Page 49 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

“Then he’s an idiot,” Sara said simply. “But he’syouridiot. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Like he’s already home.”

Linda looked down at her bouquet, knuckles white.

“You survived a fake engagement,” Sara continued, stepping closer. “Accidental family goat negotiations, an ex-boyfriend barista who flounced like he was auditioning forWicked, and your own emotional sabotage.”

She handed Linda the emergency emotional support lipstick—the one that lived in the “crisis clutch.”

“You’ve got this.”

Linda clutched the tube like it might steady her heartbeat. She looked at her best friend—the woman who’d screamed into pillows with her, brought wine to her panic-packing session, and once threatened to legally marry her to get her out of a Tinder date.

She took a shaky breath.

“Sara?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re walking me down the aisle if I chicken out.”

“Hell yeah I am,” Sara said, eyes shining. “And if you try to run, I’m tripping you in heels.”

Linda laughed—half-choked, half-tears, all real.

And suddenly, the tulips didn’t seem so smug.

They seemed… brave.

She stood taller. Not perfect. Not flawless. But ready.

“I’m marrying Rhys.”

Sara raised her glass. “Damn right you are.”

And somewhere down the hall, Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed dramatically.

Like he knew what was coming.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Vows, Volume, and Very Bad Speakers

Linda

WEDDING DAY PART Two

Sir Stumps-a-Lot was fine.

The ring—after an x-ray, a $500 vet bill, and one very awkward incident involving latex gloves and a vet tech named Cory who would now never eat churros again—had been recovered. Gently. Dignifiedly. With only mild trauma and a Facebook post from the clinic that read: “Dog swallows love. Dog prevails.”

He was even going to be the ring bearer. Again.

The crowd would sob.

The venue was beautiful. Tasteful. Subtly romantic in that “we blew half the budget on fairy lights and vintage chairs that will destroy your spine” kind of way. The florals were lush. The chairs were full. The playlist was blessedly free of Nickelback.

Unfortunately, the sound system had been forged in the fires of Mount Chaos.

“Feedback! Feedback! Feedback!” the wedding planner shrieked into her headset, sprinting past the groomsmen like a panicked woodland sprite. Somewhere behind her, Rhys’s Uncle Rick—God help them all—was elbow-deep in a speaker labeled DO NOT TOUCH, whistling the intro toLivin’ on a Prayerlike he was being paid in emotional damage.

Linda peeked out from behind the curtain, veil skewed, eyes wide.

---