Chapter Twenty-Five The Tulip Trap
Linda
WEDDING DAY
LINDA stood in the bridal suite, halfway into her dress, panic in her eyes and hairspray in her mouth.
“This is a mistake,” she said.
She paced three steps, stopped, and paced them again—every pass trailing tulle and doom.
“I can’t do this. My eyeliner’s uneven. One wing is auditioning for Broadway and the other is dying in a gutter. I look like I tried to contour with regret. ”
Sara didn’t even flinch. She lounged on the corner chaise like a noir detective sipping mimosa. “You said you wanted ‘controlled chaos chic.’ That reads.”
Linda pointed wildly at the bouquet. “Why did I pick tulips? They’re just… smug. They know they’re pretty. They’re the people who say ‘I don’t even wear makeup’ and still look editorial. They're the Rhys of flowers.”
Sara sipped. “Okay.”
“Effortless. Polished. Judging me from a vase.”
“You said they were ‘approachable elegance’ two weeks ago.”
“I was lying to myself. Tulips are a trap.” She gestured at the mirror with trembling hands. “They’re too springy. Like they’re trying too hard to say ‘this is fresh love’ and not ‘this relationship started as an elaborate tax fraud-level fake-out.’”
Sara tilted her glass. “Okay, but they match the bowtie on the dog.”
Linda visibly tried not to sob harder. “Damn it. Stumps pulls it off. I look like a Pinterest board got drunk and started doubting its life choices.”
She turned back to the mirror, pressing her palms to the edge of the vanity.
“Maybe I’m not a wedding person,” she whispered. “Maybe I’m a long-term brunch person. A cohabitating in matching hoodies person. Maybe I peaked emotionally at the ring pop and this—” she waved at her veil like it had personally betrayed her “—is too much.”
Sara, in full maid-of-honor regalia—black jumpsuit, combat boots, hair like a goddess of vengeance—leaned against the wall with unshakable calm.
“You done?”
Linda blinked at her in the mirror.
“First of all,” Sara said, setting down her mimosa like she was preparing to spiritually tackle her friend into sanity, “do you love Rhys?”
Linda made a sound. A panicked squeak that could’ve been ‘yes’ or ‘help’ or ‘microwave.’
Sara raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a no.”
“I do,” Linda whispered. “But what if I’m just… a walking anxiety spiral with lipstick and unprocessed emotional baggage? What if he wakes up one day and realizes he deserves someone who doesn’t panic about flowers or yell at dishwashers?”
“Then he’s an idiot,” Sara said simply. “But he’s your idiot. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Like he’s already home.”
Linda looked down at her bouquet, knuckles white.
“You survived a fake engagement,” Sara continued, stepping closer. “Accidental family goat negotiations, an ex- boyfriend barista who flounced like he was auditioning for Wicked , and your own emotional sabotage.”
She handed Linda the emergency emotional support lipstick—the one that lived in the “crisis clutch.”
“You’ve got this.”
Linda clutched the tube like it might steady her heartbeat. She looked at her best friend—the woman who’d screamed into pillows with her, brought wine to her panic-packing session, and once threatened to legally marry her to get her out of a Tinder date.
She took a shaky breath.
“Sara?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re walking me down the aisle if I chicken out.”
“Hell yeah I am,” Sara said, eyes shining. “And if you try to run, I’m tripping you in heels.”
Linda laughed—half-choked, half-tears, all real.
And suddenly, the tulips didn’t seem so smug.
They seemed… brave.
She stood taller. Not perfect. Not flawless. But ready.
“I’m marrying Rhys.”
Sara raised her glass. “Damn right you are. ”
And somewhere down the hall, Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed dramatically.
Like he knew what was coming.