Snack 1

Marty:

I’m in the kind of room where dreams go to die. A community center.  I’m showing my short film at a small film festival. It just finished screening.

BLACK.

Four letters linger on the screen: FOR N.

There’s a pause before a few people clap. Not loud. I clap too, from the back row. A chipped-tooth smile sneaks onto my face. People start leaving immediately. Chairs scrape. Someone coughs. Someone else mutters “nice job” without making eye contact.

Then a voice cuts through the shuffle. “Wow,” the moderator says. “Young love.” Her voice is warm. Wry. “I think we can all relate to that kind of high school infatuation, can’t we?” A few chuckles ripple through the half-empty room. Survivors. She continues, unfazed. “That wraps tonight’s lineup. Stick around for a quick Q&A. Filmmakers, come on up.”

Onstage, four of us line up. The lights are harsh. The moderator smiles at us. “Thank you for sharing your stories,” she says. “I think it’s safe to say we’ll be seeing more from you.” Applause. Slightly louder this time. “Any questions?” she asks the room. “Just shout.”

A voice calls out, “Are you single?” 

The moderator laughs. “I am, actually. Unless you’re asking about one of them?” We all blush. 

“I’d like Marty to answer,” the voice says. 

I lean toward the mic. “Does anyone have a question about my film?” 

Another voice, closer now. “Are you over her?” 

The room stills. I swallow. “I think we move on,” I say slowly, honestly, “but I don’t know if we ever really get over the people we miss.” A beat. “I’m just grateful I got to make an unrequited love story that maybe resonated with a few people.” 

The moderator nods. “It was haunting,” she says. “And romantic.” 

“I’ll take that,” I reply. Our eyes meet for half a second longer than necessary. Then it breaks. She can’t be flirting with me. 

The crowd thins and turns into a post-screening reception. Someone eats a samosa. And suddenly, a man in too many scarves materializes beside me holding a plastic trophy. “You won,” he says. “For what?”

“Best Yearning.”

Snack 2

Marty:

My apartment greets me the way it always does - surprised I came back. The door sticks. The light flickers when I flip the switch. I drop my keys beside a pile of unopened mail. I set the trophy down carefully. It’s light. Embarrassingly light.

I put it on the shelf next to an old framed photo from prom. Me in a rented tux that I definitely didn’t return on time. Her in a light blue shimmery dress she desperately wanted then, but probably regrets now. We’re smiling like nothing bad has ever happened to anyone, ever. I stare at the photo. “She ever think about me?” I ask the room.

Through the wall, a woman moans, “Yessssssssss…”. 

I tilt my head. “Misses me?” 

“Ohhh fucccck,” the woman answers, right on cue. 

I nod. “That tracks.”

I wander into the kitchenette, stomach growling. Open a cupboard. Kraft Dinner. Victory again. I dump the pasta into boiling water, feeling briefly capable of sustaining myself like an adult. Then — Tink. Tink. Tink. I lean in. Pill bugs float at the surface like garnish. I gag. Dump the whole thing into the sink. “Goddamn it.”

Outside, a car rocks rhythmically. The moaning escalates. Less romantic. More athletic. The car stops. A door slams. Heels click on pavement. Then — a knock. Not on the door. On my window. I don’t even flinch. I pull the curtain aside like I’m checking the weather. Trish leans against the sill, chain-smoking, lipstick smudged, eyes sharp. “He left quick,” I say.

“Came quick too,” she replies.

“You smell like Panda Express.” 

“That’s my after-sex stink,” she says. “Makes you want pork fried rice, doesn’t it?” 

It does. I hate that it does.  She nods toward the trophy. “So? Did it work?” 

“Did what?” 

“The film. The exorcism-through-art thing. Did it get her out of your system?” 

“I don’t know,” I say. “It feels disloyal to move on. Like… if I let go, it means it didn’t matter.”

Trish flicks her cigarette. “You’re not in high school anymore, hon. You’ve been broken up half a decade.” She looks me dead in the eye. “Limbo doesn’t pay rent.” She disappears into the night before I can respond.

I sit back down on the futon. Look at the photo. Look at the trophy.

Snack 3

Marty:

The office smells like burnt coffee that’s been reheated too many times. White walls. Ring lights. A fridge covered in motivational memes that all say the same thing in different fonts. I nod at people who don’t look up. My boss waves me into his office.

“Morning, Spielberg.” I sit. On his iPad, footage plays. A crowd walking in slow motion. Lens flares. Faces caught mid-thought. It’s beautiful in a way that makes you feel something by accident. He watches for exactly three seconds. “Nope.”

He taps the screen. New footage loads. Wide angle. Flat light. Perfect exposure. Nobody matters. “This,” he says, pleased. “This is what they want.”

I squint. “It’s… nothing.” 

“It’s A-plus B-roll.” He scrolls again. A real estate walkthrough glides through a house in one long take. Candlelight. Shadows. Corners that feel haunted. “Client says it looks like a ghost is floating room to room.” 

I shrug. “I shouldn’t have shot by candlelight.” 

“Just do things normal, Marty.”

Normal. He says it like it’s a setting I forgot to toggle. I nod. Again. I’m good at nodding.

Back in the parking lot, my phone buzzes.

I don’t look right away. I never look right away. I’ve learned that anticipation hurts less than disappointment if you manage it properly.

Then I look.

NIC

💬 Hey. Can we talk? Please. Tomorrow? Brunch? Our place?

My heart forgets its job. I read it again. And again. Like the words might rearrange themselves.

A honk blasts behind me. “MOVE YOUR ASS!”

