Chapter 21 The Gritty Sandwiches of New York City #3
Jane unpockets a vape pen. “What’s lame about coming up with house-cleaning schedules? I like schedules.”
Smoke covers my view of the buildings as Jane takes a hit. Of course she doesn’t smoke cigs or something; that would be too edgy. And this is the girl I’ve spent months idolizing. The person I’ve tried to emulate. I can’t help the shuddering revulsion that threatens to overtake me.
“Oh, Ann!” Jane flags down a woman in a gray cardigan that perfectly matches her expression. “Welcome back! How was Atlantic City?”
My phone buzzes against my chest, pulling me from their conversation. It’s weird. I was sure I turned off Slack for the party, and besides that, no one should be reaching out except for…
Wait. Did I send Hanry that lovestruck text, after all?
Horror drying out my guts, but tragically not the space between my breasts and bra, I reach into my crossbody bag and lift out my phone, holding the screen up to my eyes.
I. Did. Send it.
But Hanry hasn’t replied—or read it. The reason my phone vibrated was to send me a spam message from an unknown number. A message that reads:
What the hell is this?
And why is this the most interesting thing that has happened to me all night?
I stare down at the avenue eight floors below. At the lights, the cars, and the people, the busy scrambling on their hedonic treadmills. I blame my right-handed wine for what I do next.
I call the random number.
“AHH, SABBY!” screams Mandy’s voice in my ear. “I DIDN’T KNOW YOU COULD READ PIXIE! I’M SO GLAD!”
“I—what?!” I ask, rubbing my temples. Casting a quick glance at Jane and the others, who might have also temporarily lost their hearing, I whisper, sotto voce: “I didn’t know you had a phone.”
“I DON’T, this is the cricket’s!” Hold on.
Did she say cricket? Since when did crickets have phones, and since when have they been large enough for a full-size person to type on?
“I just wanted to DOUBLE-CHECK, so DON’T worry about anything!
But you know on the wedding schedule, well, I was thinking…
what if the photographers were enchanted?
Do you think that’d be a problem? It’s not a problem, right? ”
It takes a beat before I remember what Bulan said: that Mandy was going to plan and coordinate the weddings I’d bailed on. But I’d never thought of the broader implications. If I’m remembering correctly, this weekend is the one that Rochester’s clients had selected for their event.
So she’s decided to pick up the wedding for Rochester’s clients? The fairies? Oh no, Mandy. Oh no.
“Mandy,” I say, determined to be calm. “Are you telling me that some of the vendors for Rochester’s mysterious wedding have been hypnotized? Paranormally?”
“Yes, but in a friendly way!”
“That isn’t friendly! That’s coercion.”
“Oh! Like you said about hugs?”
“Sometimes, Mandy.” I pull in a steadying breath. “Why is this coming up now?”
“Well, the wedding’s tomorrow, and the cricket’s picking me up and he said— OH! I think I have to go! Well, I’ll tell our clients to un-enchant them if they can! THANKS, SABBY!”
The line goes dead.
Holy. Shit.
With all my research, effort, and luck, I barely succeeded in pulling off the weddings for Dave and Amanda, Fi and Asher, and Sidney and Brett.
Planning such a huge, lavish event with less than a month’s experience?
No matter how badly Mandy wants to impress Rochester, there’s no way she can do it.
For one thing, she won’t get the fairies to change their minds about enchantments.
When people—or creatures, or monsters, or whatever—plan their weddings, they’re pretty reluctant to let go of their vision.
Even if said vision includes violations of the Geneva Convention.
Too easily, I visualize the calamity of Mandy’s failure: the flames, the howling, the possible injury. Mandy’s stress-born consumption of a beluga whale’s weight in chocolates.
No. I can’t let that happen to her. Not to my friend.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I find myself saying aloud.
I have to go, to help. To make sure Mandy gets the linens right, and the flowers, and the timing. To help the enchanted photographers nail their jobs. It’s not like I have anything better to do this weekend. Like, making a cleaning schedule? No thanks.
“Sammy, are you afraid of heights?” Jane asks. “We can go inside.”
“What? No. I mean for the weekend. I have to visit someone.” To reassure my roommate, I add, “I’ll be back at the apartment before work on Monday.”
Jane says, “Oh. Okay.”
Putting her dubious tone aside, it is okay. I’m more than ready to leave this balcony and this party. To take a break from these people.
Problem: I don’t know where the secret wedding venue is or how far away it might be. And I don’t know who, exactly, is getting married. Only that they’re probably fay.
Since it’s evening, the wedding rehearsal should already be underway. I don’t want to miss anything else. And one thing I know for sure? Getting there will be significantly more complicated than jumping onto a late-night commuter train.