Wedding Dashers

Chapter 1

83 hours until the wedding

I stare at the flight display, weighing the likelihood that I'm currently experiencing some kind of jet lag-induced delirium, or if my connecting flight from London to Belfast really is canceled. I blink a few times just to be sure, but in angry red letters the word canceled continues to flash aggressively across the screen.

The remnants of a partially digested bag of airline pretzels churn inside my stomach and for a brief moment I wonder if they're about to make a reappearance.

How could this be happening? I double-, no, triple-checked the departure schedule before I left. But apparently sometime while I was flying over the Atlantic, the universe-or more specifically the shady budget airline I booked last minute-conspired to ruin my life.

But of course this happened. Because this is just one more ill-fated domino in a series of unfortunate events. Perhaps I ought to just accept my fate as a serially unlucky person. Throw in the towel now and resign myself to the life of a quirky heroine in an early 2000s chick flick . . . before she gets the makeover.

I wipe clammy hands against my jeans and try to focus. There must be a solution. Maybe there's an open seat on another flight. Or maybe I could ride in the cockpit. They let people do that, right? I mean I'm sure if I explain the situation . . .

But the longer I stare at the display screen, the more my chest feels like a hollowed-out pumpkin.

If I don't make it to this wedding on time, Allison is going to kill me. Not in a hyperbolic sense-my sister is literally going to murder me and ask her soon-to-be husband, Collin, to help her bury my body, and I'll end up as the subject of one of those murder podcasts Gen Z is obsessed with.

And not because she can't bear to get married without me, her beloved older sister, by her side. It's because I am carrying precious cargo. The veil. And not just any veil, but a one-of-a-kind Demi Karina custom veil.

Allison would have carried it herself, but with seventeen dresses, ten pairs of heels (one might break!), more makeup than a fully stocked Sephora, and enough cans of hair spray to single-handedly destroy the ozone, I, as the maid of honor, got tasked with transporting the veil. Which doesn't feel like an honor so much as a death wish.

I cast the garment bag under my left arm a scathing look as though it were the veil's fault we're in this mess. But I know perfectly well the real culprit in this shitstorm sandwich is the castle. The overpriced, out-of-budget, embarrassingly extravagant castle.

Why couldn't Allison get married in a chic barn like everyone else in the Greater Seattle area? Somewhere rustic yet tasteful. Somewhere not six thousand miles away.

But no. It had to be a castle. And not just any castle-a castle in abso-freaking-lutely-nowhere Ireland. Inconvenience to others be damned.

So now I'm trapped on the wrong island with no clue how I or this veil will make it to this wedding.

So much for traveling to the land of luck.

Shoulders slouched, I make my way to the customer service desk clinging to my last shred of optimism that this is all just a silly misunderstanding and I'll be on the next flight to Ireland in no time.

But it's not.

"There's been a staffing mix-up with the airline," the clerk tells me, tone strained, like it might be the three hundredth time she's recited that line today. "All flights on this route have been canceled."

My stomach dips. A mix-up? I'm about to miss my little sister's wedding and be cursed for all eternity because of something as random and arbitrary as a staffing mix-up?

"Please," I plead. "My sister is getting married. I have to be on that flight."

"Is your final destination Belfast?" the clerk asks.

"Yes," I tell her. And it's gonna be six feet under if I don't get there on time.

The clerk shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I don't have anything. But in the meantime, please take a seat and I'll let you know if something opens up."

If.

The single syllable sends a new jolt of anxiety hurtling through me.

I want to ask her what happens if she doesn't find anything. What then? Will I have to rent a boat? Swim to Ireland? Flirt my way onto a rich person's private jet? I shoot a quick glance over my shoulder, halfway hoping there might be some such person, until I remember that the kind of people who own private jets usually aren't hanging around the customer service desks of obscure budget airlines that offer major discounts on both prices and legroom.

