I think I hear Rhea snort. I start to grin; she thinks the whole thing is as silly as I do.
We begin our walk as a couple.
Then, Serena lifts her hand again, this time slower. Her voice stays composed, but the tension is unmistakable.
“I’m sorry,” she says, quiet but insistent. “Can someonepleasefix the bows on the reserved signs?”
The planner turns, confused. Serena’s already walking toward the first pew.
“They’re draping,” she says, voice low but tight. “They’re meant to sit upright. Like they did at the walkthrough yesterday.”
No one speaks.
Rhea’s hand is still tucked into my arm, but I feel her shoulders shift.
The air holds perfectly still.
And then, from somewhere near the back of the room, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” bursts into life—loud, unfiltered, and unmistakably not part of the approved playlist.
For a half second, no one reacts.
Then Serena—elegant, unflappable Serena—whips around, eyeswide.
“Are you kidding me—” she starts, her voice rising for the first time all day.
The music cuts before she can finish, leaving her next words—“This is fricking ridiculous”—hanging awkwardly in the air.
The room falls dead silent.
For about two seconds.
I feel it first—that twitch in my chest. The one that says I’m about to lose it.
The bows. The spacing. The damn arch. And now Marvin Gaye?
It’s like we’re all trapped inside a live-actionSNLsketch no one auditioned for.
I realize Rhea is shaking beside me.
Not crying. Laughing.
She’s trying to hold it in—biting her lip, turning her head away—but her shoulders are trembling, her breath catching in tiny, guilty bursts.
And that’s all it takes.
I crack, too.
A low, involuntary laugh escapes me, and the moment it does, she loses it completely.
We both burst out laughing—sharp, sudden, totally unfiltered.
Heads turn.
The planner gives us a tight, strained look like she’s unsure whether to scold us or join in.
Carter lets out a chuckle, clearly trying to smooth things over.
Serena narrows her eyes, lips tight. If looks could kill, we’d both be toast.
