Chapter 30
RECEPTION CRASHERS
Eleven days later
HARPER
And I'm pretty sure I'm never flying commercial again.
Outside the town car window, Queens is dressed up for the holiday—strings of white lights still draped across brownstone porches from Christmas, inflatable snowmen deflating in front yards, the occasional firecracker already popping in the distance even though midnight is hours away.
The temperature dropped to twenty-three degrees today, and even through the heated car, I can see my breath fogging the glass when I lean too close.
And Victor and I are back after six days in Quebec City and Montreal over the Christmas holiday.
Six blissful days of cobblestone streets slick with ice and snow, French pastries so buttery they left grease stains on the wax paper, and a happiness I once thought was reserved for fairy tales.
We spent Christmas Eve at Fairmont Le Chateau Frontenac, that castle-looking hotel that dominates Old Quebec's skyline.
Victor had booked a corner suite with views of the river and the old city walls, and we'd spent the evening drinking hot chocolate spiked with Grand Marnier while snow fell outside the massive windows.
The room smelled like cinnamon and wood smoke from the fireplace, the sheets replete with a high-thread-count luxury that made me never want to leave bed.
Christmas Day, we ate our way through a seven-course meal at a tiny restaurant tucked into a stone building that was older than the United States.
Duck confit. Foie gras. Tourtière—a traditional Québécois meat pie, rich with spices and butter—in plentiful amounts, the crust flaking apart on my fork. We drank wine that was worth a car note, and I didn't feel guilty about it for even a second.
The next three days in Montreal were more of the same—bagels from St-Viateur that we ate still warm, the sesame seeds crunchy and sweet.
Smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz's, the meat so tender it fell apart, piled impossibly high on rye bread with yellow mustard.
Poutine from a hole-in-the-wall that Victor initially refused to try until I physically put a forkful in his mouth, and then he went back for seconds.
The gravy was dark and rich, the cheese curds squeaky, the fries perfectly crispy underneath all that glorious mess.
We walked through the Plateau Mont-Royal in the freezing cold, our breath making clouds in the air, amongst row houses painted in bright colors, the sound of French conversations spilling out whenever someone opened the door.
It was perfect.
And then we had to come back to reality.
Specifically, we had to come back via a commercial flight that included: a two-hour delay because of "mechanical issues", screaming toddlers, turbulence, and a landing at LaGuardia so rough I'm pretty sure we bounced twice before the wheels actually stuck.
"Never again," I mutter, watching the Queens streets pass by. The neighborhoods are quieter here, away from the main roads—cars parked bumper to bumper, sidewalks shoveled but still icy, the warm glow of windows promising dinner and family. "Next time, it's the company jet or I'm not going."
Victor smiles, still looking far too composed for someone who just survived the flight from hell, raising an eyebrow. Dressed in dark jeans and a slate gray sweater under his wool coat—what he would a “casual look,” he still looks utterly divine.
Dark hair still slightly mussed from the flight, there's a shadow of stubble along his jaw that makes him look ruggedly handsome, and honestly?
It’s unfair.
Six hours of travel hell and he looks like he stepped off the cover of a menswear magazine.
I look like I got dragged behind the plane.
"You insisted on flying commercial," he says. "You said, and I quote, 'I want the full experience of being a normal couple.'"
"I was wrong. I was so wrong. Normal couples are masochists."
"Noted." He's trying not to smile, the corners of his mouth twitching. "For future reference, when you say you want the 'full experience,' I should ignore you and book the jet?"
"Yes. Absolutely. The jet has champagne that doesn't come in plastic bottles. The jet doesn't have toddlers weaponizing Goldfish crackers. The jet doesn't smell like someone's emotional support tuna melt. The jet—" I blink, turning. "Wait. Where are we going?"
Because the car just turned onto my parents' street, but we're supposed to be going to Victor's penthouse first to change before the party.
"Your parents' house," Victor says, way too casually, checking something on his phone.
"But I'm wearing jeans and your hoodie. Again. I can't show up to a New Year's Eve party looking like I raided a college student's closet."
I look down at myself.
Old jeans with a rip in one knee. Victor's StreamEats hoodie that I stole from his suitcase this morning because it's soft and smells like his cologne—something expensive and cedar-y that I can't get enough of.
