Page 2 of Italy Can Bite Me

What if I forget something crucial?

What if I can’t live up to the expectations?

What if I’m just… not enough?

The doubts creep in like shadows, threatening to overwhelm me. I’ve always been the one with the plan, the one who knows exactly what to do and when to do it. But this… this is different. This is my wedding, and everything needs to be perfect.

I pause my envelope quality control inspection to trace my fingers over the raised lettering on one of the invitations. Katherine Crawford and Jared Wagner request the pleasure of your company… Eight weeks. In eight weeks, I’ll be Mrs. Jared Wagner.

Me. Married. First one of our little trio to take the plunge. It feels surreal, like someone took my well-constructed life plan and actually let me stick to my timeline for once.

According to my mom, marriage is the ultimate life hack.

Got anxiety? Get married!

Feeling stressed? Just say “I do!”

She’s convinced putting a ring on it will finally help me stop feeling like I need to be the queen of perfection and just… relax.

BEEP.

BEEP BEEP.

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP.

Cam’s phone buzzes like it’s having a seizure. “Dios mío, este hombre…”She rolls her eyes. “Oh, surprise. The king of content has notes. He’s doing that thing where he watches my video edits in real time and sends a gazillion texts about every single change. I gotta get a new job, like, yesterday.”

Ah yes. Internet’s favorite “prankster,” Reece Dare. He’s built an empire by playing the lovable risk taker. Online, he’s all smiles, abs, and Silly String, but in reality, he’s as pleasant as a porcupine soaked in hot sauce and wrapped in barbed wire. We have an ever-growing list of names for him, categorized by our level of annoyance and booze intake.

Pre-Wine: Dick.

Two Glasses Deep: Prickwad Douchewaffle.

Post-Tequila Shots: That Assbag Fuckhole Prettyboy Who Knows It and Needs a Lit Firework Shoved up His Perfect Ass.

Poor Cam. She should be out there making heartwarming documentaries about baby sloths, saving the rainforest, or elderly dogs finding forever homes. Instead, she’s filming Mr. Mood Swing’s “totally authentic” morning routine highlighting his “effortless wealth.”

BEEP BEEP.

“Ugh! His fiancée is going full bridezilla. I have an award-winning documentary, and this is what I do with my life. She made me film seventeen versions of her proposal reaction.Seventeen!I had to schedule crying breaks.”

“Amateur,” I say, mentally adding “golden-hour tears” to my wedding photography shot list.

Petra barks out a laugh. “Guess we better get back to work so Cam can return to her personal hell.” She licks her greasy pizza fingers and reaches for an invitation.

“Touch my envelopes with those greasy fingers, and you’re gonna be the official wedding porta-potty supervisor,” I warn.

“I’m kidding. Calm your perfectly coordinated tits,” Petra says as she goes to the sink and washes her hands. “Who knew this was going to be the summer of back-to-back weddings and that Katie would be the sanest bride?”

“Speaking of weddings, Petra, how goes the Beverly Hills Barbie wedding planning? Is your future sister-in-law still doing the ruffly peach-colored bridesmaid dresses?” Cam said, teasing.

“God, don’t remind me.” Petra’s voice goes tight in that way it does whenever she talks about her brother’s fiancée. “She’s hired some makeup artist to ‘minimize the appearance’ of my tattoos. Heaven forbid anyone remembers the Brinkman siblings grew up on the wrong side of the country club.”

I catch the flicker of hurt beneath her sarcasm. Petra acts like she doesn’t care about fitting into her brother’s world, but I recognize that look. It’s the same one she wore in college when he stopped coming to her art shows.

“Hey,” I say, momentarily forgetting about my invitation anxiety. “Your tattoos are more than welcome in my wedding photos.”

“Which is exactly whyyourwedding is the only one I’m excited about,” Petra announces, then ruins the moment by pulling out her phone. “Now, about your bachelorette party…”

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