The light’s been green a while. I pull over, hands shaking, engine ticking as it cools. I stare at the message. My thumb hovers. This is the moment I’ve rehearsed a thousand times. The moment where I’m calm. Detached. Moved on.

Instead, I type:

💬 YES!

Caps. Exclamation point. Zero dignity.

Snack 4

Marty:

By the time I pull into my parking spot, my brain has already rewritten history. Trish appears at my driver’s side window. I roll the window down.

“I said okay,” I announce. 

“You said okay?” she asks. 

“No. I said YES! In caps. With an exclamation point.” 

“To what?” 

“To whom.” 

Her eyes widen. “THE Nic?”

Cut to boiling water. A whistling kettle. Trish bustling in my kitchenette like she lives here now. I’m on the futon with a cold compress on my head because my body thinks I’m in danger. “She texts me right when I’m finally about to let go,” I say. “Like she sensed it.” 

“Every ex senses it,” Trish says. “It’s demonic.” 

“She wants brunch. Tomorrow. Our place.” 

Trish pauses. “Our place?” 

“She still calls it that,” I say. “Which feels… promising.” 

“Anytime an ex says ‘I need to talk,’ it’s either money or marriage.” 

“Nicole does not have money problems. Her family’s, like… tomato mafia rich. Like, she grew up with a garburator.”

Trish hands me tea in a mug that says SHUH DUH FUH CUP and sits across from me. “Why now?” she asks. 

I sit up. Ready. “Because she realized I’m her person.” 

She makes a noise. Somewhere between concern and a car not starting. 

“Or,” Trish says carefully, “she’s bored.

“She’s not bored.” “She’s beautiful and emotionally evasive.” I shake my head. “You didn’t see the text. It had… punctuation.” 

“That’s not a sign. That’s autocorrect.”

I stand and start pacing, which is dangerous in a 400-square-foot apartment. “Okay, but hear me out. She went full no-contact after our break-up. She’s not a ‘just checking in’ person.” 

“So what’s the plan?” she asks. 

“I go. Obviously.” 

“Obviously.” 

“I show up calm. Grounded. Hot but accidentally hot.” 

“You are none of those things.”

The thought hits me, sharp and sudden. What if she’s pregnant? What if she’s moving? My stomach flips. My brain starts building timelines. What I’ll wear. What I’ll say. “I can’t screw this up,” I say. I lay down, suddenly exhausted by hope.

Tomorrow.
Brunch.
Our place.

Snack 5

Marty:

I hadn’t thought about the darkroom in years. Okay, that’s a lie. I think about it almost every day.
Memory doesn’t ask permission. It just flicks on the red light and pulls you under.

The darkroom smelled like chemicals. The red glow washed over everything, making it feel secret. Important. Like we were inside a confession booth for art nerds. I lifted an 8x10 from one tray to the next, careful not to drip. The image sharpened slowly, a swimmer hanging off the edge of a pool, arms crossed, hair slicked back like she was posing for the cover of Sports Illustrated. Nicole.

Hands landed on my shoulders. I flinched. She leaned in close, her mouth near my ear.
“That is the best photo anyone has ever taken of me,” she whispered. My entire body went haywire. “You’re so fucking talented.” She leaned in closer to me. I turned too fast. Too eager. My neck craned backward. Hers, forward. Our mouths collided. Tooth to tooth. 

CRACK.

Pain exploded. She yelped. I yelped. We both froze. 

“Oh my god,” I said, hands flying to my mouth.

“Are you okay?” she asked. 

“I’m so sorry. The angle. The positioning. I ruined it. I ruined our first kiss.” 

She squinted at me. “Smile.” I hesitated. Then did.

There was a missing chunk of tooth. Front and center. A jagged little cliff where something used to be. “Oh,” I said softly. “Oh my god.” I tried to hide my face. 

“At least we already shot yearbook photos,” she said, way too calm. 

I laughed, mortified. “Can you imagine?” 

She reached out, took my chin, tilted my face back up. “I think it’s hot,” she said. 

“…Yeah?” 

“It gives you edge.” She flashed a perfect smile. Veneers. “My dentist can fix it,” she added. “Porcelain. Easy.” 

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “This way I’ll remember our first kiss forever.” 

She grinned. “But we haven’t actually kissed.” 

“I’ll come to you,” I said. “Stay still.” 

This time, we did it right.

Later, when the dentist asked why I hadn’t fixed it, I never knew how to explain that I liked the reminder. That love left marks. That sometimes, the damage was the proof. That even now, years later, every time I smiled, part of her came with it.

Snack 6

Marty:

I wake up drenched in sweat. I roll out of bed too fast. Nearly face-plant.

In the bathroom mirror, I look… rough. Overgrown hair. Puffy eyes. Someone who should not be reunited with anyone without a disclaimer. I grab scissors. This is never a good sign.

Hair falls into the sink in uneven clumps. I keep going anyway. Shorter. Tighter. I tell myself this is refinement and not a spiral. I splash water on my face. Brush my teeth carefully around the chipped one. Smile. Still there.

On the sidewalk, couples pass me holding hands. I nod at them like I’m part of the club again. Like I know the rules. Like I didn’t spend last night talking to a middle-aged sex worker through a wall about my ex.

At the bistro, a hostess blocks me with a single, immovable arm. “Reservation?” 

“Knowing her,” I say, craning my neck, “yes.” I spot Nicole across the room. She sees me. Her face lights up. She waves. I wave back. 

The hostess signals. “Go right ahead, sir.”

Inside, everything slows. The tables. The clinking cutlery. The air itself. 

Nicole stands. “Hi.” 

