Derek waited anxiously, hoping that she would say his name. He knew that they were holding up the procession, but he couldn't help himself: he needed to hear her say his name. Just once.
She didn't. She just kept her eyes trained on the ground, gripping a tiny, lacy handkerchief wrapped between her fingers. Her hair fell in her face, and she made no gesture to move the barrier between them.
"Derek."
Derek whipped around to Stacey, the maid of honor, snapping back to reality.
"Derek, we have to go. People are starting to stare," she whispered.
He mechanically finished the walk down the aisle andinto the bright afternoon sunlight. He perfunctorily gathered the guests for the exit of the bride and groom, making sure that the eight-man guard had enough room to draw their sabres. Stacey followed suit with the bridesmaids, lining them up next to the guardsmen and completing the tunnel from the base of the stairs to the waiting limousine. Derek took his place at the door of the luxurious car, ready to open and close it for Sam and his new wife.
While they were waiting, Derek searched the crowd for Casey. He saw his dad and Nora off to the side; they were slightly greyer than he remembered but still a lively and happy couple. He saw Lizzie, alone, standing next to them, her bright blue eyes burning uncomfortable holes in him. He saw Edwin and Katie, holding hands and laughing. He saw Marti and her boyfriend, Liam, standing a little apart from the rest of the family, his arm flung around her shoulders as she snuggled into him. He saw Gavin, bouncing from couple to couple—and Lizzie—with enthusiasm. But he never saw Casey.
Sam and Emma paused at the entrance of the church, and the entire congregation started clapping for the new Lieutenant and Mrs. Samuel Richards. They strode through the sabre arch, buoyant with happiness, and slid inside the limousine as Derek shut the door. Still, no Casey.
With a heavy heart, Derek watched as the car drove away. He was still staring at the road when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Hopeful, he turned around.
"Derek, we need to get over to the reception." It was Stacey.
Fighting back a sharp-tongued response, he nodded and fished in his pocket for his keys. Stacey slipped her arm through his, latching on to him and pressing her body flush against him. In any other situation, he might have appreciated her obvious intentions; today though, he only wanted to see Casey. Even if she never did call him.
"Come after me, Casey, come after me," he muttered to himself, glancing in the rearview mirror. Still, she just stood there, complete shock written on her face.
"Come on, Case, you have my number. Call me, beg me to come back."
He left Kingston, merging onto the highway. She didn't call. He drove through London, not stopping to see his family or his new baby brother, only five months old at the time. She didn't call. He crossed the border between Canada and the United States. She didn't call.
"She doesn't care."
He had thought that for the last several hours, but saying it out loud solidified it for him. Casey McDonald no longer cared for him. If she did, she would have followed, or called, or something. Instead, she let him leave, let him walk out of her life. For good.
He pulled off the interstate in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and checked into a cheap motel. The receptionist, a girl about his age with badly-bleached hair and long, pink acrylic nails, gave him a once-over and an approving glance until she saw his face.
"Are you OK?" she asked him gently.
"Yeah, fine," he grunted at her, taking his hotel key and sliding it into his jacket pocket.
"Are you sure? You look like someone died."
"I'm fine."
"OK. But if you're not, or you just want to hang out for a little bit, I get off at 10." She winked at him and slid him a piece of paper. "This is where I'll be if you'd like to join me."
He looked at the piece of paper; on it, she had written only a name and a phone number. He looked up at her quizzically.
"It's my favorite bar. That's my cell number. Call me if you get lost."
Derek went to his room and threw his bag on the bed. He flipped open his cell phone. Nothing. No calls, no texts.
Well, I suppose that's it, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.
When he woke up, he was disoriented. The feel of the bed was different, the air was tangier, and there was a heaviness on his heart that he couldn't quite place. Then he took in the peeling wallpaper and ancient television set and remembered. Casey.
He fished around in his pocket, and, finding what he needed, he went to the phone book to look up the address. Although it was an unfamiliar layout, he quickly found what he needed, got directions from the front desk, and hopped into the Prince.
The bar was crowded in the way that only a true dive could be: clusters of locals gathered around high bar tables, sipping beer out of dark, long-necked bottles. The dance floor was empty, save for several rings of scantily clad girls looking for attention. In the middle of one of those rings was the receptionist.
Her name was Jennilee. She wore a denim miniskirt, a halter top, and high wedges that laced around her ankles and up her calves. Her hair was severely pulled back into a high bun, giving her face an unnatural tightness. She had a drink in her hand, and she was swiveling her hips to the beat of the music. Then, she saw him.
"You came!" she squealed, waving Derek down and pushing her friends to the side. She launched herself into his arms, and he became acutely aware of the padding in her bra.
"I came," he confirmed with a brief dip of his head, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Do you want a drink? Come on, my brother's the bartender, he won't care how old you are."
Derek apprehensively followed Jennilee to the sticky bar in the back of the club, trying not the stare at the expanses of flesh that she was displaying. He couldn't help but compare her to Casey, and it was no comparison. But he was here and she was there and she didn't want anything to do with him. He shook his head.
"What do you want? I'm buying," Jennilee said, turning to Derek with a flirtatious smile.
"Um, how about a Molson?"
Jennilee giggled. "Oh, HONEY. You're not in Canada anymore. Have a Coors Light."
Jennilee ordered the longneck and handed it to Derek; he took a gulp and gagged. The light beer was watery, tasteless, but beer was beer, and he was here to forget his problems. He took another gulp.
"What's this?" he asked in surprise when Jennilee handed him another drink. A shot this time.
She giggled again. "Oh, you're cute. It's a Blonde-Headed Slut: pineapple juice, peach schnapps, and Grand Marnier. It's kind of my signature drink. You'll like it. Cheers." Jennilee clinked her shot glass against his.
Derek gulped back his drink and winced. It was too sweet, sickly. But again, alcohol was alcohol, so he swallowed and thanked Jennilee.
"Oh, no problem. Let's dance!"
Jennilee dragged Derek out onto the dance floor and backed into him. She rubbed up against him, clearly hoping to get a reaction. Despite his better judgment, the music and the alcohol and the friction did the trick, and he soon found himself vaguely wanting to take her out of there. She obviously didn't mind; she kept plying him with drinks and running her long, fake nails along his back, his chest, and his thigh.
Eventually, Jennilee leaned into him and whispered, "Wanna get out of here?"
No, not really, he thought, but he was too far gone. He just nodded and let her lead him off the dance floor. She fished his keys out of his pocket for him, gently scratching the inside of this pocket. She slid into the driver's side of the Prince—no, not the Prince!—and revved the engine.
She led him to his room and to his bed.
A/N: Wow ... so Derek has actually left Kingston and is already scamming on a new girl. Or, some new girl is scamming on him, I suppose. Any guesses why? And how the heck did Casey manage to slip out of the crowd at the church?