And that’s my cue. Brett’s answers can wait for the next full moon, or potentially a post-honeymoon visit to the dog park. Tonight isnotthe night for Sidney’s big reveal. We have witnesses—and happy memories to make, sure—but mainly witnesses. Three hundred and fifty of them.
“Hey, lovebirds,” I interrupt. “Time for dinner to start. Everyone’s excited for toasts!”
At the word “toasts,” Brett’s expression returns to resting dumb face. It’s exactly what I’d expect from someone with repeated head trauma from college football. In his defense—from his stature, I assume he played defense—the guests don’t seem overly excited about dinner and toasts, either. The room’s ample number of formally dressed and wealthy-beautiful attendees reluctantly take their seats when the band welcomes Brett and Sidney to the head table. Preparing to return appetizers to the kitchen, the catering servers draw back. The photography team’s cameras flash terroristically throughout the room. With afterimages of the lights unjustly gripping my eyes, I notice that table 3, the groomsmen’s table, is all but empty.
Which I’d consider a minor issue, except for the waitstaff attempting to induce the lone groomsman to stop using the table as a footstool. Belligerent, in addition to unhygienic, the groomsman furiously shakes a full-length beard and three feet of shiny black hair. This guy didn’thave half this much follicular mass twenty minutes ago; I would’ve noticed.
Meaning, horrifically, that this frat bro is Rapunzeling right before my eyes.
“Sabotage,” I say under my breath. Which means our gnome plan didn’t work.
I check on the bridesmaids at table 2. Their scalps seem mercifully unaffected, though several of them are casually plucking flowers from the arrangements and popping them into their mouths. It’s drawing attention from the other tables.
Sidney seems blissfully oblivious.
“And I love my pack,” she weeps into her mic. “You girls are all the best. Thank you for supporting me in my choice of alpha!”
“Pi Kappa Alpha, whoo!” shouts the lone groomsman at table 3. He stands on his chair, raising his champagne glass with all the grace of a four-legged dog balancing on two hind legs. To be clear, he’s the last person in the room who should be having this problem. Sweeping his record-breaking hair and beard behind his shoulder, he shouts, “Whoo!”
“Chi-O for life!” cry the bridesmaids.
They howl in unison with Sidney for a solid minute. At table 1, Sidney’s mom, the esteemed Mrs. Barroway, looks like she wishes a hole would open up and swallow her.
At least she doesn’t seem to realize that this wedding is being attended by any paranormal guests—or that it’s being plagued by unknown magical forces.
I’ve got to make sure it stays that way.
As soon as the toasts end, I send Mandy straight to Brett’s room to herd the missing groomsmen down for dinner—and if necessary, to put her newly acquired scissor skills to the test by acting as emergency barber. While I hurriedly discuss the issue of excess champagne during the toasts with Maryam, the hotel’s head of catering, Sidney’s mom swishes up to me in a beaded halter gown and a sheer, floor-length cape.
Masking my worry, I turn from Maryam to greet the elegant, andevidently agitated, woman. “Hello, Mrs. Barroway. Can I help with anything?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth Barroway’s voice rolls out low and languid. But the tightness of her Botoxed-away jowls makes my own smile freeze in empathy. “I suspect the bridesmaids are… well…”
I brace myself.
“Furries,” she whispers.
“Oh no,” I say.
“Indeed. Could you encourage them to be more… discreet?”
“Absolutely,” I tell Mrs. Barroway, relieved I won’t have to be the bearer of bad and hairy news. “I’ll go over now. I’m sure they’ll be understanding.”
“Thank you. Oh, and Samantha, I think some of the groomsmen might be missing.”
Remembering Sidney’s notes in the survey about her mom’s anxiety, I figure it might be time for redirection.
“The staff is preparing a vintage bottle of Moët to be sent in a gift basket to each of your guests’ rooms. They’re including a courtesy note about the option to enjoy the hotel’s specialty soufflé, which they can order through room service tonight or tomorrow morning. I’d love you to make an announcement for your guests before the dessert course.”
“That sounds… understated,” Mrs. Barroway says, but then she makes a purposeful eye at table 4, where Brett’s less-absurdly-rich family is seated, and I know I’m off the hook. As she sweeps away, I’m surprised to think of my own mom, wondering how she’d treat my future in-laws.
Mom hasn’t talked to me for a few weeks, and she didn’t ask about Hanry after I texted her about our first date. If they were to meet, would she be nice to him? To his adopted parents? Or would she forget my wedding, the same way she’s missed my last two graduations? I can’t believe I have to wonder that. Also, why am I thinking aboutmarryingHanry? We’ve only dated a few weeks. I’m going to have to leave him for New York soon.
It must be all these weddings. Still, it’s definitely creepy. Stop being creepy, Sab—
Oh god. Am I imagining things?
Did I wish this into existence?