“Hiiii,” I say, too many i’s. 

“You cut your hair.” 

“You can tell I did it myself?” 

“No, it’s just different than when I saw you last. Shorter. Better.” 

“Yeah?” I say. 

“You look exactly the same.” 

She opens her arms. We hug. She presses her face into my shoulder. Breathes in. “You still wear Cool Water?” 

I smile. “I commit to the things I love for life.” 

She pulls back, nervous now. Different. “Might want to sit down,” she says.

My heart accelerates like it’s about to be chosen for something. She takes a breath.

Snack 7

Marty:

We sit. The table is intimate. White linen. Burgundy napkins. The kind of place that assumes people are here to celebrate milestones. Nicole fidgets with her water glass.  She takes a breath.

“Ever since you and I broke up,” she says, “I didn’t really know how to be me without you.”

My chest tightens.

“Once we became a couple, it was always Nicole and Marty. Not Nicole… and Marty. Like we merged into one person. That wasn’t healthy,” she says quickly. “For either of us.”

I shake my head in false agreement, even as my heart starts packing its bags.

“It took a long time to feel like my own person again,” she continues. “I promised myself I’d never lose myself in someone like that again.”

I swallow.

“But life is hard without someone to love,” she says softly. “And be loved by.”

I feel dizzy.

She looks at me now. Really looks. “So I have something to ask you.”

Every cell in my body screams YES.

“Will you—”

“Yes,” I say immediately.

She blinks. “—be my wedding videographer?”

The words hang there. Awkward. Wrong-shaped. “I’m sorry,” I say. “What?” 

“I’m getting married,” she says. “This weekend. At the cottage.” The room tilts.

“You’re getting married?” 

“Yes.” 

“Like… this weekend, this weekend?” 

“Our original videographer cancelled,” she rushes. “Food poisoning.” 

I take a sip of water like its medicine. Nicole smiles politely. I notice the ring for the first time. It’s big. 

Our server appears out of nowhere. He squints at us. “I know these guys.” 

Nicole lights up. “Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re still here.” 

He smiles, proud. “I never leave something that’s good to me.” That sentence lands harder than it should. The waiter snaps his fingers, doing math in his head. “What’s it been? Like—” 

“Five years,” Nicole says. 

“Wow.” He nods, impressed.  “So,” he says, already scribbling. “The usual?” He turns to me without missing a beat. “A club sandwich. No middle piece of toast. Extra crispy bacon. Swap avocado for tomato.” 

I blink. “That’s… impressive. I can’t even remember my phone PIN.” 

He turns to Nicole. “And the Meat Lover’s Frittata. Extra hot sauce.”  

“Actually, I’m vegan now.” 

He freezes. Just for a second. Like a software update failed. “Oh.” 

She smiles apologetically. “So I’ll do the Stuffed Portobello Mushroom Cap Salad.” 

“I’ll put that in right away.” Then, genuinely: “Good to see you two together again.” Again.

Nicole exhales. “I know it’s last minute. You were the only person I trusted on such short notice.” She reaches across the table. “And you know… I’ve always loved the way you see me.”

I want to tell her I’m busy. That I’m supposed to shoot something silly for my mom. That I have plans. A life. Boundaries. I should just go. But I don’t. Because she’s still looking at me like I’m home. And I’ve already ordered the sandwich.

Snack 8

Marty:

By the time I get home, the story has already written itself. All I did was say yes. Caps. Exclamation point. Trish is at my window before I even kill the engine. 

“She’s getting married,” I say. 

“And?” she asks. 

“And she asked me to shoot it.” 

“With what?” 

“With a camera.” 

Trish blinks. Once. Slowly. “Oh my god.” 

“I said yes.” 

“You said yes?” 

“I said YES!” 

She leans back, lights a cigarette, exhales. “Okay,” she says. “Walk me through this like I’m the parole board.”

“She didn’t know who she was without me,” I say. “She actually said that.” 

“Was she smiling?” 

“She was… emotional.” 

“Dangerous word.” Trish squints at me. “She’s rich, right? Like indoor-pool rich. How much is she paying you?” 

I hesitate. “I told her not to pay me.” Her head snaps back toward the window. “You what?” 

“I said it was my wedding gift.” 

Silence. Then: “Marty… she’s marrying someone else.” 

“I know,” I say.

“I’ll be there all weekend,” I continue, steamrolling. “Rehearsal dinner. Morning hair and makeup. The lake. The dock.” 

Trish squints harder. “You’re storyboarding.” 

“Of course I am,” I say. “It’s visual.” I grab a pen and start mapping it out on scrap paper like it’s a third-act problem. “Saturday,” I say. “I reconnect with the family. Sunday, I remind her who I am.” 

“And the groom?” 

“Whomp, whomp.” 

Trish takes a drag. “You think you’re gonna Graduate this wedding?” 

I nod. “It’s one of her favorite movies.” 

“Two idiots on a bus. No plan. No toothbrush.” 

“She nostalgia-sniffs me,” I say.

Trish stares at me for a long time. “Marty,” she says gently, “if this was your last shot at love…”

“She wouldn’t be marrying someone else,” I finish, already knowing. The silence hurts. 

“You still going?” she asks. I nod. She sighs. “Then here’s the rulebook. Wear black. Don’t drink. Don’t cry. And for the love of god, do not confess during speeches.” She pauses. “Worst case scenario?” 

“What?” 

“You get to bang the bride.” 

I choke on air.

Later, alone, I lay everything out on the table. The itinerary. Batteries. Lenses. Mints. 

