My stomach twists. Mead or jealousy, I can’t tell.
I glue my eyes to the script, pretending to care deeply about crooks and vows while silently hoping someone spills an entire flagon of whatever medieval piss-booze they’re serving down her back.
A few minutes later, Tyler returns with two tankards of mead, calm and collected, just as Peacock claps his hands for attention and announces that the show is about to begin.
The first couple take the stage, none other than Her Flamingoness and her husband.
Bernard and Brenda Feather, as I’ve learned since the welcome dinner, are yoga instructors from Devon. Their surnameFeatheris almost too perfect. It makes my secret flamingo nickname for Brenda feel spookily accurate. Somewhere deep inside me, a petty little voice crows, “Nailed it.”
Brenda launches into her lines with a surprisingly good posh accent.
Bernard, meanwhile, decides this is the perfect time to demonstrate his Warrior Pose flexibility, dropping into a lunge so low I’m half-convinced we’re about to see his codpiece file a missing persons report.
It’s less ‘high-brow history,’ moreHorny Hamlet.
One guest coughs awkwardly. Others are just fanning themselves with their scripts.
By the time Brenda reaches “quivering loins,” Bernard ad-libs a dramatic dip so low she nearly face-plants into the Brie.
“Steady on, Bernard!” another voice calls when he nearly loses his balance.
The room breaks into applause, whether it’s for the performance or for Brenda’s miraculous recovery, I can’t tell.
I chew a sliver of Manchego and try to decide whether I’m drunk, nervous, or just lactose-intolerant. Possibly all three.
Tyler sips his mead beside me, ridiculously calm, which is impressive considering one of the bridesmaids is giving him the kind of glare usually reserved for exes who left with the dog and the coffee machine.
Peacock steps forward, clapping his hands in glee.
“And now! The moment we’ve all been waiting for…Act III, Scene Two! ‘The Reunion of Lovers Beneath the Stars!’”
I swallow hard.
After sitting through what feels like hours of other people’s panting, dipping, and near-cheese-related fatalities, my nerves are officially frayed. My palms are sweaty, my script is damp, and my stomach is staging a coup against the Stilton.
Tyler, of course, looks entirely unfazed.
I choke slightly on a cracker. Tyler tosses back the last of his drink like a man accepting his fate.
Peacock steps forward with a grin so sickly it should come with a health warning. “Take the stage, sweethearts!” he cries, gesturing grandly.
We shuffle forward under the flicker of torchlight, scripts in hand. My cheeks are already hot, not in the cute, romantic way, but in the blotchy, ‘three layers of Spanx and a bad decision’ way.
Tyler, of course, looks completely at home, like he was born for this exact moment, moonlight, audience, and all.
He clears his throat and begins, his voice steady and smooth, wrapping around the first line like he actually means it.
Though time hath kept us parted long,
My heart hath beat for thee alone.
Through tempest, war, and thorned regret,
I come to claim what I have known.
There’s a wolf whistle from somewhere in the back. Possibly from Bernard.
Tyler steps closer.
