Page 37 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

Chapter Nineteen: Social Goat Theft

Linda

IT STARTED—INNOCENTLY enough—with a ring pop.

Cherry. Obviously.

Because Rhys, menace that he was, had handed it to her in the middle of Trader Joe’s, right between the off-brand mochi freezer and a bin of “emotionally adventurous” trail mix, and said, dead serious:

“I think it’s time we took this to the next level.”

She stared at the plastic red jewel like it had personally insulted her tax bracket. “Please tell me this is a sugar-fueled joke.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow and peeled the wrapper with courtship-level ceremony. “My mother just invited us to her anniversary party. There will be family. Photos. Probably speeches. If I show up without you, she’ll assume you dumped me and try to reintroduce me to Micah.”

“Your mom knows Micah?!”

“She sends him soup recipes.”

Linda looked skyward like she might spontaneously ascend just to escape this cursed storyline. “I hate this timeline.”

Rhys slid the ring pop onto her finger with infuriating care. “Too late. You’re engaged now. Congratulations, future Mrs. Beard.”

“I will poison your soup and kidnap your air fryer.”

“Joke’s on you. I don’t use the air fryer. Stumps does.”

Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed once from the cart, as if to confirm.

Two days later

Linda was sweating through a dress she couldn’t afford, drinking cucumber-infused sparkling water while standing under a string of tasteful fairy lights that somehow felt aggressively judgmental.

She was also making polite conversation and being called Laureen by someone’s aunt for the fourth time.

Rhys,traitorous Adonis that he was, looked like Greek tragedy and a Pinterest husband had a baby. He was all rolled sleeves and subtle cologne and confident smiles—the kind that made people say things like “he’s a good one, keep him.”

Sir Stumps-a-Lot was wearing a tiny tuxedo with tiny lapels and a bowtie that cost more than Linda’s shoes.

Everyone wanted to see the ring.

Linda, mid-sip, blinked. She held the glass in place a second longer than normal. “Oh. The ring. Right.”

She held up her hand like a magician trying to misdirect. “It’s being resized. My fingers swell when I’m stressed. Or when I think about soup. Or Micah.”

Rhys coughed violently into his drink. Linda glared at him while pretending not to.

His cousin leaned in, glass of rosé in hand. “I give it six months.”

Linda blinked. “’Til what?”

“’Til the wedding. You two have that vibe.”

“What vibe?”

“The ‘we bicker while painting the nursery and then make out on the drop cloth’ vibe.”

Linda slowly turned her head toward Rhys, who was deeply engaged in a conversation about sustainable goat milk cheese. His eyes flicked toward her, and he winked.

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