I force a smile and thank the clerk before slumping into the only available plastic seat, which-as luck would have it-is beside a young couple who is making out like the world is burning down around them. Really?

I don't know whether to hate or envy that a canceled flight and an airport full of disgruntled travelers does nothing to curb their passion. Must be nice.

Trying to distract myself, I connect to wi-fi and check my email. I expect the usual slew of Bed Bath & Beyond coupons and lengthy newsletters I've been meaning to unsubscribe from. Instead, there's only one email, from a design firm I interviewed with weeks ago. My heartbeat ratchets up, and my fingers scramble to open the email.

Dear Miss Ada Gallman,

Thank you so much for taking the time to interview with Hewitt & Goldstein. We had many incredibly qualified applicants for the role of graphic designer, and unfortunately . . .

I don't finish reading. Instead, I close my email tab and try to ignore the impending sense of doom that's settled in my gut ever since the tattoo studio I opened-Sleeve It to Me-went under nine months ago. But like an old injury, I can ignore it for a little while, until the reality that I'm twenty-eight, unemployed, broke, steeped in business loan debt, and sleeping on my parents' couch flares up once more.

I sigh and slump lower in my seat, halfway hoping the cold, unforgiving plastic might just swallow me whole, when my phone vibrates, announcing all the texts I missed while I was flying over the Atlantic.

2:17pm Mom
Have you landed? What time will you be here?

2:17pm Mom
Watch out for pickpockets! Did you bring that money belt I told you to?

2:18pm Mom
Check out this apartment listing on Zillow!

5:06pm Allison
You have the veil, right?

5:08pm Allison
Tell me you have the veil???

5:09pm Allison
When are you getting here?

5:29pm Allison
Mom is being so annoying. I swear if she asks me about the seating chart one more time I'm gonna lose it.

5:37pm Allison
FYI Mom is considering applying for you to be
on The Bachelor. I told her it was weird that one guy dates thirty-two women simultaneously,
but she won't drop it. She thinks you're gonna
die alone.

6:47pm Mom
I heard Dan's company is hiring. Have you thought about doing interior design? That's kind of the same thing, right?

6:53pm Mom
Remember Karen and Scott's son? The engineer? He'll be at the wedding! And he's still single!

I don't think my mom pitching the neighbor's son as still single-like he's a bargain bin closeout item marked down to its lowest sale price yet-is the rave review she thinks it is, but I don't respond. I'm too focused on another text. One from him.

1:37pm Carter
Let me know when you've made it safely to Belfast. Hope you have a great trip. x

I stare at the x. It's mocking me. What does that x mean? That he thinks it was a huge mistake to take a break and we should get back together? Or a platonic kiss on the cheek? Short for ex-boyfriend? A typo? Solve for x?

I wish I knew. But apparently even after eight years together, I still don't know him well enough to know what that x means.

But what I do know is that just because a guy says he loves you and wants to be with you forever, does not in fact mean that he truly desires any of those things. In fact, what he might actually want is some space and to take a break for three months to see how we feel about things.

And now he apparently has the audacity to hope I have a great trip. Like he's not the one who ruined it. Like it's not his fault that I'm attending my little sister's wedding alone. Like it wasn't him who broke my heart.

I got the text from Carter right before I boarded my flight to London, and I've since had nine hours to think of the perfect funny/sexy/you suck response. But I've still got nothing.

I type out: There's a couple sitting next to me who I'm pretty sure is going to join the mile high club. Could have been us. Your loss.

I frown and delete it. Trying too hard.

How about . . .

I'm having a great time WITHOUT you. Never better. In fact, let's stay on a break for three MORE months. P.S. I never liked your friends.

I immediately press the backspace, then release a long sigh before imagining what I wish I could say. What I really feel.

I miss you.

But I can't tell him that. I can't tell anybody that.

"Miss?"

I look up to see the clerk beckoning me back to the desk and my chest seizes with hope.

"Looks like we might be able to put you on a flight first thing tomorrow morning. Does that work?" the clerk asks, frowning at her screen.

