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.

Snack 18

Elle, 2 hours earlier:

The headlamp was a mistake. But the seating chart needs a triage, it’s dark out, and I can’t do it by candlelight.

Estranged cousins. The groom’s college roommate who can’t sit near the bride’s uncle because of something that happened at a Leafs game in 2017.

These things are solvable. People are solvable when you reduce them to rows and tables.

Marty appears near the recycling bins. He studies the headlamp like I’m going to rappel off the gazebo later.  He makes some stupid Navy Seal joke.

I exhale through my nose. Not a laugh. I lower the clipboard and finally look at him. He isn’t trying to impress me. Or if he is, he’s doing a subpar job. He’s just standing there in the dark, watching me like I’m something interesting.

“You’re not what I expected,” I say.

He smiles slightly. Doesn’t ask what I expected.

That’s unusual. Most men do. I turn and walk away first.

I always do.

***

Later.

The kids’ room. I’m such an idiot. Why didn’t I check it out first before offering it up?  Glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across the ceiling. A plastic dinosaur lamp on the dresser. Two twin beds shoved together like someone tried to make a queen. Thank God Nicole and her sister didn’t share a bed.

It’s a damn good thing I still had Chris’s stupid smelly sweatshirt in the car. Ugh. I’m going to have a such a shitty time not sleeping nude.

Marty comes in brushing his teeth. Too relaxed. Toothpaste drops onto his shirt. He can’t be left alone. I tell him such.

The mattress shifts when he sits. Our knees are suddenly very close. Closer than they should be. He smells like Bubblemint and lake water. He asks me “why the wedding thing.” I give him the short answer. Not the part where I’ve planned second weddings for brides whose first ones I cried at. Not the part when I realized a wedding wasn’t going to happen for me.

He says something about love that should irritate me. Instead it unsettles me. “I think you’re wrong. I think love is the whole point.”  The thing about Marty is he says it like he means it. Not like a speech. Not like a theory. Like someone who would actually risk humiliation for it.

The mattress dips slightly.

Our knees brush.

Skin against skin.

It’s a tiny thing.

But the contact travels.

Up my spine.

Across my ribs.

I should move.

I don’t.

That’s the first mistake.

He looks at my mouth. Then my eyes. And suddenly I’m aware of everything about him. The warmth of his body this close to mine. The quiet steadiness of his breathing. The way he isn’t crowding me. The roughness of his voice when he’s tired.

He just places his hand on the mattress between us. Close enough that our fingers are inches apart.  My pulse kicks up. Which is ridiculous. I didn’t even like him yesterday. He’s inconvenient. Disruptive. Emotionally messy.

And now I’m aware of the shape of his mouth.

The way his lower lip moves when he breathes. The heat radiating from him. He doesn’t reach for me. That’s the worst part. If he grabbed me, I could call it reckless. If he pushed, I could call it inappropriate.

But he doesn’t.

And suddenly the entire room feels smaller. Closer. Warmer. Quieter.

The lake breeze moves the curtain. He shifts. Our knees press together now. Not accidental. Deliberate. He goes still. His eyes flick to my mouth. Then back to my eyes. His hand rests between us. Pressed between the two mattresses.

He doesn’t grab me.   Barely.

He says my name. Just “Elle.” And the way he says it.  It does something reckless to me. My lips hover over his. So close I can feel the warmth of them. My heart is pounding so hard, I’m sure he can hear it. I’m dizzy.

His eyes flick down to my mouth. Then back up. He inhales. But he still doesn’t move. He’s letting me decide. That trust hits harder than attraction. For one suspended second the entire world shrinks to this tiny space between us.

Quiet possibility. Something honest. I lean closer. Almost there. My lips part slightly—

And then my brain catches up. The bride. The ex. My job. The version of myself who knows better. I pull back. Abrupt.

The loss of contact feels immediate. Cold. We both exhale like we’ve just surfaced from underwater. I turn onto my side.

Reassemble. “Lights out in five,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

He salutes in the dark. “Yes, ma’am.”

He farts.

It’s spectacular. I clamp my hand over my mouth. It’s useless. The laugh bursts out of me. And somehow that laugh feels more intimate than the almost-kiss.

Because I wasn’t able to control it.

Snack 19

Elle:

I wake to birdsong. Soft light filtering through the curtains. An annoying call of a loon somewhere on the lake. For a moment I forget where I am. Then my body betrays me. I stretch, half-conscious… and fart.

Not a polite one. A long, rattling sound like a flat tire dragging over gravel. I freeze. Eyes wide. Slowly sit up. Heat rushes into my face.

Marty doesn’t move. He’s snoring gently, face up, one arm wedged between his mattress and the wall. He sweats in his sleep. It’s sweet. Nicole’s orange tabby, Sneaky, sits upright beside him licking his cheek with disturbing dedication. Marty stirs. Blinks. Groans.

“Mmmmmm… what the Elle?”

He rolls onto his side and winces, pressing his fingers to his face.

“Shit.”

He swings his legs off the bed and pads toward the dresser mirror, scratching absently. Watching him like this, rumpled, half-awake, confused. The way sleep lingers in his shoulders… I feel… something.

I look away first.

By the time he finds me in the bathroom, I’m already assembled. Hair, tamed. Blazer, on. Waterpik, buzzing aggressively. He appears in the doorway. I turn. And see what used to be his face. His entire cheek is swollen into a lumpy, red welt shaped unmistakably like a giant cat tongue. My eyes go wide.

The Waterpik drops from my hand. It immediately goes feral. Water blasts the mirror. The counter. My blazer. The walls.

“Oh my god,” I choke out, already laughing. “What happened to your face?”

He scratches the hive frantically. Turns his head left and right like he’s checking out a new tattoo.

“I’m allergic to Sneaky.”

The Waterpik ricochets off the sink, spraying both of us. Marty starts laughing. He has a great laugh. 

An easy laugh. Loose. Completely unselfconscious. I finally manage to kill the Waterpik and lean against the counter, still smiling despite myself.

He raises an eyebrow at the soaked bathroom.

“Can I get in here now,” he says, “or did you want to pressure-wash the walls again?”

I meet his eyes. Then I straighten. Game face time.

“Hair and makeup starts in ten minutes,” I say, smoothing my blazer like nothing just happened. “Try not to swell any further.”

I give him the smallest, conspiratorial wink.

Downstairs the bridesmaid basement is already in full hurricane mode. Blow dryers scream. Curling irons hiss. Half-eaten croissants litter every surface. A playlist of aggressive, glossy empowerment anthems blares through a Bluetooth speaker. Robed women rotate through hair and makeup chairs while refilling their drinks.

Marty moves quietly through the chaos, camera up, documenting everything while a makeup artist dabs powder onto his swollen cheek. Blair leans toward the lens.

“If you zoom in on my pores I will sue you.”