The Jeep coughs awake the next morning. The road opens up. And somewhere between the city and the trees, I stop asking if this is a good idea.

Snack 9

Marty:

The itinerary flaps on the dash, tapping against the windshield like a tiny, judgmental flag. The road thins. Trees get taller. Cell service starts ghosting me. I pass the last gas station for a while and briefly consider turning around. I don’t.

The cottage appears exactly how I remember it. The lake is glassy. Still. That deceptive calm before weddings and weather ruin everything. I park. The engine dies with a final, wheezy sigh.

I grab my camera bag and duffel, shoulder both like I’m about to deploy somewhere, and step toward the house. That’s when the black SUV glides in behind me.

A woman steps out. Mid-twenties. Crisp linen pants. Structured blazer. Tablet in one hand, clipboard in the other. A wireless headset clipped to her temple like she might receive instructions from space. She looks at me.

“Hi,” she says. “You lost?” 

“Only existentially,” I reply, extending a hand. “Marty Rosen. I’m the Wedding videographer substitute.” 

She looks at my hand. Then my camera bag. Then my hand again like it’s something someone dropped on the floor. “Elle Monroe,” she says, ignoring it. “Wedding planner.” We walk toward the porch. “This is a high-stakes event,” she continues. 

“You say that like it’s a hostage negotiation.” 

“If the floral arch collapses mid-vows,” she says, “then it is.” She stops at the door.

“Here’s how this works,” Elle says. “I run on a schedule. You follow it. No rogue filming. No experimental bullshit. Point. Shoot. The only reason you’re not being replaced by an iPhone on a tripod is because Nicole booked you.” 

“Wow,” I say. “I feel so cherished.” I hold the door for her. “After you, Gener’elle.”

She walks past without acknowledging the pun, which somehow hurts more than if she’d yelled. Inside, framed photos line the walls. Generations of lakeside smiles. Matching pajamas. Elle vanishes immediately, probably into a spreadsheet.

I linger.

I touch a frame. Nicole at nine, holding a fish nearly her size. I smile. Then the light shifts. The house creaks.

Snack 10

Elle:

I park the SUV exactly where I planned to, kill the engine, and take three seconds to breathe before getting out. Not because I’m nervous. Because this is the last calm moment I’ll have for forty-eight hours.

I do a quick visual scan of the property. No obvious disasters. Good. Weddings are high-stakes because everyone thinks they’re the most important day of their lives. They’re wrong. They’re high-stakes because if anything goes wrong, it becomes the story. And stories spread. Especially the bad ones. Especially among women with money, opinions, and group chats named after produce. The Tomato Mafia. I don’t believe in soulmates. I don’t believe in destiny. I don’t even really believe in weddings anymore.  But I believe in execution. And I believe in reputation. And reputation is everything.

Then I see him.

He’s standing in the driveway, camera bag slung over one shoulder. Duffel over the other. Jeep still ticking behind him like it barely survived the trip. Not dressed wrong. Not dressed right. Just… unresolved. “Hi,” I say, using the voice I use when I’m already tired of someone I just met. “You lost?” 

“Only existentially.” Of course. Humor as deflection. Artists do that. They think it makes them disarming.  He sticks out his hand. Confident. Hopeful. “Marty Rosen. Wedding videographer.” 

I don’t take it. I clock the loose cable spilling out of his bag. The lenses knocking together without caps. The way he’s waiting for approval like a dog pretending not to beg.

“Elle Monroe,” I say. “Wedding planner.” I start walking. He follows, which tells me two things immediately: One, he’s polite. Two, he wants me to like him.

“This is a high-stakes event,” I tell him. Not because I need him to agree,  but because I need him to understand the rules.

We stop at the porch. Here’s what I already know. He’s not a professional wedding videographer. I don’t think he’s a professional anything. He’s a BOB. A Buddy Of the Bride. A favor hire.  Those are always the ones who fuck things up. “I run on a schedule,” I say. “You’ll follow it. No experimental bullshit. Normal. The only reason you’re not being replaced by an iPhone on a tripod is because Nicole booked you.” He smiles. Like I’ve challenged him. 

“I love feeling welcome,” he says. I don’t respond. If I start managing his feelings, I’ll never stop.

Inside, the house is exactly what I expected. Tasteful, sentimental, expensively rustic.  I take a call from the florist, stepping aside, doing three things at once the way I always do. Logistics calm me. Numbers. Timelines. Problems that can be solved if you stay ahead of them. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slow down. He touches a photo on the wall. Not casually. Carefully. This place isn’t just a venue to him. All of this really means something to Marty.

That’s a problem. Because weddings don’t care about meaning. They care about timing. They care about everything landing exactly when it’s supposed to, because if it doesn’t, someone like me takes the fall. And I can’t afford that.

Snack 11

Marty:

The kitchen is flooded with morning light.  A French press sits half-full on the counter, forgotten but still warm. The house smells like coffee. Lake water.  I step inside slowly, camera bag still on my shoulder. Nicole’s mom rounds the corner. She freezes. Stares. A beat too long.

“Holy shit,” she says. 

“Hi,” I reply. 

She laughs, already crossing the room, already pulling me into a hug. “You’re a lifesaver, Marty. Thank god you were available.” 

“I guess I’m the ringer.” 

She pulls back, still holding my arms, studying my face like it’s developing in real time. “Well, you’re a damn fine ringer,” she says. “And lucky for you, we still have banana pancakes.” She hugs me again. “It’s good to see you,” she adds. “You smell the same.” She squints, tilting her head, assessing me. “You know,” she says casually, “Ray and I always thought it would be you.” My heart misfires. 

