How to Ruin a Wedding
Elba Luz
A Note from Mindy Kaling
Okay, fellow romantics, can we talk about something? Have you ever been at a wedding—like, sitting there in your uncomfortable dress watching two people exchange vows—and thought, “Wait, No. This is all wrong. She’s supposed to be with someone else!” Just me? Well, if you’ve ever had that very specific fantasy (or just a hesitation about a couple’s nuptials), then How to Ruin a Wedding is basically required reading.
This book is an absolute delight. I’m talking laughing out loud on public transportation, swooning so hard you need to fan yourself, and maybe shedding a tear or two.
So here’s the premise: Lucy is a professional wedding wrecker. Yes, that’s her actual job! She gets hired by this guy Anders to stop his sister’s wedding, but then, as she’s infiltrating the wedding party like some kind of romantic spy, she starts falling for Anders himself.
What I love most about this book is that it’s not just funny. It’s also about belonging, self-worth, and figuring out your place in the world when you feel like everything is falling apart. Lucy sees herself as this perpetual screw-up, and watching her realize she’s actually worthy of love and happiness is oh-so relatable. Also, the chemistry between Lucy and Anders is Electric.
I think what really gets me is how this book reminds us that sometimes our messiest, most chaotic moments are actually leading us exactly where we need to be.
1.
Face down, ass up, under a canopy of overgrown bushes in an unkempt corner of the Keos Resort is not how I envisioned spending my Saturday morning.
Sure, I’ve ended up in this position before—usually by choice and on a mattress rather than a patch of itchy, probably poison-ivy-infested grass. This is, pathetically, more action than I’ve had in months.
This secluded clearing is far from the manicured perfection of the main grounds. Hidden, quiet. The kind of place where people go when they don’t want to be seen—people like the couple currently sitting on a weather-worn bench beneath a stone archway, framed by climbing vines and wildflowers. I spy them through the dense shrubbery. The woman leans so close that her dark hair veils the man’s shoulder, and their legs tangle with each other.
I’m crouched below the benches, hidden, itchy, and crawling toward what may or may not be the most devastating evidence of infidelity I’ve ever captured.
I know who they are. And I know what this looks like.
James—the groom-to-be. Sammy—his best friend. And if Jennie’s gut is right, his not-so-secret lover.
Jennie, my newest client, has labeled them “the Birds.” Not because they’re sweet or whimsical, but because they call each other Sparrow and Finch—the same names as the doomed lovers in James’s favorite French war film. A film his fiancée, Eliza, never finished because she thought it was boring. But Sammy? Sammy knows every line by heart.
You can’t fake that kind of intimacy. And Jennie knows it.
She wrote to me just a week ago, her message panicked and personal: Eliza’s about to marry the wrong person. James is in love with someone else—Sammy. I’ve seen it in the way they look at each other when they think no one’s watching. I tried to tell her, but she thinks I’m jealous. Please, I need proof. You’re my Hail Mary.
So here I am, hiding in the bushes like a creeper.
I inch forward, knees bruising against the ground, phone angled up for the best shot I can manage. The blue satin of my dress is definitely not camo—it practically glows against the underbrush—but I’ve shoved myself under enough tangled greenery to be mostly hidden.
A branch snaps near my shoulder, sharp against skin. I bite back a curse.
I can hear murmuring, but nothing solid enough to form words. And though I would kill my fiancé if he was wrapped around a woman the way James is right now, they could still claim to just be the best of friends.
Got to get closer.
Slowly, so I don’t make too much of a rustle, I inch forward under the line of bushes, army crawling my way closer to my quarry. A light tingling crawls around the back of my neck, but I refrain from the instinct to jolt away or make any sudden movements. I’m sure most of these bugs are harmless—and really, I’d do anything for a paycheck, even risk a skin rash in the most sensitive of areas.
Wedding wrecking isn’t exactly glamorous, but it’s a job. And five months after my landlord pounded on my door for rent, I’ve learned dignity doesn’t pay the bills. At this point, I’d look into selling my plasma—well, I have looked, just haven’t quite worked up the nerve to actually go through with it yet.
I pause once I reach the final bench, and gain a better vantage point of James and Sammy. My cheek presses against the ground as I angle my phone up and start recording.
“We’re just friends,” Sammy says, her nose nearly touching James’s. “We always have been.”
James shuts his eyes like he’s in physical pain. “Just friends,” he repeats, like a prayer. “We don’t work any other way?” The last part is framed like a question, a plea. I zoom in, holding my breath as a tickle develops in my throat.
“That was the last time.” Sammy pulls her face back, but her hands grip his thighs and travel up until they reach his crotch.