“You don’t understand,” I croak. “I can’t tell my friends we’re staying here.”
The guy frowns, genuinely perplexed, like he’s trying to figure out why I’m acting as though I’ve been condemned to live in a cave. “These are very comfortable. Lots of people love the communal aspect.”
“Not these people!” I choke out, my voice pitching higher as the walls seem to close in. “We’re talking about a girl who has a hundred and twenty rooms in her house. Her friends who grew up with herds of ponies. A world-class surgeon who sleeps on a very expensive, very comfortable mattress.”
The words spill out, a frantic avalanche I can’t stop. “Please, I’m begging you. I’ll do anything—mow every lawn you have, wrestle that donkey out there—just fix this before I’m the worst bridesmaid in history.”
His expression softens. Finally, he gets it. Salvation’s coming.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “The others are booked. It’s not possible.”
No, no, no.
“There has to be something. We could trade with someone? Or—or bribe them?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Please,” I plead, seriously considering getting down on my knees. “Just . . . check again. One more time.”
His patience frays. “I get that you’re upset, but this is what you booked. I can’t magic up space that isn’t there.”
He’s right. He can’t. Just like I can’t magic myself into a competent human who books the right damn tent.
My heart sinks.
If this were any other group—Jamie, Lizzie, even just me and Sophia—we’d already be laughing about this. We’d call it “hostel chic,” and take bets on who would snore the loudest.
But this crew? They don’t roll with punches.
“I need to check on another tent,” he says, his tone clipped, like my spiraling is giving him a migraine. “I’ll be back soon.” And then he’s gone.
I stumble outside, my legs shaky. The perfect weekend I’d pictured—cozy tents, happy friends, me shining as maid of honor—has collapsed into a signature Daisy Wilson train wreck. Tears hit fast, streaming down my face as I clap my hands over my eyes, my chest tightening with every ragged breath. I can’t stop it.
I’ve ruined everything. The dream weekend I promised them, the one I so confidently sold—poof, gone. I’ve managed to transform it into a setting for a budget horror film.
What the hell was I thinking? I can’t even demonstrate a bidet on live television without having a meltdown, and now I thought I could pull this off? Organize a glamping trip forthem?
My brain churns through the mess:
Tent reality:Horror hostel chic
Price paid:Apparently equivalent to bag of crisps
Super rat threat level:Rising, apparently
Chance of maintaining bridesmaid status:Rapidly diminishing
In full panic mode, I dial Jamie. He picks up after two rings, chirping a casual “Hello,” and I let loose—sobbing, ranting about tents, expectations, and my total failure.
There’s a long, agonizing “Ummmmmm” from his end. I hear a mouse click—he’s on his damn computer.
“Ohhhhh shit,” he says finally, way too chill.
“‘Oh shit’?” I snap, practically snarling. “That’s it, Jamie? Oh shit?”
There’s a sharp inhale on his end, the sound of someone realizing they’ve just made a tactical error. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry! But I’m literally looking at the website right now, and those tents look nice. They’re, like,comfy.”
“Comfy?” I hiss, my voice descending into something feral. “Posh people don’t docomfy. They do chandeliers and gold bloody bidets!”
