Chapter 2 Babe’s Wedding
Coming as Rapunzel was an error.
I counted five other Rapunzels from my aisle seat in the eighth row during the ceremony.
They were all accompanied by Flynns (Rapunzel’s sexy, scruffy love interest).
I should have picked a costume that doesn’t involve a love interest. The dragon from Mulan.
Or a mop from that creepy old Disney movie with no words.
Babe Lozenge, neighbor, book club member, and friend, is now officially married to her partner, Willem.
Her wedding is Disney themed, hence my Rapunzel getup.
Every guest was required to come as a Disney character.
I’m wearing a billowy long-sleeve sheer blouse under a satin, lavender corset with a full purple skirt, and I have a tiny stuffed iguana hot glued to my shoulder.
I had an atrociously long blond wig, but it was giving me a headache before I even left the house, so I threw on a pink and purple flower crown and called it a day.
It’s incredibly cute in here. Each table in the reception hall is themed after a different Disney movie, complete with props and a wide array of colorful flowers to complement each film’s color palette.
Fan art pieces from Disney classics sit on easels lining the ballroom walls, alongside an assortment of photos of Babe and her new husband.
The bride is breathtaking, clad in a gold princess gown.
Her hair is done up, and her dark skin is glowing in the amber light.
Her husband’s wearing long elaborate blue lapels with gold buttons.
Everyone has gathered around the perimeter of the hardwood floor at the front of the ballroom to watch their first dance.
Everyone except me.
I’ve retreated to the shadows like the villain in a teen movie. I’m leaning against the chilly mirror-paneled walls, nursing a gin and tonic.
To recap: It’s (practically) my birthday, I lost my luggage, and I’m alone at a Disney-themed wedding, dressed as Rapunzel with an empty seat next to mine at the Aladdin table for my second consecutive nonexistent plus-one.
Babe and her Prince Charming are floating across the floor to an instrumental from the classic Disney cartoon we’ve all been subjected to at one time or another: Beauty and the Beast. I could never get into that one.
The Beast kidnaps Belle’s dad. Then he kidnaps Belle, and then she falls in love with him.
“I’ve never understood the love for Beauty and the Beast.”
I startle—some of my barely touched drink sloshes over onto my hand as I whip my head to the right. There’s a Flynn standing next to me. Why is someone’s attractive husband standing so close to my elbow?
“How long have you been here?” I blurt.
“Long enough to catch you eye judging their first dance.” He’s a broad-chested, pale, Scottish-looking guy, probably in his early thirties, with a face full of sharp angles and thick, wavy, deep red-brown hair buzzed into a sort of military-esque cut: shaved on the sides and longer on the top.
“I was not ‘eye judging’ their first dance.”
His lips tug up. “Okay.”
“I wasn’t,” I insist.
“All right.” He raises an open palm in surrender. “Long day?” He leans against the mirror next to me, clutching a whiskey, looking out at the bride and groom.
“Who are you?”
“Who am I?” he repeats, glancing down at his Flynn costume in amusement.
“Not your costume.”
He meets my eyes for a hot second. His are a bright turquoise blue. Scary blue. Sharp like his features. They match his Flynn vest. I wonder if that’s why his wife chose this costume.
“How do you know the bride and groom?” I ask.
“I went to high school with the groom,” he explains.
“We were two of only five dudes in the drama club. That bonds you for life.” His warm tone completely contradicts the intensity of his face—it’s like witnessing the statue of a war hero come to life and do stand-up. The guy’s a living, breathing oxymoron.
I smile into my glass. “I didn’t know Willem was a theater kid. Babe was a theater gal, so this is all making sense.”
“So you know Babe,” he confirms confidently.
I nod. “We met a few years back. Babe is in, my, uh, book club.”
His eyes flash. “A book club, eh? What kind of books you read?”
Over on the dance floor Willem is twirling Babe. He catches her in a dramatic dip. The crowd applauds as their first dance ends. The music immediately shifts into a punk rock cover of “Be Our Guest.” Inventive.
“Who do you belong to?” I gesture toward the crowd with my drink.
Flynn snorts, a boyish grin cracking his statuesque face. “What do you mean by that?” It’s fascinating how much his aura shifts as he speaks. He’s so animated.
“I mean, there’s a million Rapunzels out there. Which one is yours?”
Flynn shakes his head like he’s sharing an inside joke with himself. “I don’t have one. I came alone.”
My eyes cut back to his. “You came to a wedding alone?”
He nods.
“Dressed as Flynn?” I ask skeptically.
“Borrowed it from Willem.”
“Hmm.” Babe does have a Rapunzel getup. I squint at him. “People don’t come to weddings alone.”
“Are you here with someone?”
I glance out at everyone dancing. “No. But I planned to bring a date. Filled in the plus-one card, the whole enchilada.”
“The whole enchilada, huh,” he says, pale-red brows dancing across his forehead. “What happened?”
I take a hefty swig of gin and tonic. “I couldn’t find someone worthy of bringing.”
