Elyse
I’M LOSING IT
PRESENT
Today is wedding day. And naturally, everything is going wrong.
It’s the first big wedding of the season, which means there are bound to be some kinks to work out. The first one is like the first pancake—edible, but not always pretty.
The ceremony is just hours away, and it’s a madhouse. Faith, Ben, and Paisley are everywhere, buzzing like bees as they tackle the final touches—setting up chairs, arranging flowers, and triple-checking table settings. Their faces are flushed with effort, a sheen of sweat glistening as they haul centerpieces and hustle to get everything in place. Poor Ben is practically drenched because the girls keep sticking him with all the heavy lifting.
“Ben, could you carry that crate of candles to the altar?” Paisley calls out sweetly, batting her lashes in a way that makes me wonder if she’s using more than charm to keep him working overtime.
Despite the frenzy, they somehow manage to laugh andjoke as they work, likely fueled by the unyielding energy of their early twenties. Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus, and the day’s barely started.
Tablet in hand, I’m directing the photographer where to set up for the first look while simultaneously cross-checking the timeline for the day. My phone buzzes incessantly in my pocket, notifications from vendors and questions from the wedding party all demanding my attention.
“Miss Elyse!” the caterer shouts as he jogs over, a tray of mini tacos in hand. “About the appetizers—you wanted spring rolls, right?”
I stare at the tray and bite back the scream building in my throat. “Yes, I wanted spring rolls. These are tacos.”
He winces. “Well…we had a mixup with the menus.”
“Spring rolls Zach. Make it happen,” I snap, already scrolling through my phone, wondering if I should start having Shane take on catering.
If it’s not the caterer, it’s the florist, who conveniently forgot the boutonnieres. Or the band, whose members are stuck in traffic on their way from Spokane with no ETA. Every time I think I’ve handled one crisis, another pops up. It’s a game of whack-a-mole—exhausting and exhilarating all at once.
But I never let my bride see the chaos behind the scenes. From her perspective, the day is supposed to be pure magic—magic I make happen, even if it feels like I’m barely holding it together. That’s the job.
As the sun begins to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the vineyard, it seems like things might actually start coming together. The ceremony space is beautiful—rows of white chairs adorned with greenery and tied with delicate satin ribbons, all leading to a breathtaking floral arch at the altar, backdropped by rolling hills of blooming grape vines. The guests are starting to arrive, dressed to the nines and blissfullyunaware of all the moving parts that made this moment come together.
Finally, I allow myself a moment to step away. Just a quick breather before the ceremony kicks off.
I head toward my car, parked at the edge of the winery, hidden from the main area to keep the view picture-perfect. The walk feels longer than it should, and I’m already dreaming of the five minutes of quiet I’ll get once I’m inside.
But when I approach, my steps falter, nearly tripping me.
There’s a flower on my windshield. A single white rose, carefully placed, as if someone wanted to be sure I’d see it. Beneath it is a photograph—a candid shot of me taken earlier during the wedding preparations. It was taken hours ago, when I was fluffing out the greenery on the wedding arch.
My heart sinks down to my stomach.
I glance around, my pulse racing. In the distance, guests continue to filter in, but the employee-only parking lot is quiet. I study the crowd, searching for a logical explanation—for anything that might make sense. But nothing, and no one, seems out of place. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Picking up the flower, the thorns scrape against my fingertips. It’s fresh, clearly plucked from one of the arrangements I’d spent hours overseeing earlier. My mind races. Was this some kind of prank? Another joke from one of the interns?
But then there’s the photograph. That’s what twists the sour knot in my stomach. It’s not just a flower; it’s the picture. Who took this? Why?
I pocket the photograph and grab the rose, crushing the delicate petals in my fist. White roses symbolize death, and while I’m not one to buy into omens, I can’t shake the sense that this is more than just a harmless prank.
This ends now.
I straighten my shoulders and head back toward theballroom, the sour feeling still stirring in my gut. Someone clearly thinks this is a game, but they’re about to find out I’m not playing.
I think I’ve broken my interns.
To keep wedding things moving along, I decided not to bring up the flower incident until after clean-up.
“We have no idea what you’re talking about,” Faith says, finally speaking up.