I mentally review the schedule. The rehearsal dinner is in two days, but Allison has all these pre-wedding events planned: a spa day, high tea, a pub crawl.

"Are there any earlier flights?" I ask.

"I'm sorry, this is all I have available." Her eyes drift to the growing line of people behind me. "But this seat will go fast, so I suggest you take it," she says, lowering her voice to a whisper.

I risk a glance over my shoulder at the gaggle of bloodthirsty travelers, each ready to pounce on the ticket in the event I don't take it. I turn back to the clerk.

"I'll take it." I guess the pub crawl will have to crawl on without me.

She nods and punches something into her computer. "Come back at six a.m. tomorrow to this same gate. Since the airline is at fault, we can give you a hotel voucher as well."

Relief swarms my chest.

The last-minute flight wiped out my bank account along with the three-hundred-dollar bridesmaid dress that makes me look like a leprechaun. Green really isn't my color. It totally clashes with my faded lilac hair-an unfortunate remnant of a post-break self-makeover that I can't afford to have fixed at a salon. But the point is it certainly isn't in my budget to pay for an extra night in a hotel.

"Thanks," I tell her. "A hotel voucher would be great."

The clerk nods and a printer under the desk buzzes to life. A second later she hands me a voucher for a hotel nearby and instructs me on how to take the courtesy bus from the terminal.

I thank her and steer my suitcase toward the exit, rollers clip-clopping behind me.

Once on the bus, I press my nose to the glass, searching for evidence that I'm somewhere new and exciting-after all, I've never been to England before-but apart from driving on the other side of the road and the bus driver saying "cheers" when I come aboard, there's nothing particularly exotic about the industrial buildings surrounding the airport. Though now that I think about it, I don't know what I expected. For us to deplane right in front of Big Ben?

When I arrive at the hotel-a no-frills chain-I take my place at the end of the check-in line and try to think of something positive.

Maybe this hotel has robes. I love robes. And maybe I'll finally get some much-needed alone time . . . I think of my pink vibrator tucked into my suitcase. Since I've been sleeping on my parents' couch, I haven't exactly gotten much me time. Maybe tonight won't be so bad after all.

I sigh as the line shifts forward.

Also, the plane didn't crash. I guess that's something. And I didn't lose my luggage. Or the veil. Though I suppose if I had to choose between wearing the same pair of underwear for thirty-six hours or losing Allison's custom veil, I'd choose dirty underwear in a heartbeat.

I'm next in line when my phone buzzes from my pocket. I feverishly yank it out, wondering if it might be Carter again. But it's Allison telling me to make sure the veil is hung in an upright position.

I groan and shove my phone back in my pocket without answering her.

I'm the older sister. Aren't I supposed to be the bossy one? But I guess this is what happens when you get married in a castle. You start thinking you're royalty.

And yet, annoying as my sister can be, I know it's not really the veil, or even the castle that bothers me. None of that is a surprise. Allison's always been a little over-the-top. The kind of person to throw her dog a Barbie-themed birthday party just because. No, the part that really stings is that we aren't close anymore. Not since Collin's been in the picture. And everything about this wedding is another reminder of that.

The next available staff member waves me forward and I put the voucher on the desk.

The receptionist examines it, frowns, then hands it back to me.

"Madam, this is for last night," she says in a clipped British accent. "It's expired."

"What? No, it's for tonight," I insist, jabbing my finger at the paper voucher.

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but it says right here. See? We cannot accept this."

I take back the voucher. My stomach bottoms out. She's right.

Now what am I supposed to do? Sleep on the street? Go back to the airport? Beg?

I run a hand through my hair, unnerved. "Is there something you can do? Please?"

"Madam, I'm terribly sorry, but unless you have a voucher for tonight, there is nothing I can do." Her tone is nice enough, but her blank expression makes me think sorry probably isn't an emotion she's currently experiencing.