"You're late," she says, sounding delighted about it.
"We just got off a plane that may have made a detour through the fires of Hades. I'm lucky I'm here at all."
"Well, you're here now. Come on." She grabs my arm with her free hand, pulling me inside, and the wall of sound and heat hits me immediately.
The house is absolutely packed with people.
I recognize some of them—family friends, neighbors, Mrs. Mills from down the street wearing a sparkly sweater, the Kowalskis from two doors down. But there are also people I don't know, all dressed up, holding champagne glasses, talking and laughing and filling every available square foot of space.
The air is thick with the smell of food—Mom's famous lasagna, something with roasted garlic, fresh bread, multiple desserts creating a sugar-and-butter perfume that makes my mouth water despite having eaten half of Montreal.
Music is playing from somewhere—classic rock, Dad's taste, probably his Spotify playlist—and someone's singing along badly near the kitchen.
Everyone's dressed up. Cocktail dresses. Button-downs. Holiday jewelry that sparkles in the overhead lights.
And I'm wearing the outfit of a frat boy.
"Margot, what is happening?" I ask, trying to pull my arm free. "Why are there this many people here? Why does Mrs. Mills have on sequins? Why?—"
"You'll see." She's grinning like she knows something I don't, and I'm about to demand answers when Amelia appears, also in a cocktail dress—this one red and fitted—also looking way too pleased with herself.
"Harper! You made it!" She kisses my cheek, then Victor's, leaving behind the scent of her floral perfume. "You both look exhausted. And you—" She points at me. "You look like you just rolled out of bed."
"Gee, thanks. You're doing wonders for my self-esteem."
"I mean it affectionately. Come on, everyone's waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
But she's already pulling me through the crowd—Victor's hand still in mine—past the living room where people are drinking and laughing, past the kitchen where the counters are covered in food (cheese plates, vegetable trays, seven different desserts, a giant bowl of punch that's definitely spiked), toward the back of the house where Mom keeps the good china and the dining room table.
And at the head of the table, there's a three-tier cake.
An actual wedding cake.
White frosting with delicate piping, and on top—I step closer, squinting—are those crocheted figures? Little pixel-art people that look suspiciously like video game characters, and next to them are two crocheted gaming controllers.
"What—" I start.
"SURPRISE!"
Everyone yells it simultaneously, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
The entire room erupts in applause and cheers—hands clapping, people whistling, the sound overwhelming in the enclosed space—and I'm standing there like an idiot, trying to process what I'm seeing.
Because this isn't a New Year's Eve party.
This is a wedding reception.
Our wedding reception.
There's a banner strung across the back wall that says "CONGRATULATIONS HARPER & VICTOR" in letters that look suspiciously like Margot's handwriting, each letter outlined in gold glitter.
There are photos—actual framed photos—covering every available surface.
Photos of us from the Thanksgiving episode, Victor and me in the kitchen, laughing at something. Photos from the StreamEats gala, me in that silver dress, Victor's hand on my waist. Photos I didn't even know existed.
There's a gift table in the corner absolutely buried in wrapped boxes, the entire room decorated in hues of white and gold—complete with balloons in the corners, streamers hanging from the ceiling, tiny white lights strung along the crown molding.
