“Jonah has trench foot,” she whines.
“You get it from not changing wet socks,” Harlow explains.
“You’re changing your wet socks, right? It was so gross.” Laurel pulls her head back to look down at my water-resistant sandals and nods approvingly. “The boys are taking him to town for a doctor.”
“Okay…”
“He’s the only one who could officiate,” Harlow explains.
“So no weddingtoday,” I say with renewed understanding. Then I seize the opportunity. “This might be a sign from the universe. Let’s head home. Take a beat. Plan a fall wedding in the Cities. Or a New Year’s wedding, maybe? That could be fun. You could singlehandedly make New Year’s fun again.”
She tilts her head, as if weighing the option, then shakes it. “No, no. I’m getting marriedhere.Now.While there’s still energy and magic around it. If we have to plan it, I’ll never want to do it.”
Then you shouldn’t do it!I scream inside my skull. God, I want to shake her, but this isn’t my first rodeo with Laurel. Telling her not to do something will only make it more enticing to her.
“Let’s meet up with the boys in town,” Harlow suggests. “There has to be someone else who’s ordained.”
Laurel perks up. “Like a captain of a ship?”
“More like a minister or a judge, but sure. No bad ideas in a brainstorm,” Harlow says encouragingly. “We’ll find someone who can marry you guys tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if I’m up for it, guys.” Laurel releases a dramatic sigh. “It’s only two p.m. and this is already, like, theworstday. I was supposed to be getting married.”
“Let’s just chill here then,” I suggest, my voice inordinately bright.
Harlow smiles mischievously. “Laurel, you’re thinking about this all wrong. If you get married tomorrow, that meansthis—right now—is your bachelorette party.”
“Ooh, I love hearingthat!” Laurel titters, the conversation picking up speed in a direction I’m not sure I want it to go. “I can’t believe I nearly got married without having a bachelorette party. Charley…” She faces me. “You’re the self-appointed maid of honor. This is your job, isn’t it? Nay, your duty?”
My eyes dart between my sister and Harlow, calculating whether I could successfully snatch Laurel and run. Then I remember I’m trapped in the woods without a car and am a whole-ass canoe ride away from civilization.
Laurel may be playing it cool right now, but I know her better than I know myself. Between her unresolved commitment phobia and rigid adherence to “vibes,” she is one small setback away from calling off the ceremony herself. Something else will go wrong—I’m sure of it—and that means there’s hope for her yet.
“Fine,” I relent, because my best shot at stopping this runaway train anyway is by stalling it. “Let’s go to a dive bar and see if we happen upon someone who marries people.”
—
“Shot! Shot! Shot!” Laurel and Harlow slap their hands on the bar top as I down a Diet Coke shot at three-thirty in the afternoon. Initially, Laurel booed when I told her that even after cleaning up the campsite, canoeing for an hour, and walking from Wet Ted’s to this genuinely divey dive bar, the sun was still way too high in the sky for me to start getting tanked on rail vodka when I’ve barely recovered from my Ruth’s Chris mojito trauma.
But the more I lean into the “bachelorette” of it all, the less interested she is in identifying someone who can legally preside over a wedding ceremony. That, and I’ve let myself forget. That’s how it goes with Laurel. I enjoy myself, lower my defenses, and forget that we’re merely biding time before the storm. So while I should be bracing myself for impact, I’m double-fisting soda shots with a pint glass of water (I’m still me, so I require at least two liquids at all times).
Laurel taps her Coors Light on the bar top, clinks it against Harlow’s can, and takes a long chug. After swallowing a tiny burp, she opens the floor for the tough questions: “Did anyone else notice that Wet Ted is, like,superhot?”
“Yes,” Harlow and I respond in unison.
“I’ve put a lot of thought into this…” Harlow wraps one of her braids around her finger, and I find myself grinning in anticipation of whatever she’s about to say next. Harlow is fun, and, against all odds, so is this obscenely musty bar that made my hands feel sticky on sight. “It’s not just Wet Ted’s looks. It’s thecompetence.”
“Yes,” Laurel practically growls into her beer bottle. “I just know he could protect me in a postapocalyptic situation. That man couldMad Maxme through a desert wasteland on his shoulders.”
“No, it’s more tender than that,” I cut in, waving down the bartender, who’s sporting a threadbare Vikings tee. “He’s like Pedro Pascal in that zombie show with the little girl.”
“That’s what it is!” Laurel slaps the bar top. “You can just tell he’d care for you in this totally platonic way, which only makes him hotter.”
I take my tiny refill from the bartender. “I’m sure Petey will appreciate you keeping it platonic when the zombies come.”
“Oh, Wet Ted is firmly Plan B in a zombie apocalypse. I’m going with Petey all the way. Half the reason you get married is to have a built-in partner when society breaks down.”
It’s a nice thought. I used to think the same before Rich bolted. How would we have fared with a catastrophic event? Would he have zipped his Tesla out of town and left me to face the undead all alone?
