Page 80 of Set on You

I’ve been hesitant to reveal Scott mostly because he isn’t interested in Instagram fame in the slightest. Despite being supportive of my business and eagerly helping me with my content, he rarely even uses his own account.

While Scott and I are certainly not that perfect couple in matching pajamas, the beach photos of us are seriously adorable. We’re laughing hysterically because he’d just pulled my bathing suit out of my crack, preventing it from riding up too far (one-piece swimsuit problems).

I’m struck with overwhelming happiness as I scroll through. Maybe Mel has a point. Why not share my joy with the people who’ve faithfully followed my journey for years? Besides, Scott is a stone-cold fox, a walking thirst trap, and that’s putting it lightly. The world deserves some eye candy.

I zero in on my favorite shot of us side by side, his arm firmly around my waist, rippled six-pack shadowed at all the right angles. We’re smiling at each other, completely lost in the moment.

Before we go to sleep, I finally debut Scott to my followers.

chapter twenty-seven

SCOTT AND Iaccidentally sleep until ten in the morning, despite the fact that hair and makeup are scheduled to be at the hotel promptly at nine.

Bleary-eyed, I check my phone while simultaneously pulling on a wrinkled sundress from the floor. I have a flurry of notifications on last night’s post.

The notifications are plentiful, popping up one after another, but I don’t have a spare second to check them. In fact, I leave my phone at home, because Grandma Flo made it clear the wedding day is to be “unplugged.”

The entire chaotic race to the hotel, I’m sweating through my Spanx thinking about how Tara is probably plotting to roast my organs and sell them on the black market for being an hour late.

But instead of fire and brimstone, I’m the least of Tara’sworries. She hasn’t even noticed I just arrived, given the first frantic thing out of her mouth is “Have you seen the rings?”

Apparently, Tara has every right to stress. First, the photographer arrived in desperate need of liquids and Advil. She regrettably admitted she was suffering an epic hangover. Then it was discovered the baker mixed up the cupcake order, having made the grave error of buttercream frosting instead of cream cheese. The florist is still entirely unaccounted for, as is Dad, who was last seen two hours ago socializing with family by the pool, but is now AWOL. And Hillary has revenge-peed on Mom’s dress after being ignored for seven full minutes.

It’s quite the sight. Me in crisis mode, despite being in full hair and makeup. I’m high and half blinded from the salon-quality hairspray fumes as I dash barefoot around the entire hotel premises, checking items off of Tara’s list. The bottoms of my feet are charcoal black and it’s only noon.

“Crystal, the floating candles go in the stem candle holders, not the pillar holders.” Tara aggressively hip-checks me in front of the head table like we’re rival contestants on a reality TV game show competing for a hundred grand.

“Jeez, sorry.” I flash Scott, who was tasked to quadruple-check the name cards, an expression that screamsSave our souls.

“How does it all look? It’s too plain, isn’t it?” Tara casts a self-conscious gaze around the candlelit room, clipboard in hand, nostrils flared. She can barely bring herself to look at the newly installed bold-print carpet that apparently triggers her gag reflex. She’s been especially prickly since I forgot the guard-with-your-life instructional binder at home this morning. It’s complete witha detailed list of tasks for every minute of the day (4:35—Remove greenery from archway and spread evenly on head table), typed in nine-point Times New Roman font, single-spaced, with narrow margins, and printed front to back.

But every time the urge to snap back at her becomes oh-so-tempting, I remind myselfshewas supposed to get married today. The entire family agrees she’s entitled to her extra feelings, especially after our quasi-traumatizing bridesmaid dress fitting last week. Tara had a mini-meltdown in the dressing room when reality set in that she was no longer the bride. It took half an hour to coax her out of the changing room, where she’d been starfishing on the floor, sobbing, draped like a mummy in peach chiffon.

Despite the emotional turmoil, Tara has done an outstanding job with the entire wedding. Everything is so expertly organized, I wouldn’t have believed she could pull it off on her own. “I think it looks great,” I say, observing her nervous eye twitch. I take a full pace backward, for my safety.

She groans. “Oh, come on. Give me your real opinion.”

My brows knit together as I take another scan around the ballroom. “I told you, it looks beautiful. Magazine-worthy.”

“You’re always so vague and general. Like you don’t want to hurt my feelings because you think I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown. Sometimes I don’t even know what you like at all.” She tosses her hands up in the air with a literal growl and tornadoes in the opposite direction.

Despite the stress, everything comes together behind the scenes at the last minute. And it’s all worth it to see Grandma Flo walk down the aisle.

It isn’t just the fact that she’s wearing a gorgeous short-sleevegown, with Chantilly lace running from the bodice and extending to a teacup cut falling elegantly at her ankles. Or that her hair is swept to the side in twenties-style waves and clipped with an antique broach that belonged to my great-grandmother. It’s the radiant smile she’s wearing, and the way her eyes twinkle when they catch the sun filtering in through the opulent stained-glass windows.

Seeing her and Martin walk back down the aisle side by side as husband and wife makes my chest swell to the point where I feel guilty about being bothered over their relationship. If this isn’t a clear sign that movie-worthy love exists at any age, I don’t know what is.

Like the wedding ceremony, the reception follows Tara’s stringent timeline. Bride and groom entrance, soft classical music, and speeches evenly interspersed between each of the four courses.

Scott and I are crammed at a long, rectangular table that holds the vast majority of the immediate family. Grandma and Martin sit at a sweetheart table at the front of the ballroom. They’re being adorable, as usual, until Martin begins hand-feeding Flo her dinner like she’s a wounded baby bird.

Aunt Shannon is going hard tonight, pushing her latest pyramid scheme venture: the healing power of crystals. As a person who sells fitness, I’ve tried hard not to judge people who abide by the crystal lifestyle. But it’s damn difficult to refrain when she’s flaunting her whimsical pendant necklace, trying to coerce everyone into buying the three-hundred-dollar gem she swears cured her chronic arthritis.

Dad is in all his glory emceeing, delivering punchy one-liners. The man can seriously work a room. It’s a vibe.

“Think your dad would emcee our wedding?” Scott whispers after a particularly well-delivered line about Grandma’s dry turkey that has the room in stitches.

Warmth engulfs me from head to toe when I register what he’s said. A brief picture of Scott and me sayingI doflashes through my mind. It’s the happiest moment of my life, and it hasn’t even happened yet. Now that I’ve seen it, it can’t be unseen.

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