My phone is ringing already.  Five minutes until dress prep. And no, bridesmaids, you cannot wear Crocs under your gowns.

Fiona yells complaining about plantar fasciitis. I ignore it. Nicole enters last. She looks like she didn’t sleep. The room erupts. Crystal pulls her toward a chair, talking contour before Nicole even sits.

“We’re twenty minutes behind,” I announce. “No one panic. I bullied the florist into arriving early and reconfigured the timeline.” I gesture to myself. “I’m basically a god.” Nicole laughs weakly. I put my hand firm on her shoulder.

I don’t look back at Marty. But I feel him there.

Snack 20

Marty:

Just after noon, the cottage driveway turns into a testosterone pileup. Three cars roll in at once. Music blasting. Doors flying open before the engines even die. The groomsmen spill out loud, and sweaty.

Derek is already shirtless. Todd looks like he charges people for advice he gives unprompted. Someone tosses a football across the driveway for no reason. Then George steps out.

Tall. Sunglasses on. Half a cigar hanging from his mouth like he’s been practicing the look. He pulls a garment bag from the backseat and slams the door with his hip. The guys cheer like they just arrived at a bachelor party instead of a wedding.

I lift the camera. Roll.

Inside the guest house, the energy spikes instantly. Shoes fly off. Suit bags unzip. Music. Shots. George claims the couch like it’s his birthright.

“Hey, camera guy,” he calls, pointing the cigar at me.

I lower the lens.

“Thanks for stepping in.”

 “I was surprised you were cool with it.”

George shrugs like it never occurred to him not to be. “Nicole showed me your stuff,” he says. “Honestly? You’re better than the original dude.”

He gestures toward the camera. “You’ve got taste.”

That word hangs there. Taste. I smile politely.

Ten minutes later the place looks like a locker room. Dress shirts half-buttoned. Ties draped over lamps. The hardwood is already sticky with spilt whiskey. George sits in a chair while Derek trims the back of his neck with clippers like this is a barbershop run by raccoons.

The guys toss back shots like it’s a pregame ritual.  I circle quietly, listening. I mean, filming.

“Bruh,” Todd says, pointing a finger gun at George. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”

George grins.

“Like weren’t you swiping right up until she proposed?”

The room erupts. George laughs. Just a fraction late. “Nicole locked it down,” he says. “Past is past.”

I zoom slightly. The garment bag sits on the bed. George’s tux inside. I lower the camera.

“Mind if I grab some detail shots?” I ask.

“Tux. Accessories. All that.”

George waves me toward it.

“Go nuts.”

I unzip the bag halfway. The dress shirt is caught in the zipper teeth. Easy fix. I could free it cleanly in two seconds. Instead, I tilt the fabric slightly. Angle the pull wrong. Then give the zipper a confident tug.

ZIP. The teeth bite deeper into the shirt. Hard.

George looks down. “What the hell?”

“Oh,” I say calmly. “That’s… not great.”

He grabs the bag from me and yanks. Nothing.

“You serious right now?”

“It was already pretty snagged,” I say.

Derek leans over. “Oh man.”

Todd whistles. “That thing’s married to the zipper now.”

George pulls again. Nothing. “You’re lucky I don’t strangle you,” he mutters.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I got choked up at a wedding,” I say.

The guys burst out laughing. George laughs too. But the suit is still trapped. Derek tries pulling the fabric. Todd suggests scissors. Someone else pours another round of shots. I step back. Camera up again. Frame George wrestling with his own wedding clothes.

“Hang on,” I say casually. Zoom in a touch.

“So how’d you pop the question?”

George keeps yanking at the zipper. “Honestly?” He shrugs. “Super lowkey.”

“Yeah?” I say.

“We were watching ‘Is it Cake?’,” he says. “I just looked over and said, ‘You wanna do this for real?’”

Todd snorts. “And then you ate her cake. Just hold off for a while before ya put a bun in the oven, right?” 

“Oh, so you’re a romantic, then?”

George grins, defensive now. “Hey, it worked.”

Derek shakes his head. “You didn’t even get on your knees.”

George scoffs. “You’re right. I didn’t. But she sure did!”

More laughter. I keep the camera steady. George tugging the zipper. The guys drinking. The room loud. But something about the way he said it sticks with me. Like marriage was a punchline.

George finally gets the zipper free with a violent rip. The shirt tears. Everyone groans. George looks down at the damage.

“Shit! What the hell am I going to do now?”

“You want me tell Elle? See if she can snag a spare in time?,” I say.

“No, bruh. I’ll handle it.”

“Nicole isn’t going to be happy,” Todd threatens.

“I can’t make her happy every day”

“Got it,” I say quietly. More to the lens than to him.

Snack 21

Elle:

The bridesmaids’ basement has become a chaos factory.

Makeup brushes everywhere. Curling irons left on like loaded weapons. Dresses draped over chairs, lamps, other people.

Someone is half-dressed. Someone else is half-drunk. One bridesmaid chugs champagne straight from the bottle. Another blinks furiously while trying to glue on a rebellious eyelash. A third laughs into her phone while taking selfies from increasingly awkward high angles.

It’s loud. Messy. A total breakdown of the aesthetic I spent six weeks designing. It’s pretty much what people say they don’t want and secretly hope someone captures. And like a good boy, Marty McFly-on-the-wall is doing exactly that.  Moving through the room like a friendly ghost.

Nicole spots him and waves him over. She looks beautiful. Calm. Centered. The gravitational middle of the room. Marty’s camera lingers on her far more than the others. I notice. I guess that’s okay. I mean, it is her day. He should be making her the star of the show. 

Before he can move away, Fiona slides in beside him. Already too close. She holds up a shot glass filled with something neon and alarming. “It’s called A Quick Fuck. House rules,” she says. “If you’re taking shots of us, you’re gonna do shots with us.”

I’m about to shut that down, but Marty takes the glass. The room erupts. Fiona presses her hand lightly against his chest like she’s steadying him while he drinks. It’s nothing. Completely harmless. And yet I feel something tighten in my throat.

Marty downs the shot. Winces. Then lifts the camera again like a professional. “Alright,” he says. “Do you want Vogue…” He pans slowly across the room. “…or spring break in Daytona?”

The bridesmaids scream. “DAYTONA!” Suddenly the room explodes. Hands in the air. Hair flips. Someone yelling, “Wait, wait, do it again!” One bridesmaid climbs onto a chair like she’s accepting an award. “Work it, ladies,” Marty says, grinning behind the camera. “I could make a calendar out of this.” They howl. Play it up harder. Candid, wild, completely shameless. It’s not subtle. It’s not tasteful. And it’s working. This will be a very fun part of the video.