“You think it’s too late now?” I ask, half-joking, half-ruining my own life.

She chuckles and ushers me into the dining room before I can clarify whether that was a question. I sit at the old table with a chipped floral plate in front of me, nudging a piece of pancake like it might explode. Nicole’s dad sits across from me, sipping black coffee. Eyes sharp. “Does George know?” he asks.

“Know what?” Nicole appears in the doorway, hair in a messy bun, hoodie half-zipped.  “Morning!” She hugs me from behind. Cheek to cheek. 

“Hey,” I say, trying to decode everything at once. 

“We were just asking Marty if George knows he’s doing the video,” her mom says. 

“Yes,” Nicole replies easily. “Of course. He knows.” 

“You sure?” her dad asks. 

“Yup. I showed him Marty’s demo reel. He signed off.”

Her mom turns to me. “How can we watch one of your movies?” 

“Youtube?” her dad offers. 

“Well,” I say, suddenly upright, “you can now call me an award-winning director. My short just screened at a film festival.” 

“Where?” he asks. 

“Here.” 

“Oh,” her mom says. “The Toronto Film Festival?” 

“Ah. Yeah… A… Toronto Film Festival.” 

Nicole looks impressed. “What’s it about?”

Just when I’m about to answer, Elle’s voice cuts in, “Nicole, the chair rental delivery is here. Just in case you see them, a few are red. Don’t worry, we’ll add them to the post-party bonfire.”

“That’s why I love you,” Nicole says. 

Elle turns to me “I need you for a walk-through.” 

“Um… okay. When?” 

“Now.” 

“O-kay.”

She turns back to Nicole. “And you.” Then she’s gone. 

“She scares me,” I whisper. 

Nicole smiles. “She’s the best.”

We hustle after her.

Snack 12

Elle:

I lead them across the cottage grounds. Marty carries a viewfinder and his camera. Nicole walks beside him, coffee in hand. Still warm. Still untouched. I pick up something in the space between them. It feels previously established. Lived-in. 

“Okay,” Nicole says, gesturing to a bare patch of grass framed by trees. “So this is where tonight’s dinner is happening.”

“We’re adding chairs,” I say, “and a ridiculous number of candles.”

Marty squints, visualizing. “Very woodland fairy engagement to hedge fund warlock.”

I don’t mean to laugh. I do anyway. It slips out of me before I can catch it, bright and unguarded. For a second I forget myself. Forget the schedule. Forget the fact that I am supposed to be immune to charm. I feel the warmth of it,  and it irritates me instantly.

We keep moving.

The guest house is small, charming, aggressively rustic. The kind of place people describe as cozy because they don’t have to sleep there. I swing the door open.

“You’ll be here tomorrow morning,” I tell Marty. “Suiting-up footage with George and his guys. Toasts. Shaving cream. Cuff links. Idiotic words of wisdom.”

“A surprise CrossFit session?” he asks.

I snort before I can stop myself.

Then I recover. Immediately. I pride myself on learning from my mistakes quickly. 

The bridesmaid wing. Sun-drenched basement annex. French doors flung open. Gauzy curtains doing their little “I’m effortless dance” in the breeze. Light pools across hardwood floors. I gesture once. “Bridesmaids are staying here,” I say. “Shoot them getting ready, but don’t film anything until makeup’s at least fifty percent done and they’ve already had their blowouts.”

Marty nods, emphatically. Makes a note. Good listener.

“Gotcha” he says. “Wow. You are very good at what you do.”

I don’t respond. Of course I am. We pass a patio where empty champagne flutes sit in tidy rows. I stop for a second to adjust a few glass soldiers who are out of formation. 

That’s when Nicole and Marty drift. Just a little. Not away from me. Toward each other.

“Fly-on-the-wall,” Nicole says, circling back to him. “Nothing staged. Nothing cheesy. Just honest.”

“That’s my default setting,” Marty replies.

“Good,” she says.

“I love that photojournalist aesthetic.”

“The quiet in-between moments,” he adds. “And maybe a little magic.”

“If it happens,” she says.

“When it happens,” he answers.

I slow. Watch the space between them soften. His pupils pulsing. Might as well have been shaped like hearts. Oh no. Not under my watch. I turn and walk back toward them, so fast I feel a heel buckle. 

“Marty!”

He flinches. I step fully between them now. Close enough that he has to look at me. I thrust my tablet in his face. A small wall.

“I need to walk you through power sources and battery storage,” I say, “and we still haven’t confirmed sleeping arrangements.”

Nicole exhales, relieved? Maybe. Or maybe I just imagine it.

“You better go,” she says lightly. “I’m the bride, but she’s the boss. Thank you so much, Marty. I’m so happy you’re here.”

I escort him away. Then the bass hits. Music. Loud. Violent. It punches through the morning air. Gravel crunches as cars roll in fast and crooked. Doors fly open. Perfume and shrieking collide in a pink, glittery explosion.

“Oh my god you look SO thin!”
“Like sick-thin?”
“Like, healthy.”
“We have ARRIVED, bitches!”

Suitcases thud onto stone. Bottles pop. Someone sprays champagne like they’re christening a yacht. Nicole doesn’t hesitate. She sprints toward the chaos in a swimsuit and denim shirt. I turn back.

Marty is gone.

Correction: Marty is on the porch roof.

Filming.

Snack 13

Marty:

Bridesmaids sprawl across towels and lounge chairs. Someone swears at a half-inflated unicorn float. “Bride or Die” koozies circulate. Laughter comes in waves. I stay on the edge of it all. Camera up. Mouth shut.

