“You’ve taught me that love is the best investment I’ve ever made,” Erwin continues to make my stomach churn, “and our relationship has consistently exceeded projected returns. I look forward to building our future together with sustainable growth and unlimited happiness.”
“Now there’s a fiscally sound wedding vow if ever there was one,” Lani teases.
“Oh, there was one,” I say. “Seven years ago. Same vows. Different woman.”
“Recycling vows should be a felony,” Ruby says.
Lani snorts. “I’ve seen more originality on a cereal box.”
“I can’t argue with that. And by the way, my divorce lawyer showed more commitment.”
“I now pronounce you husband and influencer!” Halea calls out as she tosses a bunch of rose petals into the air. “You may kiss the bride and tag each other in your social media stories!”
The kiss is dramatic, well-lit, and absolutely for the internet. Guests cheer. A gecko applauds. Somewhere, an algorithm feels fulfilled.
“How are you holding up watching your ex marry a woman who thinks ‘authentic’ is a camera setting?” Ruby asks, with all the tenderness of a freight train.
“How am I holding up?” I shrug, watching Candy andErwin pose for approximately forty-seven different kissing angles. “You know I’m a firm believer that justice eventually finds everyone, even the ones who look happy in the meantime.”
“You’re still rooting for him to be the killer, aren’t you?” Ruby offers up a sideways hug as we observe the carnage.
“Yup,” I say. “I’m petty like that.”
The reception revs up with Hawaiian wedding music that dares you not to dance. The buffet sprawls across the sand in decadent stations, proof that happiness is measurable in food options.
Kalua pig falls off the bone with the tenderness that comes from hours of slow cooking and possibly divine intervention. Fresh poke offers three different preparations that taste like the ocean decided to become an edible luxury. Coconut rice floats like a tropical cloud, while grilled mahi-mahi with mango salsa delivers a flavor that makes you briefly forget your own name.
The dessert table features multiple stations of haupia, malasadas, chocolate haupia pie, coconut macaroons, and tropical fruit tarts that make dietary restraint seem like a personal failing rather than a lifestyle choice.
“I need to put the finishing touches on this masterpiece,” Lani says, voice dripping sarcasm as she gestures to the wedding cake—Candy’s very specific request. It’s a barely dressed creation with exposed layers, minimal frosting, and aneffortlesslook that clearly took military-grade precision to achieve maximum social media approval.
Bertha materializes beside me with predatory stealth, clearly on the hunt for something to critique and someone to blame. Most likely me.
Her silver locks are bloated from the humidity, and she’s donned a festive polyester frock engineered to trap heat and resentment in equal measure.
“Well, at least this wedding turned out better than your marriage did,” she says with the tact of a sledgehammer. “Though I suppose that wasn’t particularly difficult to achieve.”
“Thank you, Bertha. Your emotional support means everything to me,” I say, with the sincerity usually reserved for mandatory safety briefings.
“I’m just saying, some people learn from their mistakes, and others repeat them with different people.”
I don’t even try to unpack that one.
Ruby materializes like a fairy godmother who plays fast and loose with consent. “Bertha! You have to dance with these distinguished gentlemen!” She steers her toward the dance floor, delivering her to a group of older men who look fully unprepared for Bertha’s opinions on family finances, or anything else.
I spot Melanie over by the dessert buffet, stuffing her poi hole with malasadas, and I’m about to join her when Della comes my way. She looks jittery as she approaches with stage-ready energy, like she’s about to perform for an audience that might actually remember it—assuming they’re still upright and not fully undone by tropical cocktails.
Della slides up beside me, buzzing like a live wire in sequins.
“I’m up in five minutes,” she says. “I’ve been rehearsing all week, and the crowd is exactly relaxed enough to appreciate original music.”
Translation—this must happennow, before anyone sobers up enough to develop standards.
“Perfect timing,” I say. “Tell the band there’s a drink break for them. This crowd is exactly loose enough for original music.”
She grins and turns to go.
“Before you hit the stage,” I add, because I am physically incapable of letting a potential lead walk away, “is there anything else about Alana I should know? Any tension, drama, or unfinished business that you might have remembered since we last spoke?”
