Page 7 of Hawaii Can Suck It

“Hellooo! The bride is here, people! Why are there no cameras on me?”

And just like that, the circus gets its ringleader. Astrid Montclair storms in, one hand on her hip, the other clutching her phone as if her life depends on it.

“Camera girl! What are you doing? Get Astrid in the shot! It’s her big day!”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes and focus my lens on the bride.Here we go.

Astrid is… a lot. Platinum-blonde extensions run down her back in perfectly styled waves—so shiny I swear they’re reflecting the rhinestones on the church walls. Her makeup is an exercise in excess: cheekbones carved with industrial-strength contour, lashes long enough to generate wind gusts, and lips plumped to cartoonish proportions. The neon pink dress she’s wearing clings to her surgically enhanced curves like it’s afraid to let go, while her teetering glittery stilettos are screaming,Look at me bitches!

Nothing about her is genuine. Not her hair, not her smile, and definitely not the green eyes she flaunts for her Instagram followers(those babies are tinted contacts). Over the last twenty-four months, I have had a front-row seat to the Astrid Montclair Diva Show. Let’s just say I’ve learned to pack snacks.

“Oh my fucking God, forget the whole damn thing!” She throws her hands up, her flashy acrylics resembling daggers. “And why the hell is Reece here? He can’t see me yet! Isn’t that, like, bad wedding voodoo or something?”

Right on cue, the waterworks start. Gotta hand it to her—she’s perfected the art of crying without smudging her makeup. Must be all that practice from her apology videos.

Reece pinches the bridge of his nose. “Astrid, can we not—”

“Oh my God, Reece, do youhatehappiness?“ She wails, stomping her stiletto on the mirrored floor. “Because that’s what it feels like! You are ruiningmyceremony with your bad vibes. This happily-ever-after kickoff was supposed to beiconic! Like, TMZ-wedding-spread iconic! And now? Now it’s givingdumpster fire energy!”

She flips her hair, turns, and power walks out of the church like someone who just rage-quit a video game. For a moment, nobody moves. The only sound is Blaze’s muffled snicker. This is Astrid Playbook 101. She’ll be back.

Gordon claps his hands together. “I got this, Reece. No worries.” He turns to me, his eyes narrowing. “And you—keep that camera rolling, no matter what. Got it?”

Gordon rushes after Astrid, and I glance at Reece, who looks to be seconds away from breaking something expensive.

I exhale slowly, adjusting my filming rig.A few more hours,I remind myself. One last stretch of chaos, glitter, and diva tantrums, then I’m on a plane to Maui.

Paradise is waiting. And it can’t come soon enough.

CHAPTER TWO

REECE

“Herecomethevultures,”I grumble, peeking out from behind the church stage.

The sanctuary is filling up faster than Blaze can shotgun a beer. Row after row fill with human peacocks, each more desperate for attention than the last. Astrid’s crew of beauty gurus claim the front seats, their faces so contoured and plumped their own mothers wouldn’t recognize them. The second row features the usual suspects: gaming nerds who’ve never touched grass, prank channels that peaked in 2020, and fitness creators who definitely skip leg day but never skip a chance to flex.

It’s not a wedding. It’s a viral content factory.

I scan the sea of ring lights and selfie sticks—over 500 people who’d sell their firstborn for followers. These are all “special guests” who would never show up without Wi-Fi and an active Instagram audience. I search for a single person I would consider a friend…

Zero.

The number hits harder than the time I jumped off a building into a trampoline of LEGOS for views.

These are influencers: a select group of who’s who—people who treat friends as networking opportunities and use social media engagement as currency. They’re not here to celebrate love—they’re here to beseencelebrating love. It brings up that philosophical question: if an influencer attends a marriage ceremony but doesn’t post about it, did it even happen?

Every single one of them wants something. A sponsorship deal. A shoutout. A collab. A paycheck. These favor-fishing parasites slide requests into my DMs like desperate ex-girlfriends. “Sup, bestie, let me catch you up on my new hydrating, oat-milk-infused collagen powder.” And a recent favorite: “Hey hottie, totally random, but do you want to promote my gluten-free, non-toxic moon water?”

In this whole cathedral, I can count the people who actually give a shit about me with four fingers: Blaze(when he’s not being an idiot), my mothers, and Gordon(though his caring comes with a fifteen percent management fee).

They say it’s lonely at the top. What they don’t tell you is that the view is a sea of faces, all waiting—phones in hand—to capture your fall for their next viral clip.

“Oh em gee. The chandeliers are literally everything!” a blonde in row three squeals. “Wait till my followers see this!”

I’m glad she’s impressed; she should be. Last time I checked, the wedding bills were up to three million dollars. Three. Fucking. Million. And that’s not counting the “surprise” musical performances Astrid’s planned for the after-party, featuring influencers who think autotune is a personality trait.

I glance at my phone. Thirty minutes until I sign away my life for views, trade my happiness for the security of others, and my integrity for a prenup that reads like a brand deal contract.

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