This is what I do best. Disappear behind the lens. I catch the stuff no one’s posing for. A snort-laugh mid-sip. Toes kicking lazily in the air. Arms draped over shoulders. Then, Nicole. She turns, catches me filming. “Are you filming me?”

I smile behind the camera and don’t answer. Keep her framed. The light hits different here. Golden. Soft.  Everything looks like it already happened and I’m remembering it wrong. “Hell told me to shoot some breathtaking views,” I say. She laughs. That laugh. Same head tilt. Same way her shoulders lift just a little before the sound comes out. She sets her drink down. Her eyes drift toward the lake.

“You still doing that thing?” she asks. 

“What thing?” 

“Making everything look sad and beautiful at the same time.” 

I almost drop the camera. “What, you think you know me?” 

She smiles. Small. Coy. It lands harder than she realizes. I keep filming. 

“You look happy,” I say. 

“I am,” she says. Then, softer: “Mostly.” 

The wind kicks up, blowing her hair across her face. Without thinking, I lower the camera and step closer. Brush it aside. She doesn’t stop me.

“George doesn’t like being filmed,” she says. “You’re going to have to be sneaky to get him.” Our eyes meet. 

“Walk to the end of the dock for me.” She does. Late-day light slicing across the lake. “Turn a little,” I say. “Yeah. That’s it.” I pause. “You know what would look incredible?” She glances back. “If you dove into the lake right as the sun hits the waterline,” I direct.  

“A metaphor?” 

“Exactly. You diving in. Headfirst into marriage. Opening title shot.”

She laughs. “That’s why I hired you.” 

“Well,” I say, “officially, I volunteered.” 

She kicks off her sandals. Unbuttons her shirt. I forget how breathing works. Swimsuit underneath. “I was gonna go in anyway,” she calls back. “Ready?” 

I snap back into filmmaker mode. Lift the camera. “Rolling.”

She runs. Confident. Athletic. Like the former college swim captain she was. She leaps clean and breaks the surface. The splash fractures the sunset into glitter. Through the lens, it barely looks real. Like the lake swallowed the light. She comes up laughing. I keep filming. Then replay it. The fall. The ripples. Her smile. “Your turn!” 

“I’m working,” I say. “Aren’t I?” 

“Do your classic dock jump,” she says. “For old times. Please.” 

I hesitate. Then set the camera down. Shoes off. Socks off. Hop. Skip. Jump. Shock-cold. I surface laughing. She floats on her back beside me, eyes closed. The sky shifts from gold to violet. She hums softly. I listen. She drifts a few feet away, eyes on the sky. “I don’t feel like I have to perform around you.” 

“You don’t.” 

She floats. I tread water.

Snack 14

Elle:

The bar is set up in the wrong location.  FML. Do I have to do everything myself? I push the walkie closer to my mouth and pace the edge of the lawn. “Yes, I confirmed parking access,” I say. “No, I don’t care if he brought his dog. Wait. How big a dog?”

Every wedding is like this. Champagne problems. Crisis-level panic about fruit pulp. Guests who have never had to choose between rent and groceries unraveling because the prosecco is too warm. I’ve seen fathers faint over floral invoices. 

I’ve watched brides cry because the peonies were either too open or not open enough. I’ve mediated vow edits like hostage negotiations. This is not new. I stop just short of the waterline and finally look up to keep tabs of Nicole. I find her in the lake. Good. The swim was scheduled. 

But, why, for the love of god, is Marty in with her? They’re waist-deep. Close. Laughing at something I can’t hear. Buddies? Childhood friends? Nicole looks…  I know that look. And Marty? It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me the way he’s looking at her. I’ve built entire weddings around that look. 

That’s when I hear Blair. “No way he’s just some guy she hired.”

Fiona drifts up beside her with a speaker tucked under her arm. “Who’s the lake guy? He’s kinda hot.”

“He’s the backup videographer,” Blair says. “She didn’t mention his name when she was panicking in the group chat.”

“So?” Blair watches Nicole splash him. 

“I’d put money on him being her ex or something.”

Yatzi.

Of course he is. Of course he is. I try not to react. 

“No way,” Fiona says. “Which one?”

“How the fuck should I know? I didn’t know her pre-George.”

I adjust my sunglasses. Check my tablet. Make a note that doesn’t need making. That’s my trick. Be invisible and indispensable at the same time. 

Marty hauls himself up onto the dock, towelling off. He’s smiling in that earnest, open way. Like this is harmless nostalgia. Like he’s lucky just to be invited into the frame. He looks grateful. She looks entertained. I see it so clearly. The imbalance. I turn away before I’m accused of noticing. 

Behind me, Blair intercepts Nicole. “Hey, Nicole. Can I steal you for a second?”

“Yeah,” Nicole says. “What’s up?”

She glances back once — at Marty. Not longing. Checking. Inventorying. I move a little closer, angling myself behind a hydrangea bush that cost more than my first car. I scribble on my clipboard. After all, information affects flow. Flow affects timing. Timing affects outcome. This is professional.  It’s my job to know every. Little. Detail. 

“Did George approve hiring your ex-boyfriend to film the wedding,” Blair asks, “or is he too busy re-revising the vows you wrote for him?”

“It’s not like that,” Nicole says.

“Then why him?”

“Our original guy is barfing his brains out right now. I needed someone available.”

Available.

“So you were together.”

“A hundred years ago. High school. First-year college.”

“And now he’s here. At your family cottage. In the lake. Do you hear how this sounds?”

“I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“Yet.”

I scroll my tablet without looking at it.

“I’m marrying your brother tomorrow,” Nicole says like it’s armor.

