***
~~KNOX~~
***
It’s approximately twenty minutes before Hunter and Delilah’s rehearsal dinner. I’m in their hotel suite watching Delilah complain about her outfit to Hunter.
“I look like a balloon in this dress,” she says, blinking so many times that you’d think actual tears would be falling by now.
“Honey, you look as glamorous as ever. Absolutely breathtaking.”
“You’re only saying that to make me happy. You know it’s not the truth.”
This is me wondering why I ever agreed to drive them to the venue.
Hunter and I had both shipped our cars here from New York last week—air-freighted. But Hunter, in all his matrimonial perfectionism, insists his car has to remain untouched until tomorrow. "Ceremonial reasons," he said. Whatever that means. So I’m the designated chauffeur. Which mean
