Hunter ran. That is not a metaphor. The moment I said the words "already married," Hunter turned, looked at a side door to the left of the altar, and actually, physically, ran for it. He knocked over a candelabra. A candle lit a table runner on fire. Two of his groomsmen ran after him. A nun — a nun! — ran after him. He got into a rental car in the back lot. He drove away. He has not, to my knowledge, been located since. Meredith collapsed. Not dramatically — her knees just went, and her maid of

honor caught her, and they sat her down on the altar step. The priest — bless him — stopped the ceremony. Her father Ben walked up the aisle toward me. I genuinely did not know, for three seconds, if he was going to hit me or thank me. He stopped in front of me. He put both his hands on my shoulders. And he said, very quietly, so only I could hear, "Thank you, son. Now get out of my church before her mother sees you. I will deal with her mother." I walked out. I drove ninety minutes home. I ate a plate of cold spaghetti at my kitchen counter at 7 PM. I did not talk for the rest of that night. Tish sat next to me on the couch. I cried, once, for about forty seconds, because the whole day had finally caught up with me.