Copyright © 2011
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This story, “Dumped”, is copyrighted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This includes all chapters, prologues/epilogues and associated content (i.e. fan-fiction, teasers, and content within blogs, social networks and eReaders). Any unauthorized copying, broadcasting, manipulation, distribution or selling of this work constitutes an infringement of copyright. Any infringement of this copyright is punishable by law.
PICTURE OF JEREMY HARRINGTON ----------------------->>>>
When people say the phrase, ‘this is the worst day of my life’, they really don’t know how good they’ve got it. Most times, it’s because they fell flat on their asses in public or got drenched in the rain or rain puddles.
From their point of view, I guess it could be pretty awful, but from mine nothing compared to the 24th of February – about a week after valentine’s, might I point out? – because I couldn’t even describe that day as the worst day of my life.
Humiliation combined with a large bout of rejection, made it way worse.
That day – my wedding day – was supposed to be the best day of my life – or so I’m told – because, I was supposed to become Mrs. Stewart.
When I first met Matthew Stewart, I thought his name was pretty common and I was a bit put off by the whole first name-first name thing.
And the fact that it was so closely related to ‘Martha Stewart’.
But I overlooked it, entirely – maybe it was the combination of sandy blond hair and glistening blue eyes, I don’t know. But, at the weakening of my knees and the heartwarming somersaults, I thought he was the real deal.
How wrong I was!
As I sat in the church dressing rooms, all clad in a strapless, Cinderella-like wedding dress, with my face all made up, waiting for Matthew to show up to our wedding, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was doing it – getting married – for all the right reasons.
I was born jaded and had always turned up my nose at the thought of love, marriage, kids – the whole shebang.
But I loved Matthew.
And really, it couldn’t get any better than him.
The flower girl – my older sister, Frannie’s, only kid, Willow – was already asleep on an armchair in the corner.
The six year old ring bearer – Matt’s nephew, Rick – was fiddling with his bowtie; his shirt already tucked out and shoes, goodness knew where.
My sisters, Rosie and Frannie – all dressed up in matching peach chiffon dresses – were beginning to get worried because it was an hour later than it was supposed to start already, and some guests had begun to leave.
Whenever I looked at them, though, they gave me encouraging smiles.