Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Alyssa
Mondays are supposed to be recovery days.
This one feels like divine punishment.
My desk-slash-dining-table-slash-conference-room looks like a fairy exploded mid-flight and decided to die here.
There’s a coffee mug balanced on an order sheet, half a box of business cards wedged under the phone to keep it from sliding, and a glittering trail of ribbon shavings that makes it look like Tinkerbell met her end while prepping a centerpiece.
Somewhere beneath the invoices and catering quotes is a to-do list that’s multiplying like rabbits in spring.
The phone rings again. Of course it does.
“Euphoria Events,” I answer, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Alyssa speaking.”
It’s Martha—the florist who swore she could get me coral peonies in February. She can’t. Now she’s trying to convince me that ranunculus in a “peony-adjacent hue” will do the trick. I have a bride who knows the Latin name for every flower in her bouquet. “Adjacent” isn’t going to cut it.
While Martha justifies horticultural betrayal, the fax machine screeches to life. I flinch. That sound feels like someone nagging me from another dimension.
“Hold on, Martha,” I say, pressing the mute button before my sanity evaporates. “Please don’t cry,” I whisper—to the universe, or to myself, hard to tell. One of us is definitely in need of divine intervention.
The fax spits out a single page. I grab it, smoothing the paper with the back of my hand.
OFFICIAL NOTICE: LOVE & VINYL—DISBANDED.
“Fuck,” I mutter right into the receiver.
There’s a pause on the other end. “Pardon?”
“Not you, Martha. Love & Vinyl. They broke up. It wasn’t a weekend break.” I groan in pain. My soul is already panicking.
“Oh,” she says, lowering her voice into gossip territory. “I heard Tommy slept with Josh’s girlfriend.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. Of course she knows. Martha can tell me what tulips are trending and who cheated on whom in Seattle’s wedding supplier scene. It’s impressive, really.
“Well,” I sigh, “so much for coral peonies. Let’s talk about those ranunculus again. Maybe I can sell this to the bride before she learns to spell ‘infidelity.’”
By nine-thirty, I’ve received seven voicemails and two faxes about Love & Vinyl. Every planner from Seattle to Portland has a copy of the press release:
Creative differences. New directions. Mutual respect.
Sure. Translation: someone cheated, someone threw a mic stand, and now nobody wants to play “Don’t Stop Believin’” together ever again.
Which leaves me with six—no, nine—weddings, three engagement parties, one anniversary gala, and a bar mitzvah. Every single one with “Love & Vinyl” printed in bold next to Entertainment.
And the clients who hadn’t confirmed yet? They’re about to call me in hysterics.
Who am I kidding? I’m the one who’s screwed.
“Jules,” I yell.
My best friend-slash-roommate-slash-partner-in-crime appears in the doorway, chewing a bagel like she’s bracing for combat. She’s still in her robe, hair piled high, looking way too calm for someone walking into my personal apocalypse.
“You look like you’ve been awake since the whole Y2K debacle,” she says, dropping onto the nearest chair.
“Love & Vinyl imploded.” I shove the fax at her like it’s a death certificate. “It’s confirmed.”
Her jaw freezes mid-chew. “Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
She swallows, wipes her hands on her skirt, and points at me. “So. What’s the plan?”
“Panic.”
She nods, dead serious. “Productive panic?”
“The best kind.” I blow out a breath. “I’m calling auditions.”
Jules’s eyes widen. “For all of them?”
“Yes. Every wedding that still wants them.”
“That’s, like . . . eight?”
“I lost count around the galas and the baptism.” I rub my temples. “Why can’t parents admit that babies don’t need live music?”
Jules shrugs. “Because they’re rich and delusional? Also, holding auditions for that many clients is insane.”
“I’m not insane,” I correct. “I’m resourceful.”
She gives me a look that says, same thing. Of course, when she speaks is more logical, “We could at least move the dates for the ones without venues yet.”
“That’s actually smart,” I say, scribbling it down. “Good start.”
By ten-fifteen, I’ve had two coffees, one Tylenol, and a minor existential crisis. My voicemail light blinks like a distress beacon.
Every conversation sounds like a remix of the same problem:
“We can’t move the date.”
“We already paid the deposit.”
“My cousin’s band can play a waltz if you can get me someone for the rest of the party.”
“Can you just fix it?”
And I do. Because that’s my job. I fix things. I make disasters look like miracles. I’m about to give myself the whole speech on duct tape and caffeine but I stop myself because it’s not productive. Not under these circumstances.
That’s what they pay me for. To make the impossible look like it was always meant to be.
I stare at the glitter-coated battlefield of my desk, and wonder when this stopped being fun. I used to love the adrenaline—the rush of pulling beauty out of madness. But lately, it feels like I’m always one call away from everything collapsing.
And yet, somehow, I still can’t walk away.
I’m addicted to the possibility of it all—the rare moments when the chaos settles and something beautiful takes shape. The moment when a groom’s voice cracks during his vows, or a bride forgets to breathe before walking down the aisle. Those little fragments of truth.
Yes, that’s what keeps me here. I tell myself.
When the phone finally stops ringing, I allow myself a minute of silence. It lasts exactly eight seconds before I check my email.
And there it is—the little blinking icon that should not make me smile but does anyway.
One new message in my EchoZone account.
I tell myself I’m not opening it. I have vendors to call, contracts to revise, a musician-shaped hole to fill. But my hand moves before the rest of me agrees.