at him, wincing in disgust. Designer suit, perfectly styled blonde hair, and eyes, those eyes. Chocolate brown that just seemed to never end. God, what had happened? Ten minutes ago she was heartbroken, devastated, alone. And now, she was this close to sounding like a romance novel.
"Can't you just tell me?"
"Can you just…go away!? I am seriously this close to ripping your head off. Go. Away." She articulated her words clearly so there was no chance that would misunderstand her. She turned around and walked away, him hot on her heels. You would think he would have something better to do with his time. A business man chasing a would-be bride down the New York street in the middle of the afternoon? Then again, it was Saturday.
"Please," she stopped walking, making him nearly run into her at her abruptness. "Just leave me alone. I don't know you, you don't know me. I just want you to go away."
He backed away, nodding his head. "Okay, I'm sorry. Uh, I know this is sort of weird," he reached into the inside pocket of his designer suit coat, "here's my card if you need anything."
She chuckled, "You don't even know me."
"Well, you can know me. I'm Logan."
"Awesome," she said, both her face and voice void of all emotion. She looked around, bored, trying like hell to ignore this annoying guy in front of her. Aren't guys his age supposed to sleep until three, get up, get drunk, get laid, repeat?
But no, this one, of course, the one that would be the one to run into her, was different. He probably had a steady job, a nice place, a great car, a leggy girlfriend. She glanced at his card. Logan Huntzberger, CEO. She choked.
"Uh, is this right?" She asked, placing her fingers delicately to her throat, as if that would help make it better. She didn't know if she should be angry at God or thanking him at this luck. She was just screwed out her wedding, the "happiest day of her life" – bullshit, by the way – and now some stranger, Logan Huntzberger, to be exact, was handing her his business card in case she might "need anything."
What was going on? He hadn't heard her though, as he blended back into the busy crowd, all the people on the sidewalk merging together to form one. She pressed a hand to her forehead, so exhausted from the day, just so sick of it all.
She was no longer a bride-to-be, or a girlfriend, a fiancé. No, she was left all alone in New York City on her wedding day. And the worst part about it was that she didn't even mind all that much.
She stepped to the curb, calling for a taxi and climbed inside the first one that pulled up to her. She told the driver the address of her apartment, and lay down on the seat, her wedding dress being wrinkled beneath her.
Luckily, she had made them wait to move in together. Otherwise, she'd be in one hell of a mess without a place to go to.
So, now, with her two best friends, Paris and Lane sitting around her living room, watching Breakfast at Tiffany's, wallowing about the wedding that was supposed to be.
"He's a fuckhead," Paris said bluntly.
Rory rolled her eyes. "He is not. He's just a dick who couldn't keep his…dick to himself." She laughed. "That's funny." It would be pointless to say that she was a little drunk.
"No, he is. God, Lindsay isn't even smart. She barely got her high school diploma. Then again, she didn't go to classes. And now she works for her mother doing something or another." Lane defended Paris's accusation, knowing Lindsay from around town.
Rory lay on the couch, her head pressed up against the armrest, trying to sober up. "I met this guy today."
Paris and Lane exchanged quick looks before looking at her. "A guy?"
"After I left the wedding. Before I came here. No, before the wedding. Nope, it was after." They struggled to keep up.
"He gave me his card. I think he liked the idea that I was a runaway bride." She laughed. "That was a good movie. Julia Roberts. That's what I should do from now on!"
"Oh, honey, no." Lane was quick to answer. "You don't want to do that."
"But then I can meet some handsome reporter from a big newspaper. I think it would work out okay. Better than marrying the town handyman AKA Dean."
"You are officially cut off," Paris mumbled.
"His name was Logan Huntzberger," she propped herself up on her elbow, pointing her finger. "And you know, at the time, I knew that name, but now it's a complete blank."
"Yep, definitely cut off," Lane conceded.
"Did you say Logan Huntzberger?" Paris asked.
Rory shrugged, laying back down. "I'm just excited to be able to go back to work tomorrow. Back to the real world. No more tulle or carnations or do I want fucking butter cream on my cake?! I don't care!"
The girls looked at each other again and pulled a blanket from the floor and spread it over their broken, drunk friend. "He was nice, too," she mumbled. "Blonde hair, brown eyes. Too much money, though. But I think I can live with that. At least I can probably have a conversation with him."
They didn't know who she was talking about. It definitely wasn't Dean, but Logan? Could a man she had talked to for five minutes have left that big of an impression on her?