FOR THE BRIDE
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
Addison
I wake up stiff, my hands scratched, hair still faintly smelling like orchard smoke and rain. For a second, I forget where I am — until the aching reminder of fairy lights and crisis management hits me like a delayed hangover.
I reach for my phone, half-bracing for fallout. No client texts. No cancellations. One missed message.
Meredith.
Thank you. For everything. Can’t wait to walk down the aisle today, even if it’s just rehearsal.
I breathe out. It’s going to be okay. Maybe more than okay.
I get out of bed in need of a caffeine fix.
It’s finally rehearsal day. Impressive that it’s happening given the previous night’s events. I barely got a couple hours of sleep after the chaos of last night, but I’ve got to get this show on the road.
I take a quick shower before getting dressed.
I zip the back of my navy-blue jumpsuit, smooth a wrinkle from the collar, and stare down my reflection like I’m about to walk into a deposition. Professional. Unflappable. Not the woman who nearly bailed on her own event less than twenty-four hours ago.
My fingers hesitate at the edge of my makeup bag. Concealer or not? I decide on a dab under each eye, just enough to say ‘well-rested’ and not screaming ‘emotional breakdown narrowly avoided.’ I swipe on tinted lip balm, twist my curls into a sleek low bun, and step back.
Addison Bennett, wedding planner. Not rumor magnet. Not runaway. Ready.
I grab my binder and phone from the kitchen table just as it buzzes with a text.
Dylan.
Morning, boss lady. You got this. P.S. Don’t forget to breathe.
I smile despite myself, thumb a reply with one hand while holding my coffee in the other.
I never forget to breathe. I just occasionally forget not to cry in my car in the rain. I’m good. Focused. Mostly. Please tell me the arch still stands.
Sturdier than my self-control when you walk into a room. You’ll kill it today. And if you don’t, I’ll distract them with glitter and baked goods.
I roll my eyes, cheeks warming. The man is impossible. Also, unfairly good at pep talks. And making me feel like a teenage girl.
You’ll be around?
Going to make some final checks and be there in case changes are needed.
Got it. See you at the orchard.
I set the phone down and take one last look around my home — quiet, neat, my safe space. I don’t feel entirely steady, but I’m still showing up. That has to count for something.
I take a slow lap around the outer edge of the orchard before joining the others. The arch still stands, proud and glimmering, its replacement keystone catching the sun. There’s a scuff mark at its base, a small imperfection, and somehow that makes it more beautiful.
The orchard looks different in daylight — less like a war zone, more like a Pinterest board that survived a minor apocalypse. Chairs are reset and ribbons adjusted. The arch still glows soft gold, its keystone bird slightly uneven but charming. Dylan and his crew worked literal magic overnight. We did.
Vendors mill quietly. A florist checks her notes. The DJ is already testing sound, “Canon in D” trickling from portable speakers. Meredith stands near the arch, talking with the officiant, looking calm — a minor miracle.
Then she walks in.
Cassandra Langford.