“Ah, the lady has standards.” He sips his whiskey. Out on the floor the wedding guests link hands, cheering and skipping in a circle around the married couple.
“So who are you?” I prod suspiciously.
“I’m Reed.”
“What do you do, Reed?”
“I write.”
My lips press into a line. “Your name is Reed, and you write.”
“Unfortunately. Among other things.”
“Books?” I ask.
“I have, yeah.”
“Mystery, thriller, historical, dark academia, literary fiction, horror, romance, sci-fi, self-help, or fantasy?”
“Wow, you know all the categories,” he says dryly.
I look at him sidelong. “Which is it, Flynn?”
“It’s Reed.”
“Is that a pen name?”
“What’s your name?” he asks instead.
“Are you single?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says plainly. “I think we’ve established we’re both single.”
I snort, staring out at the floor as I process this.
This man can’t be single. It goes against the laws of singleness. There are usually approximately zero to two single people of the opposite sex at a wedding. They are creepy, drunk, very young, or a combination of the three. They’re not handsome. Or quick witted. Or cute. Or age appropriate.
“Why are you single?” I ask.
“Why are you?”
“I’m a lot,” I tell him.
“I’m also a lot.”
“I’m cursed.”
“You’re cursed?” he repeats dubiously.
“My name is Nordic for ‘forever alone.’”
A hearty laugh falls out of this sharp redheaded war-hero statue man. “What is it?”
“And dating is terrible,” I add.
He arcs a brow. “Dating is fun.”
I scoff, rotating, to lean my shoulder against the mirror so I can study him straight on.
This man’s only a hair taller than me in my heels.
Maybe five foot ten. The white shirt he’s wearing under Flynn’s classic blue vest is pulled taut over his shoulders.
He turns to mimic my posture and hits me with the full force of his topaz-blue eyes.
My heart does an involuntary 360 twist in my chest.
Shit. They’re like laser beams. My arms fold protectively across my torso. “Reed, dating is the most stressful thing on my to-do list.”
His mouth twists up the side of his cheek. “Then I don’t think you’re doing it right.”
I cock my head. “I’m sorry, are you about to mansplain dating?”
He laughs, folding his arms. They’re shapely arms. I mean . . . chiseled. Hot. He has hot arms. “What’s your name?” he asks again.
I find that the more shapely/hot/chiseled a guy is, the harder it is to trust anything he says. This has only been cemented by my months of intensive dating-app escapades.
“It’s Rikki. My name.”
“Rikki, are you not having fun right now?”
I quirk a brow. “Reed, this isn’t a date.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“It’s not a no.”
He takes another sip of whiskey. “This conversation is getting weirder by the second.”
“All right, folks.” We snap to attention as the Disney DJ comes over the speakers. “First course is about to be served! If guests could all head to their tables, that would be fantastic.” The upbeat show tune playing morphs into a calm instrumental as the masses disperse from the dance floor.
I take a step toward my seat. “I’m this way.”
“All right.” Reed grins, heading in the opposite direction.
I turn and collide directly into an adorably dressed Jordyn. She and Micah came as the Boy Scout and dog from Up. She loops her arm through mine, clutching my elbow as we make our way to the table. “Who was that?”
“An attractive guy who claims he’s single.” I carefully reposition my party favor before taking a seat. We’ve all been gifted a yellow hoodie that says We Made It to Happily Ever After in a circle of multicolored Mickey outlines and Babe & Willem Forever on the back in Disney font.
Jordyn laughs. “Why do you say it like that?”
A waiter skillfully swoops over our heads, placing plates of Caesar salad before us. “Because he’s too idyllic to be real.”
“What’s too idyllic to be real?” Micah says as he plops down next to Jordyn with drinks.
“I don’t think you’re using idyllic correctly,” Jordyn interjects.
“A guy dressed as Flynn just, kind of, hit on me.”
“Flynn, the love interest from Tangled?” Micah asks.
“That’s the one.”
“Dang, there’s like seven of them floating around here,” Micah comments as he stuffs a forkful of salad into his mouth.
“Rikki,” Jordyn says dramatically. “It’s the Disney gods! They’re blessing you on your thirtieth birthday.”
I stab a crouton.
“Do you want us to run interference?” Micah offers. “Which one is he?”
“Which one is who?” a voice says behind me. My neck snaps around as Reed pulls out the empty chair next to me and sits in it.
I blink at him.
We’re all silent for a moment. Micah’s brown eyes dart from me to Reed. After a beat Jordyn sticks her hand across my plate.
Reed takes it.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says. “I’m Rikki’s best friend, Jordyn.” She flicks one of her fake dog ears away from her face. “And this is my husband, Micah.” She gestures to Micah, who’s casually sitting in his Boy Scout costume with a bouquet of balloons next to his chair.
“Up.” Reed nods approvingly as he shakes Jordyn’s hand and reaches to shake Micah’s. “Love it. I’m Reed, Rikki’s wedding date.”