“Hopefully… I mean, does George know you used to fuck the replacement video guy?”

I flinch. Why didn’t she give me the heads up? She must have told George. Right?  Silence.

“That’s a no,” Blair says.

“He’s not a threat,” Nicole says. “He’s here to help. I knew he’d do anything for me. Said he’d always be there when I needed him.” A small shrug. “I had to cash in.”

And there it is. Currency. Always more important than love. Especially in waspy weekend weddings. Ugh.  I have seen this so many times before. Not the lake. Not the ex on-site. Not this exact configuration. But the math of how all the drama adds up. 

I’ve watched brides keep former lovers in emotional escrow. I’ve watched grooms lean on women who still loved them “just as friends.” I’ve planned second weddings for couples who swore the first was destiny. I’ve reused centerpieces for different husbands. 

Marty is standing at the end of the dock now. He keeps glancing toward the trees where she disappeared. Waiting.  I don’t pity him. Pity is for accidents. He volunteered for this. Like an idiot. Gawd, what a freaking idiot.  I lose something for Nicole in that moment. Respect?  No. Efficiency.  Love is a spreadsheet. A seating chart. A timeline. I build, polish and deliver it. And then, go home alone. That’s the job.

Blair says, “I have to tell him.”

“Blair, please. Wait. Don’t -”

Blair marches away. So do I. Nicole doesn’t follow. This is the first time I’ve seen her perfectness rattled. I press my walkie. “Switch the bar to the west patio,” I say. “I need the light hitting her from the left.” 

Marty hears me. He smiles. Like I just helped him. Gives me a thumbs up. I don’t smile back. Rather, I check my purse. Make sure I have enough Xannies for everyone. Including me.

Snack 15

Marty:

By late afternoon, the cottage kitchen has become base camp. Boxes everywhere. Candles in three almost-identical shades. Seating charts taped, ripped down, retaped. Elle stands at the island, surrounded by chaos, barking into her walkie while texting with her other hand like she’s defusing a bomb. “If the votive candles are white and not ivory,” she says, “I swear to god I will make sure every planner in town knows you don’t care about details.” She hangs up. That’s when she sees me.

I’m hovering just outside the doorway, chewing on a bagel. “Question,” I say. 

“No.” 

“Okay, follow-up question.” 

“Still no.” 

I try anyway. “You sure we shouldn’t go over some sort of list or something? This is my first wedding. Are there, like, standard ‘gotta-haves?’” She looks up. 

Her eyes are daggers. Stylish, exhausted daggers. “Why are you always standing exactly where I’m trying not to have a breakdown?” 

“I guess we’re just synced?” She snaps her laptop shut harder than necessary.

“So,” I say after a beat, “where am I sleeping?” 

Elle scrolls her phone. I watch the list of contingencies unravel in real time. “You were supposed to be in the bunkhouse with the groomsmen. But one of them brought his emotional support dog. And his emotional support cousin. They both piss everywhere. Guest cabin’s full. Main house is full.” She looks up. “The only room left… is the one I’m in.” 

A beat stretches. “Cool,” I say. “There are two beds?” 

“There are,” she confirms. 

“I mean,” I add, keeping it casual, “Or…I’m sure Nicole would be down if I slept in her room“No.”

Elle steps closer, lowers her voice. “That’s a horrible idea.” 

“Because of optics?” I ask. 

“Because people are already talking.” 

My stomach drops just enough to notice. 

“I know more about who you are now than I did this morning,” she says. “And this”—a small, deliberate gesture between us—“is me preventing a bigger mess.” 

Then, backing away: “No noise after eleven. 

“I tend to fart when I fall asleep,” I say automatically and compulsively. 

She doesn’t smile. Turns back to her walkie. Dismissed.

Out in the hallway, the cottage feels different. Quieter. Nicole’s door is shut. Earlier, it wasn’t. Laughter drifts in from outside, glasses clinking, Blair’s unmistakable cackle. 

I pause outside Nicole’s door longer than I should, staring at the faded band sticker still stuck to the frame—something from high school, a band I forgot I loved. I think I can hear her crying. I don’t knock.

Snack 16

Elle:

By early evening, the yard looks exactly how I designed it, after seventeen revisions and a near-fight with a rental company. String lights glow at the correct warmth. Candles flicker without dripping. Folding tables are dressed in white linen, name cards tucked into florals. It’s elegant. Handmade. And just a touch too much.

I straighten silverware angles. I confiscate a White Claw from a bridesmaid who insists it’s “basically water.” Guests chatter. Music hums at my desired volume. Marty films from the perimeter, camera rolling, quiet. He doesn’t insert himself. To be honest, I hardly even noticed him.

Nicole sits beside her mother. Ray taps his glass. “Well,” Ray says, “I’m not one for speeches, but I guess I’m supposed to say something verbose tonight, as my wife has limited my word count tomorrow.” Chuckles ripple. Nicole smiles on cue. “It’s not every day your daughter finds someone as… patient as George,” Ray continues. “Lord knows it takes patience to keep up with a Mackenzie woman.” More laughs. Nicole squirms, barely. “Nicole is special,” Ray says. “Ever since she was a little girl, she’s always known exactly what she wanted. Strong-willed. Independent. Always had to learn things the hard way.”

Nicole’s shoulders tighten. “We normally can’t keep the two lovebirds apart, but since George is about to spend the rest of his life with my baby, we wanted Nicole all to ourselves tonight” Ray adds, “but tomorrow he officially becomes part of this family. Poor guy. He’s brave. And most importantly, he’s loyal.” That word lands heavier than intended. 