Blair drifts toward Marty. Unlike the others, she doesn’t perform for the camera. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t touch him. She just leans in slightly. Close enough that I have to angle myself closer to hear. “I don’t know whether you’re trying to document the happiest day of her life…” She pauses. “…or fuck it up.” Marty keeps filming. Doesn’t flinch. “But I see right through you. I know you.” He lowers the camera just a fraction. “Then you’re ahead of me,” he says lightly. “I’ve been trying to figure myself out for years.” Blair studies him. Then she steps away.

That’s my cue. I step in, voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos. “Alright,” I say. “Champagne down. Heels on. Limo in fifteen.” Hoots. A few theatrical boos. The machine starts moving again.

Nicole passes Marty on her way out the door. She sticks her tongue out at the camera. Playful. Quick. Gone. And something about it catches me off guard. A hole in her tongue. I blink. Wait. No way. Not her. Did she used to have a tongue ring?

Snack 22

Marty (5 years back):

The tattoo shop smelled like antiseptic and old smoke, classic rock blaring through busted speakers while needles buzzed nonstop. A high mechanical whine that crawled up my spine. People with metal in their faces and fresh ink drifted in and out like it was a bus station. I sat in the waiting area flipping through artist binders, my hair longer then, clothes darker, trying harder than I wanted to admit.

Nicole walked in looking as if she’d taken a wrong turn out of a country club. Completely out of place. I jumped up. She thanked me for coming, all bright-eyed and relieved. I told her, too fast, that I’d always be there for her. What I didn’t get was why she was doing this. It didn’t feel like her. She smiled the way she did when she was sure of something. Asked if I didn’t like the new her. I told her I’d take any version of her.

A jumbo-sized man with tattoos on his eyelids, and a soft voice, named “The Wolf”,  emerged from the back. Asked if Nicole was his three o’clock. Nicole nodded, suddenly brave. I sat beside her while she lay back in the chair, our hands locked together. Wolf clamped Nicole’s tongue with forceps. Asked if she was ready. Nicole said yes. I looked away. She squeezed my hand hard. The needle went through clean. Nicole barely flinched. A barbell screwed in. Done.

“That’s it,” The Wolf said. Nicole blinked. “Thaaaz izzzzz?” Wolf unclamped her tongue and peeled off his gloves, turning to me like this was all very routine. He told me Nicole was going to talk funny for a bit, but the swelling would go down in a few days. Then he opened a tiny bar fridge and handed Nicole a red popsicle. “Suck on these,” Wolf said. “It’ll speed things up. No sucking D, though. Sorry, buddy.” 

Nicole let go of my hand. I rubbed mine, suddenly aware of how hard she’d been holding it. She smiled at me, popsicle already in her mouth.

“He’th jutht my frennnnd,” she said. 

I nodded. “Yep. Yeah. We’re not together… anymore.”

I smiled like it was fine. 

And I watched her suck on the popsicle. Rubbing her swollen pierced tongue across it. 

Red saliva swirling around her lips, slightly staining her smile. 

Fantasizing that it was me.

Snack 23

Elle:

I stagger departures for a reason. It’s not arbitrary. Groomsmen first. Always. They’re loud, restless, prone to wandering. If they leave early, they burn off energy in transit instead of backstage at the chapel. Also, and more importantly, it keeps George physically separated from Nicole. No accidental driveway sightings.

Bridesmaids next. Close enough to create momentum, far enough behind the groomsmen that the chapel staff can get them staged without overlap. Parents after that. And Nicole, last.  She gets the quiet. The controlled entrance. She does not see George before she walks down that aisle. I protect that line. It’s part of the spell.

The groomsmen’s limo pulls out exactly on schedule. Good. The bridesmaids spill out next in a chaotic glitter cloud. Heels slipping. Hairspray hanging thick in the air.

Nicole’s parents wrestle with the door to their white Rolls-Royce door. “For heaven’s sake, just open it,” Myra snaps. Ray grimaces. “It’s stuck. I don’t want to break it. This thing’s older than both of us.” Marty chuckles softly behind the lens. Myra notices. Winks. He’s very good at finding the human moment inside the machine.

The bridesmaids’ limo is packed tight now. Blair conducting selfies like a press junket. “Better be getting our good sides, Marty!” He turns. They’re all mooning him with their asses out the window.  He doesn’t react.

“You’re riding with me,” I say evenly. “I need to brief you on chapel coverage.” He pivots immediately. We walk toward my car. “You’re left aisle,” I say, glancing at my checklist. “Processional wide. Then details. Then faces. If you miss her dad’s reaction, you’re dead.”

“Dead. Got it.”

“Do not stand in the center. Do not back into the officiant. And do not wander.”

“I don’t wander.”

“You were on a roof yesterday.”

He doesn’t argue. He slows. Just slightly. “Hey,” he says carefully. “I think we’re missing something.”

I stop walking. “What.”

He gestures subtly toward Nicole. “I could ride with her. Bride alone in the limo. Looking wistfully out the window. The breath before the leap. The quiet before the storm.”

He’s not pitching coverage. He’s pitching access. And he knows I know it. Behind us, the Rolls-Royce finally lurches forward. Before I answer—

“YES!”

Nicole’s voice slices across the driveway. We turn. She’s fumbling with her bouquet, lace snagged briefly on the car door. Her fingers tremble. She looks smaller suddenly. Less bride. More girl.

“I want him with me,” she says.

Not to Marty. To me.

“I really like his idea.”

I’ve structured the day to prevent quiet from becoming doubt. He glances at me. Not apologetic. Not smug. Intent. He maneuvered this. He watched the board. Made a move.

The bridesmaids’ limo engine revs.

“Fine,” I say evenly.

He nods, already stepping toward the limo. Nicole slips inside. Marty follows. The door shuts. And just like that, the one space I carefully preserved, the bride’s final solitude, belongs to him.

I stand there one beat too long. Watching the limo pull away. Telling myself this is still under control.

Snack 24

Marty:

The door shuts with a muffled thunk. And just like that, the noise is gone. No bridesmaids.
No Blair. Just the low hum of the engine and the soft hiss of leather adjusting beneath us.

I did this.

I made this happen. I sit across from her, camera balanced on my lap, framing her in a close-up. I keep my eyes on the monitor instead of her face. It feels safer to look at her pixelated.

“Blair needs to be sedated,” she says. “She told me to blink with more bridal energy.”

“I didn’t realize that was measurable,” I say. “Is there a scale? Like a Fitbit for eyelids?”

She smiles.

“Apparently if I blink too slow, I look haunted. Too fast, I look scared. She wants ‘confident flutter.’ Like a Disney widow ready to love again.”

“So,” I say, “a sexy pigeon.”

She snorts. For a second, she’s not a bride. She’s the girl who once got kicked out of a movie theatre with me for laughing too loud. Then the smile fades. Her fingers twist the ribbon on her bouquet. Over and over. I adjust focus to hide the fact that I’m watching her hands tremble.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” I say carefully. “But the groomsmen were… unfiltered.”

