Unexpectedly Married: Running on Broken Heels

“Are you kidding me, Mark? You can’t even pick me up?” I hissed into my phone, trying to balance the Target and Macy’s bags while maneuvering around a group of teenagers blocking the escalator. My heel wobbled dangerously, and I could hear Mark’s nervous laugh crackling through the speaker.

“I’m sorry, babe. You know the truck’s in the shop. I could ask my brother—”

“Don’t bother,” I snapped, staring at the endless stream of people below. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back under my new cardigan, bought for the ‘fresh start’ I’d promised myself after our surprise wedding last month. I’d never imagined I’d be married before turning 27, let alone to someone like Mark: sweet but hopelessly unprepared for life’s simplest challenges.

I had to order an Uber. Of course, the car was assigned instantly. I hobbled toward the exit, my right heel giving way with a sickening crack. I stifled a curse, and a woman with a double stroller gave me a dirty look. Why did I always end up in these situations? My mother’s voice echoed in my mind: “Kelsey, you always rush into things. Take a breath, think it through.”

But I’d never been good at thinking things through. That’s how I ended up in Vegas with Mark after our third date, laughing at his wild idea of a quick wedding. “We could be spontaneous, you know? Like in the movies!” he’d grinned. I’d been drinking tequila sunrises and feeling invisible after my ex posted photos with his new fiancée. I said yes before I realized what I was doing. Now, four weeks later, I was dragging myself and half our wedding money’s worth of household goods through a New Jersey mall, my new husband stuck at home with a dead truck and a mountain of unopened bills.

The Uber driver, a tired-looking woman named Brenda, popped the trunk without a word. I piled in my bags and slid into the backseat, catching my breath. I could see my own reflection in the rearview mirror: hair frizzy, eyes wide, lips pressed tight. “Rough day?” Brenda asked, glancing at me.

“You could say that,” I muttered. I didn’t feel like explaining how my life had become a sitcom gone wrong.

The ride home was silent except for the soft hum of 90s pop on the radio. I clutched my phone, scrolling through texts from my mom. ‘Are you SURE about this, honey?’ ‘He seems…nice, but does he have a job?’ ‘Dad and I are worried.’ I’d stopped answering. I didn’t have the energy to defend Mark—or myself—anymore.

When we pulled up to our apartment, Mark was waiting outside in pajama pants and a hoodie, waving sheepishly. He jogged over, trying to help with the bags, but managed to drop my favorite mug. It shattered on the sidewalk.

“Sorry, babe. I’ll glue it,” he said, looking at me with that lopsided grin that had melted my heart in the first place. All I felt now was exhaustion.

Inside, the place looked even smaller than I remembered. Boxes still unpacked, wedding gifts gathering dust. Mark started chattering about how he’d almost fixed the truck, but I barely listened. I kept thinking about the life I’d imagined—weekends at farmer’s markets, spontaneous road trips, dinners with friends who envied my happiness. Instead, I was married to a man who couldn’t keep a job, whose family called our wedding “stupid,” and whose idea of a date night was frozen pizza and reruns of The Office.

That night, Mark’s mom called. “Are you two coming to Sunday dinner? Your cousin Becca and her husband are bringing their baby. It’ll be nice to see a real family.” I heard the dig in her tone, the same one she used when she called me “the city girl who trapped Mark.” I wanted to scream.

After dinner, I sat on the fire escape, watching the city lights blink in the humid evening. Mark joined me, holding two beers. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft.

I stared at him, wanting to yell, to cry, to laugh at the absurdity. “I don’t know if I made a huge mistake,” I admitted, voice trembling. “I feel like I’m drowning, Mark. We barely know each other. We have no money, no plan. My parents are furious. Your mom hates me. And I can’t even walk in these damn shoes.”

He took my hand. “We’ll figure it out. I know I’m a mess. But I love you. That has to count for something, right?”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be the girl who could turn a disaster into a funny story. But the fear was real. The loneliness was real. I didn’t know if love was enough when the rent was late and I was the only one with a job, when my friends stopped calling because they didn’t understand, when every family gathering felt like a test I was failing.

The next morning, Mark surprised me with breakfast—burnt toast and watery coffee, but it was something. He kissed me before I left for work, and for a second I remembered why I’d said yes. Maybe we could do this. Maybe not.

But as I sat on the train, watching the sun rise over the skyline, I wondered: How do you know if you jumped too soon? When does hope become denial? And can love really fix everything when it feels like the world is rooting for you to fail?