Then Blair taps her glass. Not loud. Deliberate.“If I could add something?” 

The room hushes. Nicole nods, polite. Careful. 

Blair steps forward, smile surgical. “Ray is absolutely right. Loyalty. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Hard to find. Even harder to keep.” I stop walking. Watch Marty watching Nicole.

“Nicole, you’re amazing. Truly,” Blair continues. “But marriage isn’t just about knowing what you want.” A few awkward laughs. Blair doesn’t blink. “My grandmother always said, ‘You gotta know who you are before you promise who you’ll be.’”

This isn’t a toast. It’s a warning. Nicole’s neck tightens. Marty catches it. I see him shift, refocus. “Here’s to knowing who you are,” Blair says. “And here’s to keeping those promises.” 

“Cheers,” the guests echo. Unevenly. Glasses clink.

Nicole quickly downs her drink.

Snack 17

Marty:

I lean against the wall near the trash bins and take a long sip of a flat Diet Coke. It tastes like sugar water with a dash of aluminum.

That’s when Elle appears. She’s got a freaking headlamp strapped to her forehead. Did I miss spelunking on the schedule?

She doesn’t look up. Clipboard in one hand, pen in the other, tapping numbers, muttering to herself like a stockbroker mid-crash. “Don’t speak to me,” she says. “I’m re-re-re-mapping the seating chart.” “Obviously,” I say. “This is what Navy SEALs wear when they breach a compound.”

She exhales through her nose. Pretty damn close to a laugh. I wonder if she knows how. Then she lowers the clipboard. Finally looks at me. Really looks. Like she’s trying to figure out what category I belong in.

“You’re not what I expected,” she says.

“I get that a lot.”

She studies me for another beat. Then she turns and walks away without another word. Which feels… like a small victory? Or a warning.

Hard to tell with her.

***

Later. We’re sleeping in the kids’ room. Two twin beds shoved so close together they might as well be one. Their frames nearly touching. Which way am I going to sleep? Facing her? Or the wall?

I come in brushing my teeth. Elle’s already in bed. Glasses off now. Hair looser. Out of its bun. Messy. She’s wearing an oversized Raptors Champions t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, bare legs crossed at the ankle. She looks…Cool. “You know why I put you in here, right?” she says.

“Because of the dog?”

“Because you needed supervision.”

“Wow,” I say. “Hot.”

I sit carefully on my bed. The frames creak and shift together like they’re conspiring. Our knees are almost touching. There’s barely a foot of space between us. I can smell her shampoo. Something citrusy. It’s nice.

“I promise I’m a lot cuter when I’m unconscious,” I say.

She stares at the ceiling.

“I’m guessing this isn’t your first forced sleepover with a stranger?” I add.

“I’ve shared rooms with bridesmaids. Drunk DJs. One flower girl with night terrors.”

A pause.

“You’re honestly not the worst.”

“Wow,” I say.

“I’m gonna get that engraved on my tombstone.”

She almost smiles. Catches herself. Lets the moment pass. I shift slightly and the beds creak again. “So,” I say. “You do this a lot. It’s your bread and butter?”

“Weddings?”

“Yeah.”

“This might be my last one.” She lets out a breath. Voice is softer now. Less clipboard.

“I used to love them.”

“And now?”

She thinks about that.

“Now I’m the scheduler. The fixer. The one who has to know which family members can’t sit together, who has bad vision, who has hearing loss and in which ear, and where to stash the Xanax.”

I laugh but judging by her face, she didn’t mean that jokingly. 

She turns to her side. I turn to mine. 

“I’m great at making sure everything looks perfect,” she says.

A beat.

“Even when it isn’t.”

That lands heavier than she meant it to.

“That sounds exhausting,” I say.

She glances at me.

Like she wasn’t expecting sympathy.

“It is,” she says.

A lake breeze nudges the curtain. All of a sudden the room is kinda dreamy. The glow-in-the-dark stars watch us.

“So, you don’t believe in love?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. When she does, it’s quiet.

“Not really. Not anymore.”

She shifts slightly.

“Ever been in love?”

“Close, maybe. But it always felt more like negotiating.”

A small, humorless smile.

“Maybe you can’t know love is real if you’ve never really had it?” I ask.

She turns her head toward me. Our eyes meet.

“I think love is real,” she says. “I’ve just learned that it’s not required.”

I shake my head.

“I think you’re wrong.”

She waits. Like she expects a TED Talk. I don’t give her one. “I think love is the whole point.” She studies me carefully. Trying to decide if I’m naïve or insane.

“After the wedding,” she says slowly, “when the dress is in a closet and the thank-you cards are done…”

 She watches me. Something in her expression softens. Just slightly.

“I’m terrible at letting things fall apart,” she says.

 That sounds like a tricky answer to a job interview question. Something in her expression changes. Exposed. Like a confession she didn’t mean to make.

“I make other people’s lives work,” she continues. 

“Because it’s easier than letting anyone see where mine doesn’t.”

“Lonely,” I say.

She doesn’t argue.

For a second, she looks at my mouth. Then back to my eyes.  I can feel her breath when she exhales. It’s fresh. I can see the taste buds on her tongue.  And for one second —just one —

I think she’s going to kiss me.

I think I might let her.

We both stop.

Not because we don’t want to.

Because we do.

Maybe. I dunno. Did that just happen? She turns over. Faces the opposite wall. “Lights out in five,” she says. Back in scheduler mode. “I’m up at six.” 

I salute in the dark. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then I fart. It whines. 

“I think that was the cat,” I say.

From her bed, I hear a single, breathy laugh.