She stills.

“One of them joked that George was still sleeping with someone while he was seeing you.”

Silence. The engine hum feels louder.

“Oh.”

“That track?” I ask gently.

She gives a tiny shrug. “Yeah. That tracks.” She forces a smile. “It was probably nothing. A rebound. Timing overlap. We weren’t even official-official until… until I proposed.”

I lower the camera slightly. “You proposed.”

 “More of an ultimatum,” she says quickly.

“How romantic.”

She laughs. It cracks halfway through. “I’m not doing this for fireworks,” she says. “I’m doing it because he’s good for me. He has a trust fund. Changes the Brita. Flosses.”

I stare at her on the screen. “But do you like him?”

She looks out the window. Long enough for the answer to be clear.

“I like how he makes my future predictable.”

Stability. Security. No sharp turns.

“Ah,” I say. “Easy street.” I tilt my head. Smile, even though it hurts. “Sounds more like middle of the road. I prefer the scenic route.” 

She swallows. Her throat catches. She nods once. “You always wanted the movie version,” she says.

“And you didn’t?”

“I wanted… less disappointment.”

That’s the most honest thing she’s said all weekend. I lower the camera completely. The screen goes black. The little chirp sounds obscene in the quiet car.

“You don’t wear the tongue ring anymore?” I ask.

Her eyes flick up. “Nah. It was destroying my veneers.”

“That’s tragic,” I say. “I never got to see what it was like kissing you with it.”

Her lips part. “You never got the chance?” she says quietly. “Or you never took it?”

My pulse slams once against my ribs. Is that a challenge?

“Is there still a hole?” I murmur. “Stick it out.”

She laughs, nervous this time. “You’re unbelievable.”

“For science.”

She scoots closer. Not a lot. But enough. Enough that the space between us tightens. She sticks out her tongue. I lean forward. Closer than I should. “I don’t see one,” I say softly. I inhale. “Butterscotch.”

“Werther’s,” she whispers. “For the win.”

We’re inches apart now. Our knees press together. Neither of us moves them away. The charge is unmistakable. This feels like a signal. Or maybe I just want it to be one. Is this the part of the movie where they kiss? I don’t move. She doesn’t say anything. Her face softens, just a little.   Her breath shifts. Mine does too. This isn’t high school. This isn’t harmless. This is a bride. In a wedding dress. Minutes from walking down an aisle. And I’m thinking: Turn the car around. Tell the driver to circle the lake. Blow shit up.  Be the guy who doesn’t let predictability win. My hand lifts. Barely. Her eyelids lilt in slow motion.  There it is. The almost. The yes hiding inside the no. The part of her that doesn’t want floss and Brita filters.

She leans. On purpose or did the driver just cause her to sway my way? The limo slows. The outside world creeps back in. Through the tinted window I see the chapel coming into view. Guests drifting like ghosts. The limo idles. We sit in the hush of almost. The driver clears his throat. The handle clicks. Sunlight floods the car. The spell fractures.

She pulls back first. Composed. The door opens. She steps out. Veil catching the wind like a flag. I sit there for half a second longer than I should. Then I grab the camera and follow her into the noise.

That was the fork in the road.  Still, this many years later, I was immobilized, and stayed in my lane. That was my chance. And I didn’t take it.

Snack 25

Elle:

The first thing you learn in wedding planning is that hope is not a strategy. People think weddings run on love. They do not. They run on backup generators, vendor deposits, and weather contingencies.

I stand at the edge of the property, headset around my neck, staring out over the lawn where the reception/cocktail is about to happen in (checks watch) one hour. The lake glints through the trees. The air is warm. The sky is doing that deeply irritating thing where it looks both beautiful and suspicious. The kind of sky that says: I might ruin your entire event.

Behind me, the catering staff unloads trays. Someone is testing the speakers for the band. The florist is adjusting centerpieces and removing dying petals like she’s performing microscopic surgery. And in the middle of the lawn—

The tent.

White. Massive. Elegant. And completely, painfully necessary. I insisted on it. Because if there’s one thing I know about outdoor weddings, it’s this: If you don’t get the tent, it rains. Every time. Biblical rain. Like the sky itself RSVP’d “No.” But if you do get the tent? It will be the most beautiful day in recorded history. Clear skies. Perfect breeze. Not a cloud for miles. And the bride will spend the entire reception saying things like: “Honestly, we probably didn’t need the tent.”

Yes. You did. You just don’t know it. Because my entire job is making disasters invisible. I scan the dance floor installers bolting panels together inside the tent. Dance floor. Stage. Bar.
Lighting grid. Backup lighting grid. You cannot have a wedding without a dance floor. People think they can. They say things like: “We’ll just dance on the grass.”

No. You will not. You will twist an ankle in front of your grandmother. Across the lawn, a server jogs toward me.  “Elle? Quick question about table seven—”

I hold up a finger. One second. My brain is still stuck somewhere else. The limo. Marty. The way he looked at Nicole. Not like a videographer. Not like a friend. Like someone watching a plane crash in slow motion and still hoping it might land. I’ve seen that look before. Not at weddings. At funerals. The dangerous thing about people like Marty isn’t the heartbreak. It’s the belief. That stubborn, irrational certainty that love is still worth chasing even when the entire room can see it’s already over.

The server clears his throat gently. “Elle?”

I blink. “Yes. Table seven.”

“Vegetarian guest. Chef says the risotto has chicken stock.”

Of course it does. Of course.

I start walking toward the tent. “Tell the kitchen we need the vegetarian plate from the vendor meal backup.” He nods and runs off. I glance at the sky again. Still that same smug half-cloud.

Here’s the thing about weddings. Welcome to my TED Talk.  Everyone else is allowed to believe in the fantasy. Even the ex-boyfriend with the camera. But me? My job is not the fantasy. My job is making sure the fantasy survives rain. Power outages. Drunk groomsmen. Sad bridesmaids.  Vegetarian risotto emergencies. If the sky opens up tonight and pours? Everyone will look at this tent and say “Thank God we had Elle.”

I head into the chapel to make sure the archway is ready for ‘the gram’. Mutter “You’re welcome.” My headset crackles.

“Elle? Bride’s limo just pulled in.” I take one last look at the sky. Still undecided. Just like love.

Now the guests arrive. Now the drinks start flowing. Everything until now was just the warm up.  I press the headset. “Copy that,” I say.

Showtime.

Snack 26

Marty:

Every wall in the chapel bounces light. I hate it. It’s sterile. Surgical. Like we’re about to perform a wedding instead of have one.

Everything is white. White florals. White signage. Whitewashed sincerity. A massive chalkboard reads: TWO BECOME ONE in careful, artisanal lettering that probably cost more than my rent. Barf.

