Three Buses And A Father’s Pride, All Pushed To The Spare Table Chapter 02

Three Buses And A Father’s Pride, All Pushed To The Spare Table Chapter 02

After they took the hope chest, my father just stood there.

His hands were empty now, hanging at his sides, his fingers rubbing against the seam of his pants.

Like he was still holding something.

The wedding coordinator came back.

“Time for the bride’s touch-up.”

I didn’t move. I turned and walked out after the chest.

My father followed two steps behind.

He looked like he wanted to call out to me, but stopped himself. He just hurried to keep up.

The back area of the hotel was much darker than the ballroom.

At the end of the hallway were stacks of discarded cardboard boxes, spare flower stands, and a few bags of wet tablecloths.

The air smelled like wine, grease, and disinfectant.

The hope chest sat right on top.

No—it was thrown there.

A wet tablecloth was weighing down the lid, water dripping from the plastic bag, soaking a dark patch into the wood.

My father practically ran to it.

He crouched down, moved the wet cloth away, and started wiping the lid with his sleeve.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he kept saying.

“Old chest. Tough.”

But the latch was already bent.

The corner had splintered too.

He reached out to touch the crack, and a splinter sliced his finger. A bead of blood appeared fast.

He froze, then hid his hand behind his back.

I said, “Dad. Your hand.”

He smiled. 　　“It’s nothing.”

He went back to wiping the chest. His cuff was soaked in seconds.

I turned to the worker nearby. “Who told you to put this here?”

The worker glanced at me, then at Caleb, and stammered.

“The Vances said the lobby’s all set up. Stuff like this doesn’t belong out there.”

“Stuff like this?”

No one answered.

Caleb walked over. His face was already tight. 　　“Clara. The ceremony’s about to start.”

I pointed at the chest. “This is my father’s wedding gift to me.”

He looked at my dad, then at the chest.

“I know that.”

“And you still let them throw it back here?”

“Nobody threw it,” he said, his tone impatient now. “It’s just a temporary spot.”

My father stood up fast, blocking the chest. 　　“Clara, stop. It’s really not damaged.”

Afraid I’d keep going, he quickly turned to explain to Caleb.

“Caleb, I didn’t mean it like that. The chest is old. It doesn’t look great. Back here is fine.”

He talked so fast he almost bit his tongue.

Caleb’s expression softened a little, but there was no shame in it.

“If it bothers you, I can buy you a new one.”

The smile on my father’s face froze.

He looked down at the chest and slowly pressed his palm against the bent latch.

“Don’t,” he said. 　　“It’s not worth anything.”

Those three words landed heavier than the chest hitting the doorframe.

I reached for my father’s wrist.

His hand was cold and shaking.

Chloe Whitmore appeared out of nowhere.

She wore a light-colored dress, standing next to Caleb, her eyes red-rimmed.

“Clara, I’m so sorry. Is it because my family’s at the family table? Are you upset?”

Her voice was soft—soft enough for everyone nearby to hear.

“If that’s it, I can move to the back. This is your and Caleb’s wedding day. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

Caleb looked at me immediately.

“Clara, Chloe didn’t mean anything by it.”

I didn’t say anything.

But my father rushed in. 　　“No, no, we don’t have any problem. Miss Whitmore, you sit there. All of you. Really.”

Then he turned back to me and lowered his voice. 　　“Clara, don’t make them uncomfortable.”

He’d been seated next to the kitchen door, and he didn’t care about being uncomfortable.

Leo got bumped from groomsman, and he said it was fine.

The hope chest got thrown next to garbage, and he said it wasn’t worth anything.

But if Chloe’s family got uncomfortable—he was scared of that.

Scared for me. Scared of what the Vances would think.

The wedding coordinator rushed up with the run sheet. 　　“Mr. Vance, one last confirmation on the ceremony script.”

Caleb took it.

I was standing close. My eyes caught a line.

The “Thanks to Parents” section.

The names were listed clearly:

Thank you to Mr. and Mrs. Vance.

Thank you to Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore.

Thank you to dear longtime friend Chloe Whitmore.

I kept reading down.

No Russell Benson.

No Dad.

My father was still crouched on the floor wiping the chest’s corner. He had no idea he’d been cut out again.

I reached over and took the run sheet from Caleb’s hand.

His face went dark.

“Clara.”

I pointed at the blank space where my father’s name should have been.

“Where’s my dad?”