Page 129 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

Marcus staggered back into his seat and covered his head with his arms like we were in a lockdown drill.

Elijah leaned against the nearest pillar and whispered, “God, take me now.”

As the couple—glowing, grinning, and oblivious to the agony behind them—walked past us, Gabby leaned in toward me and said brightly, “It’s being videoed. I already asked if I can get stills. I’m definitely going to frame a few.”

I squinted at her. “You’re a monster.”

She kissed my cheek. “But I’m your monster.”

The cherry on top was that as Ira and Gladys reached the end of the aisle, a server met them with a tray of champagne flutes, and the speakers blasted "All You Need Is Love" at full, glorious volume.

I nearly dropped to my knees.

Instead, I dragged myself upright, stumbled forward, and helped Elijah stand. He groaned, nodded in thanks, and we started making our way down the aisle like war veterans limping off the battlefield.

Wes sprinted past us with no warning, just a blur of hair and panic. The doors slammed open, and as they closed behind him, Sadie cocked her head and said casually, “And that, folks, is the moment Wes finally lost the war against the chunder bus.”

I turned to Gabby. “What the hell’s a chunder bus?”

Before she could answer, Gladys leaned in, voice calm and pleasant like she was offering me hors d’oeuvres.

“That boy’s clearly throwing up his guts, dear. I hope he found a spot away from the walkway, or it’s going to be very awkward.”

I didn’t even have time to respond before Jackson pushed past me like a man possessed, bolting for the same exit with his hand over his mouth and a look in his eye that said no time for dignity.

Behind us, Ira clapped his hands far too cheerfully and started singing, “Another one bites the dust!”

I glared at him. “You’re evil.”

He beamed as he pressed a champagne flute into my hand. “I know. Now, let the celebrations begin.”

Epilogue 1

Gabby

I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a glitter-covered freight train. The sunlight bleeding through the hotel curtains was too bright, the air too dry, and my mouth felt like it had been used to sandpaper a fence. My head pounded with the steady throb of a bass drum someone had set to “punishment mode,” and every limb on my body was heavy, sore, and confused about where it was.

Groaning, I rolled over, hoping to find a cooler part of the sheets or maybe some water. Instead, I misjudged the edge of the bed entirely and tumbled off with all the grace of a tossed suitcase. I landed hard on the crumpled fabric of my dress from the night before—still tangled and draped across the carpet like it had tried to make a run for it, too.

As I groaned into it and tried to regain my dignity, I heard a crumpling sound beneath me. Blinking through lashes clumped together with yesterday’s mascara, I reached through the layers of my dress and pulled out a stack of papers.

I shuffled through them, trying to recall anything that might make sense of what had happened. My brain was still swimming in leftover alcohol, and everything felt distant—like trying to piece together a dream through static.

Then I found the envelope.

Big, white, and thick, it didn’t look like the other scraps. With a growing sense of unease, I opened it and pulled out a neatly folded certificate with glossy photo prints tucked underneath.

My vision was still blurry, so I moved it closer until the words finally came into focus about an inch from my nose.

Certificate of Marriage.

I blinked. Well, that didn’t make sense.

I squinted at it again, sure it had to belong to Gladys and Ira. Maybe it got mixed up in all the chaos and accidentally ended up in my dress. It made sense. Sort of.

But then I saw my name and Webb’s name printed clearly on it.

I let out a strangled sound. Not a scream, exactly—more like a dying hyena being choked by a feather boa.

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