How to Ruin a Wedding(4)

Another amused sound escapes his throat. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Coming!” I shout to the sky, and with no other options, I literally and metaphorically run away, as fast as my heels can take me.

When I make it back to my room—after showering and popping some Claritin—I remove the three missed notifications from Taina, who’s house-sitting for me since I promised to check in on my neighbor’s cat while she was away before I got this job.

I open my camera roll and pull up the video I threw out my dignity for to send to Jennie.

The Birds are in center view, angled slightly toward each other, as if they’re in a romance poster. This could be it, what Jennie needs to save Eliza. I crank up the volume, hit play, and—

I rewind and try again.

I stare at the screen, the silence echoing in my skull.

My finger must have been on the speaker. The only noise is the occasional rustle of movement when I inch closer.

This isn’t good enough. I can’t send this to Jennie. It’s basically a silent film.

I drop the phone on the bed and flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. It might have sea glass embedded in it. Or maybe I’m hallucinating from stress and Claritin.

A pounding begins to drum behind my eyes.

This job’s already been harder than usual. The ruin is always simpler with time—it also allows me to infiltrate their bubbles more organically, instead of a last-minute insertion.

Some people want me to pretend I’m a long-lost lover. Others sneak me into the bridal (or bachelor) party to plant seeds of doubt into people’s heads. Less risk, less reward for my bank account. Others—and this is mainly because of the false advertisement my sister, Taina, wrote on the website, claiming I have experience as a private detective—want me to dig around and see if their gut feelings about cheating partners are correct. My one requirement is that I only target couples I’m certain are bad for each other—this isn’t about breaking up happy relationships.

Jennie’s request came just a week ago. Extra charge for the timeline, sure—terrible for infiltration. No cover, no invitation, so I’m just another plus-one at someone else’s wedding, poking around from the outside. Harder to get access, harder to find angles, harder to get proof.

Very little time to work with for a very big job. Regardless, I’m going to have to find that couple again tonight.

Get closer. Get cleaner footage.

With a long, dramatic sigh, I rub circles into my temples.

Some birthday weekend this has been—freshly twenty-eight, no real career, no real relationships, bug bites burning into my skin, and running around trying to prove someone’s infidelity.

My parents would be so proud.

Wedding wrecking was supposed to be temporary. A weird little pit stop before I found another marketing job—preferably one that didn’t involve a New York tech firm run by misogynistic man-children with god complexes and backhanded compliments that slowly crushed your will to live.

A job where I wouldn’t have to worry about dress codes or about the way I speak. Or being assertive, but not too much, because you’ll sound like a bitch. Taking exclamation points off emails because it’s not professional, letting men think they’re explaining a process to you that you already know how to do. Repeating the same marketing plan used for every campaign because the people in charge don’t believe in thinking outside the box when they have a perfectly good, boring box already.

But that was five months ago. And I’m still here.

Every time I think I’ve hit rock bottom, the floor rips from under me and reveals another level.

When I first stumbled upon wedding wrecking, I told myself it would be just one time. That I was helping someone; that love, real love, should survive a little scrutiny. Then I did it again. And again. And suddenly, I stopped needing to lie to myself about why. Because the truth is, people don’t get married for love. Not always. Not often.

People get married for so many reasons that have nothing to do with love. Money. Timing. Guilt. Social pressure. Because they’re scared to be alone. Because their mom likes him. Because it looks good on paper. Because they’re thirty-two and tired of dating apps. Because it’s easier than breaking up and starting from scratch.

It’s not that I don’t believe in love. I do. I have so much love in me—it’s kind of the problem.

That’s why this job makes sense.

If love is real, if it’s as rare and valuable as everyone says, then what I’m doing is a service. Stopping people who don’t really feel it from walking down the aisle anyway. Making space for something truer to find them later.

Or at least keeping them from signing a contract with someone they’re already lying to.

Or maybe I’m just trying to make myself feel better about blowing up other people’s fairy tales, because mine didn’t work out.

God, okay. That’s enough of a spiral for one night.

Needing a distraction, I dial Taina. She answers on the third ring.

“Hey, Taina.”

“Hey, Lucy.”

Her tone sucks every drop of relaxation from my body. Taina never answers the phone without greeting me as a ho or bitch or both. She once called me Slut-bucket while I was in the break room at work.

My heart starts to pound and my brain surges forward with every possible devastating scenario. Losing both my parents left an ever-present fear that the universe will come and finish the job by taking Taina away. I have to remind myself that she’s on the phone, so nothing could possibly be as earth shattering as that.