"Effective."
I eat because arguing takes energy I don't have, and because the cheese is actually really good, and because his hand is back on my waist and it's doing confusing things to my ability to form coherent thoughts.
Somewhere between the prosciutto and the aged cheddar, Monica appears in a cloud of tulle and panic.
"There you are! I've been looking everywhere!" My sister's eyes are wild, mascara slightly smudged. "We need you for family photos in ten minutes, and Mom wants to know if your date needs any dietary accommodations for dinner, and also Aunt Carol asked if Kruk is 'one of those scary monster boys from the internet' and I need you to run interference."
"Aunt Carol needs to get off TikTok."
"Collie, I'm serious. Can you please just—" Monica stops, really looking at me for the first time. "Are you drunk?"
"Appropriately celebratory."
"You're drunk." Monica turns to Kruk. "Is she drunk?"
"She has consumed four glasses of champagne in seventeen minutes," Kruk reports. "Her motor control is compromised. Speech patterns indicate inebriation."
"You're keeping count?" I stare at him, momentarily distracted from the lingering taste of champagne and cheese. "Like, you've actually been tracking my alcohol consumption numerically?"
"I track everything." His tone is matter-of-fact, as if monitoring my drink intake is the most natural thing in the world. "Potential threats. Available exit routes. Beverage consumption. Hostile entities."
"Derek's not—" I start to protest, but the words catch in my throat because part of me knows exactly where this is going. "He's not a hostile entity, he's just being a petty asshole?—"
"A hostile entity," Kruk corrects.
Monica looks between us, something calculating entering her expression. "Okay. New plan. Kruk, can you make sure she drinks water and sobers up enough for photos? Collie, eat more cheese. I'll handle Aunt Carol."
Monica disappears before I can form a coherent protest, her white bridesmaid dress creating a dramatic swirl of fabric as she pivots on her heel and marches off to deal with whatever fresh hell Aunt Carol is unleashing upon the beverage station.
I watch her go, momentarily mesmerized by how someone can move with such purpose in heels that high.
"I like your sister," Kruk observes, his tone carrying that particular note of professional approval he usually reserves for well-designed security systems and efficient evacuation protocols. "She issues clear tactical directives."
I turn to look at him, fighting the urge to giggle at the absolute seriousness in his expression. "She's a control freak."
"She is mission-oriented," he corrects, as if there's a meaningful distinction between those two things. "Decisive.Strategic. She identifies objectives and delegates tasks according to individual capabilities."
"That's just a fancy way of saying she bosses people around."
"Effective leadership often appears that way to those being led."
I'm reaching for another piece of cheese when I hear it: Derek's voice, carrying across the reception area, loud enough that several people turn.
"—classic Colletta, honestly. Remember when she got so drunk at that office party she tried to fight a coat rack?"
Laughter. Madison's high-pitched giggle. Other voices joined in.
My face goes hot.
"That was one time," I mutter.
"And the time she accidentally replied-all to that email chain about her boss being a 'sentient potato in a suit'?"
More laughter.
"Or when she showed up to her own birthday dinner an hour late because she forgot what day it was?"
I am going to die. Right here. Death by embarrassment at a vineyard wedding.