I duck inside with my rig, muttering to myself. George is mid-meltdown. His tux jacket dangles from one hand. His shirt is still trapped halfway inside a garment bag like a man fighting his way out of a plastic coffin. He yanks.

RIP. The fabric splits clean down the center, violently. I step closer instinctively, camera rising. Like it’s a reality show and I’ve just caught the money shot. “Ooof,” I say.

George spins. Sees me. Laughs without humor. “Of course. It’s you.”

Uh oh. Looks like that’s new information to him. He points at me like I’m Exhibit A in a cautionary tale. “You must really hate yourself. Showing up to film your ex marrying someone else. Nicole must be out of her mind to hire you.”

“She said she told you about me,” I say evenly. “And you were cool with it.”

“She said she found you online and showed me your stuff.”

He tosses the shredded shirt onto a chair. “You’re lucky I don’t fire you on the spot.”

“You can’t,” I say. He narrows his eyes. “You need the footage.” I shrug. “If it were up to me, she’d be marrying someone who deserves her.”

George steps closer. “I only need the footage. Not your commentary.”

“Then let’s make it interesting.” He raises an eyebrow. “A wager.”

“Oh this’ll be good.”

“Who knows Nicole better,” I say. “You versus me. “Right now.”

He cracks his knuckles like we’re about to arm wrestle. “Fine. Go.”

“Favorite movie.”

“The Graduate.”

“She likes The Graduate,” I say. “But her favorite is Eternal Sunshine. She watches it when she can’t sleep.”

George shrugs. “Whatever. Favorite breakfast.”

“You go first.”

“Avocado toast.”

“Wrong.”

I grin. “Banana pancakes. Her mom’s.” He squints at me. “I had some yesterday morning. Delicious as always.”

“You’re like a director who got fired but keeps hanging around the set.”

“And you’re the temp using the company bathroom like it’s his own.”

He smirks.

“First album she ever owned.”

“Britney. Oops.”

“That was a test,” I say.

“It was Alanis. Jagged Little Pill.”

George snorts. “She only bought that to impress some weird guy in high school who wore eyeliner.”

I don’t flinch. That was definitely me.

“She chose me,” George says, leaning closer now. “I have the ring. I have the house.” He gestures vaguely at my camera. “And you have… this.”

The door flies open. Elle storms in like the bride’s final boss. “Marty.” She points toward the chapel. “Coverage. Now. And a shot of the mother of the bride fixing her hat.”

“Fascinating,” I say.

“You know this guy used to finger-paint her name into school desks?” George guffaws.

“Only when I wasn’t carving it into my arm,” I say.

“For the record,” George smugly adds, “I don’t need to win a trivia contest to know Nicole loves me.”

I shoulder the camera. “That’s the thing about love, George.” He waits. “It’s not about what you know.” A beat. “It’s about what you miss.”

“Don’t screw this up,” he says.

“Already did,” I reply. “Years ago.”

George smiles like we’ve just shared a joke. “Good,” he says. “So we’re on the same page.”

Elle grabs my arm. It’s only then that I notice she’s not in her ‘party planner pants’, but in a little black dress.  

And she drags me out.

Snack 27

Elle:

The music swells and the guests rise in a soft, synchronized ripple of anticipation. Phones lift. Necks crane. Someone in the back shushes someone else who wasn’t even talking. The doors open.

The groomsmen go first. A cocky procession. Shoulders back. Guts sucked. Jackets tugged straight. Already soaking up the attention like it’s warm sunlight. And then George appears.

He doesn’t walk so much as strut. Tuxedo pants. Tuxedo jacket. Bowtie. No shirt. Just bare, oiled chest gleaming beneath the chapel lights like he’s about to audition for Magic Mike: Matri-Moan-y.

A ripple moves through the room. Gasps. Laughter. One very audible “whoa.” Someone’s aunt fans herself dramatically. Two grandma’s bite their knuckles. The string quartet falters for half a beat before recovering.

This is a new one. In six years of weddings, I’ve seen drunken officiants, runaway flower girls, and a groom faint before saying “I do.” But I’ve never seen a man walk down the aisle like he’s headlining a Vegas residency. I honestly have no words.

Which is why I immediately pivot to logistics. I give the quartet a subtle nod—slower, please—then slip down the side hall toward the bride’s waiting room before I can feel anything about it.

Nicole stands near the window when I enter. Light spills across the lace of her dress, soft and flattering in that editorial way photographers dream about. Myra stands behind her, carefully adjusting the veil, smoothing the lace like she’s done this a thousand times before.

Nicole’s reflection stares back from the glass. Composed. But distant. Her eyes flick toward the door when I step in. She exhales, barely, but I catch it.

“You sure about this?” Myra asks gently.

Not soft. Just honest. The way only a mother can ask a question without cushioning it.

“I think so,” Nicole says.

Myra pauses. Her hands still. She meets Nicole’s eyes in the mirror.

“That’s not the same as yes.”

Nicole swallows. Her voice stays steady. Her fingers tighten around the bouquet stems. “Neither is ‘I do.’”

For a moment no one moves. Then I clear my throat lightly. “It’s almost time.”

Nicole nods once. She doesn’t look at either of us as she steps forward. Myra kisses her cheek. Let’s go. As Nicole passes me our eyes meet. There’s relief there. Maybe something else. I don’t try to name it. I open the door.

I’ve sent dozens of brides down aisles like this. I’ve timed the music. Fluffed dresses. Re-pinned veils. Stopped panic attacks in bathrooms and prevented grooms from drunk-texting ex-girlfriends during cocktail hour. I’ve watched people step into promises they’re sure about. And promises they’re still convincing themselves of.

Nicole squares her shoulders and steps toward the aisle. I straighten mine. Smooth my dress.

And follow.

Snack 28

Marty:

I follow the aisle with my camera and immediately do a double-take. George is shirtless. For half a second, I’m genuinely pleased with myself. What a schmo.

But the crowd loves it. Wolf whistles. Gasps. Nicole’s aunt covers her mouth like she’s witnessing the resurrection. George eats it up, bouncing on the balls of his feet like this was always the plan. Like I didn’t hand him this moment on a torn seam and bad intentions. I sneeze. “Huh—CHMPF.” Another one rips out of me. My eyes water. The flower girl looks up at me, delighted. “What are these petals made of?” I whisper, nose running. “Asbestos?”

She grins and throws another handful directly at my face. Perfect. I stumble forward, wiping my sleeve across my nose while trying to keep the shot steady. That’s when I see them.

Faces from a previous life. High school. Not really friends. More like… witnesses to my awkward phase. They whisper. Point. One mouths: Wait… is that Marty Rosen? Their expressions do complicated math. What happened to him?  I duck behind the camera like it can protect me. The Wedding March swells. Grand. Ridiculous. The congregation rises. This is the moment everyone remembers.

