1
SIMA
Whoever said wedding planners just play with flowers clearly never had to fish a kid out of the koi pond one hour before the vows.
The boy’s little tux is soaked, one of his shoes is missing, his bow tie is either somewhere between the lily pads or in the stomach of a hungry koi, and I’m ninety percent sure his screams are setting off the flower girl’s eczema.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I coo, wringing out his sleeve. “Why don’t we go find your mommy?”
He wails louder.
Behind us, the koi ripple away in terror. One’s probably texting his therapist about this. Lord knows I’d love to talk to mine.
I glance up and spot the mom. She’s a checklist of bad parenting.
Glass of champagne? Half empty.
Inappropriate laughter? Full volume.
Maternal instinct? Not a drop of it to be found.
She’s wearing sequins and a boa and a vibe that says,Someone else will deal with this.
She is correct. That someone is me.
“Ma’am?” I call out, my voice the exact pitch of someone one hiccup shy of a breakdown. “Did you want to come comfort your son?”
She waves me off like I’m suggesting a tax audit. “Oh, he’salwayslike this.”
Fabulous. I’m elbow-deep in a meltdown and the only adult with parental authority is picking French bubbles over her own crotch spawn.
“Okay, then,” I mutter under my breath. “You cry, I’ll do damage control, and the koi will start a support group.”
The boy’s wails start piercing the sound barrier.
“Sammi! Good, you’re here,” Jemma huffs as she rushes to my side. She’s my best friend as well as my assistant, but right this second, I amsonot happy to see her. That creased look on her face is inevitably the last thing I see before I hear some very bad news. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Well, you found me.” I give an awkward smile and an even more awkward finger-guns gesture, because that’s just how this day is going. “Hey, do you think we should fence off the pond? ‘Cause I feel like it’s really worth considering?—”
“No time.” She claps her hands like it will make all of our problems disappear. It never works, but Jemma’s nothing ifnot made of hope and glitter. “Catering messed up. There’s tuna in the vegan tarts.”
My jaw nearly joins Tux Kid’s missing shoe at the bottom of the pond. “There’swhat?”
“I know, right?” She throws her arms up. “According to them, it’s not red meat, so it’s fine.”
Kill me now. This is a disaster. Half of the bride’s guests are vegan or vegan-adjacent. The reception starts intwo hours,for God’s sake. “Please tell me they stuck to zucchini pies for the lunch menu.”
“I mean, sure… if you want me to lie.”
I bury my face in my hands. Then I realize they’re still smelly with koi water and hastily wipe them on my pants, which is great, because now, I smell like a fish from head to toe.
“Okay,” I breathe, even though it’s patentlynotokay. “This is fine. It’s only the biggest wedding of the season.”
Jemma sighs, arms limp in defeat. “I’ll shepherd the soggy kid back to Mother of the Year over there and you’ll fix the food?”
I’m definitely getting the shit end of the stick in that delegation of duties. But if it means five minutes scream-free, I’m willing to take both ends. “He’s all yours,” I agree, pushing him into Jemma’s arms. “If you can’t get his mom, Child Protective Services are always an option.”
“Perf. I got them on speed dial after the Kasparov wedding.”