My hair is in a messy bun that was supposed to be cute six hours ago but now just looks like I gave up. I'm wearing exactly zero makeup because I washed my face in the Montreal hotel bathroom this morning and never got around to reapplying anything.
"You look great,” Victor says, not looking up from his phone.
"I look like a disaster."
"A beautiful disaster."
"That's not the compliment you think it is."
The car pulls up to my parents' house, and through the windows I can see that it's absolutely packed. Not just "family gathering" packed. Like "fire marshal would have concerns" packed.
People everywhere—moving past windows, crowding in the living room, the warm yellow glow of lights making the whole house look like it's been lit from within. I can hear music even through the car door, something upbeat and festive, and the bass is making the windows vibrate slightly.
"Victor, I really think we should—"
But he's already out of the car, opening my door, offering his hand.
"Trust me," he says.
"Those are famous last words."
"Harper."
I take his hand and let him pull me out of the car, the cold air hitting me immediately.
My parents' house looks like a Christmas bomb exploded and then decided to throw a New Year's party in the wreckage—lights everywhere, a wreath the size of a small car on the door, icicle lights dripping from the gutters like frozen waterfalls.
Every window in the house is glowing. The porch light is on. Someone put luminarias—those little paper bag candles—all along the walkway, though half of them have blown out in the wind.
The house smells like Mom's cooking even from out here—something with enough garlic and butter to clog your arteries in just one spoonful.
"I'm going to kill my mother," I mutter, climbing the front steps with Victor's hand warm in mine. "She said this was a small thing. Casual. 'Just drop by when you get back from Quebec,' she said. This is not casual. This is—"
Victor's trying not to laugh as we reach the door. Before I can knock, it flies open.
It's Margot, wearing a cocktail dress in midnight blue, her deep brown hair perfectly styled, makeup flawless. She's holding a glass of champagne and wearing a wide smile.
"You're late," she says, sounding delighted about it.
"We just got off a plane that may have made a detour through the fires of Hades. I'm lucky I'm here at all."
"Well, you're here now. Come on." She grabs my arm with her free hand, pulling me inside, and the wall of sound and heat hits me immediately.
The house is absolutely packed with people.
I recognize some of them—family friends, neighbors, Mrs. Mills from down the street wearing a sparkly sweater, the Kowalskis from two doors down. But there are also people I don't know, all dressed up, holding champagne glasses, talking and laughing and filling every available square foot of space.
The air is thick with the smell of food—Mom's famous lasagna, something with roasted garlic, fresh bread, multiple desserts creating a sugar-and-butter perfume that makes my mouth water despite having eaten half of Montreal.
Music is playing from somewhere—classic rock, Dad's taste, probably his Spotify playlist—and someone's singing along badly near the kitchen.
Everyone's dressed up. Cocktail dresses. Button-downs. Holiday jewelry that sparkles in the overhead lights.
And I'm wearing the outfit of a frat boy.
"Margot, what is happening?" I ask, trying to pull my arm free. "Why are there this many people here? Why does Mrs. Mills have on sequins? Why—"
"You'll see." She's grinning like she knows something I don't, and I'm about to demand answers when Amelia appears, also in a cocktail dress—this one red and fitted—also looking way too pleased with herself.
"Harper! You made it!" She kisses my cheek, then Victor's, leaving behind the scent of her floral perfume. "You both look exhausted. And you—" She points at me. "You look like you just rolled out of bed."
"Gee, thanks. You're doing wonders for my self-esteem."
"I mean it affectionately. Come on, everyone's waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
But she's already pulling me through the crowd—Victor's hand still in mine—past the living room where people are drinking and laughing, past the kitchen where the counters are covered in food (cheese plates, vegetable trays, seven different desserts, a giant bowl of punch that's definitely spiked), toward the back of the house where Mom keeps the good china and the dining room table.
And at the head of the table, there's a three-tier cake.
An actual wedding cake.
White frosting with delicate piping, and on top—I step closer, squinting—are those crocheted figures? Little pixel-art people that look suspiciously like video game characters, and next to them are two crocheted gaming controllers.
"What—" I start.
"SURPRISE!"
Everyone yells it simultaneously, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
The entire room erupts in applause and cheers—hands clapping, people whistling, the sound overwhelming in the enclosed space—and I'm standing there like an idiot, trying to process what I'm seeing.