Nicole appears at the back of the chapel. Arm linked with her father. She looks beautiful. Stiff. Glossy. Shrink-wrapped in expectation. Ray leans in and whispers something to her. She doesn’t respond. A bridesmaid fluffs the dress and slips away.

Nicole starts walking. I track backward with her, framing her with reverence. Petals drift down like romantic dandruff. I hold in another sneeze. At the altar George smirks. Nicole clocks the shirtlessness. She slows for a step. Her look could slice a wedding cake.

I sneeze again. The camera jolts. Nicole glances toward me, annoyed. I’m no longer finding it cute.  Then she looks forward again. Off to the side I catch Elle. Perfectly still. She looks from Nicole to George. Presses her lips together. Her shoulders soften slightly. Like someone finally unclenching a jaw they didn’t realize they were holding.

Nicole reaches the altar. Stops a full step too far from George. “Hey babe,” he says. “Like the look?”

“I said no surprises.”

“Oh?” he says lightly. “Because you’re full of surprises.”

And then he turns. Looks straight into my lens. Nicole doesn’t answer. She rubs the diamond on her engagement ring like she might need it for self-defense.

The priest begins his sermon. Marriage is a covenant. Not a contract. A promise to survive Wi-Fi outages. Broken dishwashers. Silence. It’s better than it has any right to be. “Damn,” I mutter.

George goes off-book on his vows. Performs. Drops references he shouldn’t know. Alanis. Eternal Sunshine. My intel. I trained the enemy. The crowd swoons. Nicole reads from cue cards. Her voice polished. The words manicured. No passion. Feels like they were written by a polite robot.

When I zoom into her eyes, I finally see it. The gap. The distance. The way she looks at George. And something in me shifts. Quietly, but deep. This isn’t how I’d want my wife to look at me. Not reverent. Not uncertain. Not grateful. Just…resolved. For the first time all weekend, I don’t imagine myself standing where George is. I don’t feel replaced. I feel relieved.

The priest asks if anyone objects. I say nothing.

They kiss. Applause erupts. George pumps a fist. Nicole smiles for the room. I turn away. I sneeze again. And realize something quietly, unmistakably true. I don’t want his place.

Maybe…

I never did.

Snack 29

Elle:

Golden hour is a scam, but it’s a beautiful one. The light softens everything it touches: wrinkles, grudges, bad posture, bad choices. It turns the chapel garden into something editorial. This is where the photos have to happen. Now or never.

“Okay,” I say, clapping once, sharp. “Family first. Immediate family. No wanderers. No cigarettes, vapes, or drinks in frame.” Bridesmaids scatter like guilty teenagers, hiding smokes behind their backs. The photographer is already sweating. They all have pit stains by this point.

“Mother of the bride!” he yells. “We are not Photoshopping you in later, please!”

I intercept him mid-flap. “Ray and Myra center,” I say. “Nicole half-step forward. George, loosen your shoulders. You look like you’re bracing for impact.” George laughs, but he doesn’t move until I physically place his hand. People like him need direction. They want it, even when they pretend they don’t.

Marty is hovering near the perimeter, staring. Watching Nicole and George the way you watch strangers slow-dance at a high school reunion. He’s in my shot.

“Marty,” I say without looking at him. “You’re blocking my light.” He shifts half an inch. Not enough. “Out,” I add. “You can grab B-roll from the fountain.” He finally looks at me. His eyes are red. Petals? Pollen? Heartbreak? Pick one or all three.  I turn fully now, still chewing an energy bar I don’t remember opening. “Behind the hydrangeas,” I say, pointing. “Out of the way.” He doesn’t move.

Nicole and George pose again. They’re… fine. Technically perfect. Hands placed, heads angled. A couple who looks like they’ve Googled how to stand in love. The illusion of love is a lot easier to choreograph than the real thing. Real love is messy. Which is why weddings try so hard to hide it. “Okay,” I say, softer but firmer. “Let’s try one where the bride doesn’t look like she’s going to shiv someone.”

Marty smirks. “Is that a note or a personal attack?”

“Same thing,” I say. “Now move.”

That’s when he turns on me. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” I say evenly. “I do know you. You’re the sad ex with a camera trying very hard not to make the day about himself while absolutely making the day about himself.” It lands. I see it land. Good.

He fires back, sharp and precise. “And you’re the sad type-A wedding planner trying to control other people’s happiness because—”

Then he stops. For a split second the garden tilts. Then I straighten. I don’t get the luxury of wobbling. I turn away. There’s a flower girl unraveling.

“Okay!” I clap again. “Bouquet toss. Clear the center. Phones down. If I see a flash, you’re dead.”

Nicole grins. For real this time. She turns, bouquet raised. She throws. The bouquet sails perfectly. Straight into Marty’s face.

THUMP.

It hits him square, petals flattening against the matte box and his cheek. He freezes. The crowd erupts. Laughing at Marty. Definitely not with him. Phones lift again despite my warning. Marty pulls the bouquet off slowly, like it might explode. Drops it immediately, embarrassed to be holding it. He doesn’t laugh.

I watch him retreat into himself. Back into his camera. Then I pivot back to the work. “Reset!” I call. “We’re moving inside in five. Someone get the flower girl water. Photographer, group shot now while the light’s still flirting with us.”

Damn, I’m good at making things happen.

Snack 30

Marty:

Dinner is loud. Hard to say if it’s joyful. Silverware clinks. Laughter blooms and overlaps. Plates arrive. I’m taken aback by how many forks there are per setting. I float through it collecting smiles the way a crime scene photographer collects evidence. I pass a table of old classmates unable to not shake their heads at me.

Another table. Another round of faces leaning eagerly into the lens. “I’ve never seen Nicole this happy,” one woman beams. “George is such a good man,” another adds. “You can just tell.”

DING. DING. DING.

Glasses clatter. The room pivots on command. Nicole and George kiss. I catch it. Then again. The camera stays up. Then it doesn’t. Then it does.

DING. DING. DING.

Okay. That’s enough for the kissing montage. I pan away and shoot a centerpiece. Candles. Greenery. The DJ. Dinner is served.

I escape into the chapel stairwell with my honorarium meal. Fluorescent lights hum like they’re disappointed in me. Tile steps. A forgotten fire extinguisher bolted to the wall, untouched, waiting for something catastrophic enough to justify its existence.

I sit. My plate balances on my knees. A limp, beige chicken breast slides around as I poke at it. The camera sits beside me. I rewind. Review. Nicole laughing at something George said. Nicole brushing petals from her shoulder. Nicole half-glowering during the priest’s Wi-Fi sermon. I scrub back. Freeze.

Elle.

She’s in the background of almost every shot. Almost missed. Kneeling to fix a kid’s crooked bowtie. Sitting barefoot on the chapel steps. Heels abandoned somewhere out of frame. Eating a protein bar that’s getting all over her.

