Chapter 9
Drunk, Lost, and Judged by a Hedge
Hayley
The only thing worse than a Tudor-themed wedding weekend?
A Tudor-themed wedding weekend with an obstacle course.
The wedding party is gathered outside the entrance to the castle’s maze, standing in the kind of expectant semicircle usually reserved for primary school sports days and cult inductions.
Peacock Pants is waiting at the archway, looking like a man who’s survived three weeks of staged jousting, seventeen rounds of historical cocktails, and at least one drunk uncle trying to cop a feel by the hog roast. His shirt is still starched, but his expression says ‘over it.’
“Gather round, lovers!” he calls, waving a scroll like he’s about to host a royal lottery draw.
“Your goal is to reach the centre, collect your token of love, and return before the other couples. And no, you may not sacrifice your partner to speed up your time…we had complaints about that last wedding.”
Token of love? What is this, The Bachelor: Tudor Edition? Next, they’ll have us kissing frogs in a rose ceremony.
I gulp my wine. Loudly. Which earns me a look from Peacock Pants, a mix between despair and admiration, like he can’t decide if I’m his problem guest or his spirit animal.
Tyler is nowhere to be seen, naturally. Probably off trying to bang the bridesmaid who didn’t show up looking like Catherine of Aragon the week Henry decided she was replaceable.
Meanwhile, the other guests are glowing. Not glowing as in ‘slightly flushed from wine,’ more like they’ve been mainlining unicorn cum all night in their smug couple bliss. They’re all tall and wholesome and weirdly enthusiastic about historical roleplay, one of them even brought a compass.
A fucking compass.
I, on the other hand, am armed with nothing but passive aggression and a third glass of wine, which I’m not relinquishing, no matter the death stares I’m getting from the model-perfect blonde parked next to Peacock Pants.
She looks curated to within an inch of her life and is already giving me the kind of once-over usually reserved for dodgy relatives who show up uninvited.
“Where’s your earl?” she trills, tightening her grip on Peacock Pants’ arm like he’s her emotional buddy. “He’s quite a handful, isn’t he!”
Peacock Pants makes a noise that could be a laugh or could be a very quiet cry for help.
I smile sweetly and adjust my bodice, pretending not to notice that she looks like Jane Seymour reincarnated. I look like someone who ate Jane Seymour.
And then it happens.
A guy in a gold velvet doublet, tall, broad-shouldered, bright blond hair and an unfairly handsome face, catches my eye as I clutch my wine like it’s a holy relic.
“Rough day, milady?” he calls, grinning. “If you need a maze buddy, I’m your man, just don’t ask me to navigate.”
I snort and wave at him politely, but his laugh lingers in the air like a tiny rescue flare.
And just as I think maybe, maybe the day is looking up…
The model-perfect blonde swoops in out of nowhere, all cheekbones and silk, her laugh slicing through the chatter like a guillotine. She doesn’t even let him finish smiling at me before she drops Peacock Pants’ arm, links hers through Gold Doublet like she’s won a prize, and sweeps him away.
I scowl, blaming the wine for my sudden urge to trip her. Fine. Have at him, lady. I didn’t want him anyway.
The horn sounds, yes, a motherfucking horn, and everyone charges into the maze with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for bottomless brunch.
I stay where I am. Sip. Glare. Then, finally, clutching my goblet like it will light the path for me, I march in after them.
Three turns in, I’m already lost. Four turns in, I’m starting to sweat. Five turns in, I’ve started talking to a hedge shaped like a deer.
“Who even trims you, Derek?” I sneer at the hedge, who is definitely male and definitely judging me with his perfectly sculpted topiary snout.
He says nothing. Just stares me down. Like he knows I skipped Pilates and brought booze instead of a partner.
The maze is bigger than it looks from the outside.
Twisting paths, archways of vines, and secret alcoves.
By the sixth wrong turn, I’ve looped past the same creepy gargoyle twice and my shoes are mud soaked.
My wine is nearly empty and I’m ninety percent sure I flashed an entire family of pigeons my arse.
Suffice to say, they’ve now seen more action than I have all year.
Still no sign of Tyler. Unless he’s hiding behind Derek the Judgemental Hedge. Which, honestly, checks out.
“Of course this happens to me,” I mutter, smacking a branch out of my face. “Of course, I get abandoned in the leafy labyrinth of doom while all the hot people are frolicking like Shakespearean lovebirds.”
My dress snags.
Again.
I trip.
Again.
And that’s when I crack.
“I’m not built for delicate frolicking,” I yell at a nearby bird who flaps away in alarm.
Somewhere nearby, a couple bursts into what can only be described as highly suggestible giggling and that’s me done.
I officially give up.
I slump to the gravel, wincing at the large stone that’s decided to make a home in my backside, and glare up at the sun.
“This maze is why Anne Boleyn lost her head!” I scream.
Then, suddenly, silence.
No giggles. No footsteps. Just the rustle of leaves and a hollow ache in my chest.
The quiet presses in, thick and green and echoey, and or the first time all weekend, I feel… lonely.
Not ‘didn’t get invited to the afterparty’ lonely, but the deep, unsettling kind that sticks in your chest like last night’s takeaway, congealed, regretful, and slightly shameful. The kind that whispers, “Everyone else has someone, and you’re just the entertainment.”
It’s not even just the romance. It’s the crashing realisation that I’m the funny one. The bigger one. The single one. The one who doesn’t get the last dance, only the last laugh, and not always by choice.
I huff. “You’re being ridiculous,” I tell myself. “Pull it together. You’re not lost. You’re just… temporarily unsupervised.”
I stay there. Deflated, definitely dramatic. Praying for a miracle. Or at least a man with cheese.
But mostly, waiting for someone to notice I’m gone.