I rewind. Watch again.

Press PAUSE.

Huh.

Snack 31

Elle:

From the outside, this wedding looks effortless. From where I’m standing, half a step behind the head table, one eye on Marty, the other on the line forming at the bar.

Seventy guests. A sprinkling of drama. Always expected. Maybe not quite like this, but, heck, no major catastrophes. Looks like I’m going out with another win. Nicole sits beside George, posture perfect. She must do Pilates.  Anyone else would miss the stiffness in her shoulders. I read tension the way some people read sheet music.

Cecilia steps up to the microphone. She doesn’t tap it. She just stands there, terrifyingly calm, and the room quiets itself out of respect. “Good evening,” she says. “For those of you who don’t know me. What a privilege it is for you to meet me.  I’m Cecilia. George’s mother. Tonight I watched my son say ‘I do’ to a woman who matches him. And I don’t say that lightly. George is a hard man to match. He was valedictorian, class president, captain of his rowing team…” She pauses. “…in preschool.”

Laughter swells.

George mugs for Marty’s camera. Nicole pets his arm on cue. “He was also extremely picky,” Cecilia continues. “Once, in kindergarten, he broke off a play-marriage because his bride still slept with her blanky.”

More laughter. She’s crushing it.

“I’m glad that he outgrew that outlook, because Nicole,” Cecilia says, turning toward her, “despite the fact that you still sleep with your childhood stuffie, you are mature. Articulate. Realistic. And you know what he expects of you.” Nicole takes a sip of her drink. “I know that,” Cecilia adds, “because I saw you with him when he thought no one was watching. When you rubbed his back through food poisoning in Turks. When you let him win trivia night, even though you knew the capital of Burkina Faso was not ‘Belgium.’” The room eats it up. I nod to the caterer nearest the aisle. Good timing. Still on schedule. “I welcome you into our family, Nicole,” Cecilia finishes. “You make him better. And that, to a mother, is everything.” She lifts her glass. Applause follows.

Ray and Myra approach the mic together. Ray slowly straightens out his folded paper. He clears his throat. “I didn’t want to speak tonight,” he says, earnestly. “But Myra told me that’s never stopped me before.” Ray adjusts his bifocals. “Nicole has always been… meticulous. When she was ten, she planned a family vacation itinerary down to the minute.” He smiles at her. “Including our scheduled arguments.” Nicole chuckles. George blinks, unsure if this is a joke or a warning. “And when she told us she was marrying George,” Ray continues, “I said, ‘The man with the cufflinks that look like compass dials?’ She said, ‘Yes. He makes me feel like I’m heading in the right direction.’” A collective awww. Nicole’s eyes shine. Marty looks like he’s going to barf.  The room melts.

Then Myra gently removes the mic. “That was beautiful, Ray,” she says. “But let me add something less boring.” Groans mixed with laughter and coughs.

Then Myra steps forward and gently, but decisively, removes the microphone from his hands. “That was beautiful, Ray,” she says. “But, uh… let me add something less boring.” Groans. Laughter. I clock the red wine stain on her lips.  “I love love,” Myra says. “I love weddings. I love that you two found each other, despite the glitchy apps, and the ‘poly-furious’ phase you went through in 2023.” Scattered snorts. Nicole drops her head into her hands.  “I love how George always puts his hand on the small of Nicole’s back,” Myra continues, “like he’s anchoring her to the earth.” She pauses. Smiles.

Marty’s slurred voice from the back. “More like a dead weight.”

I feel my pulse in my ears.

Marty stands.

Oh god. He’s standing.

Snack 32

Marty:

Seventy faces turn. Seventy people wondering why the camera guy is heckling the wedding speeches. I didn’t mean to say anything. This is exactly what Trish said to plan against. I’m not even that drunk.

I walk to the mic. Avoiding eye contact with Elle.  “Hi.” My voice comes out like I haven’t gone through puberty yet. “I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours embedded with this wedding party,” I say, “and I’ve learned some things.” I glance at the groomsmen table. “Derek once sent nudes of his girlfriend to the entire groom’s group chat and is now pretending it was a deep fake.” Derek shrugs. “Todd used to think crypto meant haunted money.” Some awkward chuckles. “Elle,” I say. “Elle could plan a wedding underwater. In space. She’s seriously talented.” Then I look at Nicole.

“And Nicole…” My chest tightens. I should have brought my puffer. “I thought I was going to marry Nicole.” The room goes still. “I really believed that.” I swallow. “I clung to that idea like it was a buoy in the middle of a breakup ocean. I dragged it with me for years. Through other relationships. Through better judgment.”

Myra is crying. George has gone extremely rigid. “I realized something tonight,” I say. “I’m glad I didn’t end up marrying Nicole.” The tent tightens. “Because I can finally admit we weren’t meant to do life together.” Silence. “And yeah,” I continue. “It took me way too long to see that. I didn’t ask to be here. Nicole asked me to. And it took showing up here, like an idiot out of a rom-com, camera in hand, to finally let it go.”

I turn toward George. He’s watching me carefully. I’m bracing for a punch. “George, I saw the way Nicole looks at you.” I look back at her. She meets my eyes. There’s something apologetic there. It stings. “And it’s not how she used to look at me,” I say.  

“I used to think love was about knowing someone better than anyone else.” I shake my head. “It isn’t. It’s about seeing who they actually are.” I lift someone else’s glass from their table. “To the right people finding each other,” I say. “And the wrong people finally letting go.” I drink.

I don’t wait for applause. 

Mostly, because there isn’t any. 

I step away from the mic. Eject the memory card from my camera. Hand it to George. “The raw footage,” I say. “Might want to delete a few things.”

I turn and walk through the tent.

Snack 33

Elle:

George grabs the mic. “Okay,” he says. “So… wow. That was affirming. Speech of the night. Don’t know how I can possibly top that.” A nervous laugh ripples through the tent. Bless him. “I actually want to thank Marty,” George continues. He hesitates. “Seriously. Not just for stepping in last minute and filming everything, but for…” He glances at Nicole. “…for reminding us all how important honesty is.” He slides an arm around her waist. Pulls her in. He looks proud. Like: See? I handled it. And she leans into him, because that’s what brides do. 

“My turn,” Nicole says smoothly, taking the mic. “Hi. Thank you. Truly. This weekend has been… a lot. A lot of food. Champagne. A lot of making new memories with old friends.” A laugh. “A lot of people telling me I look ‘glowy,’ when I am mostly just sweating.” The room relaxes. “George and I are so grateful,” she continues. “Grateful for the people who raised us. And the people who love us.” Her eyes flick toward the tent flap. Not long enough for anyone else to catch it. Long enough for me.

“And we’re excited,” she says, voice lifting. “To do life together. Forever. Starting today.” George kisses her temple. Applause swells. Relief spreads like a reset button being hit. Good.
Great. Perfect.

Everything’s fine... Nobody threw punches. Nobody fainted. The night continues. And still, there was something in what Marty said. The way he stood there and owned it.  No performance. No sympathy play. Just admitted he’d been wrong about the story he’d been telling himself.  I want to be more annoyed than I am. But, I realize how rare it is what he just did. Part of me respects it. Maybe even loves it. I shove the thought down.

Check my watch a second before my phone notification chimes. Cake in three. First dance in twelve. DJ announcement in fourteen. I catch the caterers hovering, waiting for my cue. I nod once. 

We will not spiral until after the sparklers.

Snack 34

Marty:

The night air hits me like I’ve surfaced from underwater. Behind me, the tent vibrates with drum and brass. Bruno Mars, probably. 

I walk past the catering van. Past stacked chairs. Past the flower archway already being dismantled and put into gift bags.  My phone vibrates. I ignore it. I lean against the wheelchair ramp railing. My forehead rests there long enough to feel how stupid this was. I came here like a guy walking into traffic and acting surprised when he gets hit.

The phone vibrates again. Longer. I check it. 20 missed messages. 9 voicemails.

Top of the list:

RICK (BOSS)

💬 You were supposed to deliver two real estate cuts yesterday.

💬 Why are you tagged at a wedding venue? Are you using company cameras for personal bullshit again?

💬 Call me. Now.

💬 This is wildly unprofessional.

💬 Do not come in Monday.

💬 We’re done.

Another name.

TRISH

💬 Did she blow you in a bunkbed?

💬 Guess you’re working.

💬 If you’re reading this and not responding I assume you’re sitting somewhere thinking you ruined your life.
You didn’t.

💬 Or did it work?My arm drops. “You know,” a voice says behind me, “I should probably kick your ass.” I turn.

Old man. Wrinkled tux. Cane. George’s nose.

“George’s grandfather,” he says.

“Fair,” I say.

He waits. No excuses. He snorts. “Good. Explanations usually make it worse.”

He lights a cigarette. Offers it. I try. Instant regret. I cough like I’m dying behind a high school gym.

“Don’t quit your day job,” he says.

“Actually, I think that choice has already been made for me.”

He whistles. “Efficient.”

We stand there. Smoke drifting.

“You embarrassed him,” he says quietly. “My grandson.” Then— “But you didn’t lie.”

I look at him. “That counts for something.”

He flicks the cigarette away. “Not tonight,” he says. “Tonight you’re the villain.”

He starts walking back toward the lights. He glances back. “Bad nights make good stories.” Beat. “If you survive them.” He disappears.

I stay where I am.

Snack 35

Elle:

I tell myself I’m stepping outside to check the fireworks crew. That’s the lie. The truth is I want to check on Marty. Or shake him until he learns what an inside voice is. I grab a takeout container with cake.

Blair blocks the exit. Barefoot. Heels dangling. Lipstick smudged. “Well,” she says. “What a wedding.”

“It is. You okay?”

She snorts. “Asking him to film this was a dick move. ” “You didn’t hear that from me,” she adds. Then: “I should go find him. He’s actually pretty cute. And I’m pretty sure he’s the kind of guy who loves to eat p—” She stops herself. Realizes how much chaos that would create. Looks at me. A handoff. “If you’re thinking about intervening,” she says quietly, “do it now.”

She squeezes my arm and disappears back inside. Outside the air is cool. Crickets. Marty stands near the edge of the venue. All of his gear at his feet. Shoulders slumped. Doneso.  “You’re not shooting the dancing?” I ask.

He blinks. “Yeah. That ship sailed.”

“The dancing is a big part of the video…”

“I can’t go back in there.” Beat. “What time does the shuttle go back to the cottage?”

“Right after the pyrotechnics. The literal ones. Just after midnight. ”

He counts on his fingers. “Cool,” he says. “I love waiting. I’m very patient. Big fan of emotional layovers.”

I snort. Okay, fine. I laugh.  He catches it.

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m glad you’re mad,” he says. “I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”

“I can give you a ride,” I hear myself say.

He looks up. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I can.”

He smiles. “Okay.”

I gesture to his gear.

“Grab your stuff before someone ropes me into a conga line.”

Snack 36

Marty & Elle:

The radio plays one of those soft indie-folk covers that takes a song you once screamed in your car and turns it into something you’d cry to while staring out a rain-streaked window. 

Elle drives. Marty, shotgun. His gear bag at his feet like a dog that followed him. 

“You okay?” she asks. 

“I just found out I don’t have a job anymore,” he says. “And I missed my Mom’s birthday. I think I’m disowned.” 

She exhales. “That tracks,” she says. “Tonight had big ‘burn it all down’ energy.” 

He scrolls his phone. 

“Well,” Elle says, eyes still on the road. “Silver lining? You’re free. You’re talented. Committed.” 

“You mean should be committed.” 

Elle chuckles. “And you’re not emotionally available enough to get trapped in a long-term job right now.” 

“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” 

“You want another gig?” 

He blinks. “Wait. Are you offering me a job?” 

“Yeah. And it pays.” 

He laughs. Sharp. Disbelieving. “What’s the catch?” 

“You have to pretend to like Nickleback.” 

He groans. “I just had a spiritual awakening in a wedding tent. Don’t ruin it.” 

“Bride’s obsessed,” she says. “Full music-video vibe.” 

“I mean… I hate myself. But I don’t know if I hate myself that much.” 

She smiles. Curious, not triumphant. “You available?” she asks. 

“I just became available for everything.” 

The car goes quiet. Not awkward. Loaded. “You ever think about quitting weddings?” he asks. 

“Honestly, not until today.” 

“You’d be terrifyingly good at running a film festival,” he says. 

She snorts. Then doesn’t dismiss it. They pull into Nicole’s driveway. Elle slows but doesn’t park. “You didn’t have to offer me another gig,” he says. 

“I know,” she says. “But I wanted to.” 

He turns to her. “Seriously. Thank you. For tonight. For the ride. For not letting me completely implode.” He leans in for a hug. BONK. Forehead to forehead. Hard. 

“Jesus!” she says. “Did you just headbutt me?” 

“I think so. Are you bleeding? Am I bleeding?” She checks the rearview mirror. Then laughs. He laughs too. Relief breaks through both of them at once. They stop laughing. They’re close now. Too close. They kiss. Careful at first. Then warmer. Then real. They pull back. “This doesn’t mean we’re dating,” she says. 

“God no,” he says. “Obviously.” 

She rolls her eyes. Smiles. He grabs his bag. Opens the door. Inside the car, Elle watches him go, hands still on the wheel, heart beating just fast enough to be annoying. He steps out into the night, and for the first time, maybe, hopefully, Marty doesn’t feel like he’s walking away from something.

He’s just letting the credits roll.

The End