C h r is t i e

The woman behind the counter eyed us like we were her late-night entertainment.

She had a teased blonde bouffant, frosted blue eyeshadow, and enough leopard print to clothe a small jungle. Her name tag read Cookie, and her lipstick had seen better days—probably around 1987.

She looked me up and down, from my rain-drenched wedding dress to my trembling hands, and smirked. "Let me guess," she drawled, voice like two packs a day and zero regrets, "you just stopped yourself from marrying the wrong man?"

Jacques stepped forward, completely unbothered by the absurdity of it all. He produced a crumpled fistful of dollar bills from his jacket like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "Yes. And now she needs to marry the right man."

Cookie plucked the bills from his hand with all the grace of a Vegas showgirl and started counting. "Sure thing, honey."

Jacques leaned casually against the counter, water still dripping from his sleeves. "She'll also need a dress."

Cookie didn't miss a beat. "We can fix her up with a dress. Something real special."

I blinked. "I really don't think that's necessa—"

"Don't ruin this, sugarplum," Cookie said, winking at me. "You only get married once. Or, well... five or six times if you do it right."

She beckoned me with a bejeweled finger and led me through a rickety door behind the counter. We passed a vending machine with three out-of-order signs taped to it, a dartboard featuring someone's mugshot, and finally entered what I can only describe as a storage closet that had dreams once.

It smelled like bleach, Lysol, and broken ambition.

"This is the dressing room," Cookie said brightly, flipping on a flickering overhead light. "We got a few gowns in the 'special' collection. You're a size...?"

"Traumatized," I replied.

She cackled and pulled out a clear garment bag hanging behind the mop bucket.

Inside was not a wedding dress.

It was a threat.

Hot pink. Frilly. Sheer in places that should never be sheer. And trimmed in rhinestones that had clearly been glued on by someone who hated joy.

Cookie unzipped it with pride. "Isn't it divine?"

I stared at it in horror. "It's... see-through."

"Not entirely," she said. "There's fringe. And sparkles. That counts."

A few minutes later, I was standing in front of a streaky mirror no bigger than my face, adjusting a crooked plastic tiara with a chip in one of the fake diamonds. A flimsy veil hung down my back like someone had hot-glued tulle to a novelty headband. My reflection looked like a fever dream themed bachelorette party.

God, please let there be no cameras.

If a single soul ever found out I got married in a hot pink lingerie dress, I'd have to change my name and move to a swamp.

There was a sharp bang on the closet door.

"You ready to rock and roll down that aisle, Miss Christie?" came a voice—deep, chipper, and vaguely concerning.

"That's Bob," Cookie said, patting my arm. "He owns the chapel. Also DJs on Fridays."

Of course he does.

I took a deep breath, tugged the hem of the dress down, because somehow it kept creeping up, and opened the door.

Let's get this over with before I lost all self-respect.

Or what was left of it.

I stared at myself one last time in the streaky mirror, clutching the frilly hem of the too-pink, too-short dress like it might suddenly morph into something tasteful. My veil was slipping sideways. The plastic tiara dug into my scalp. My knees were knocking.

Oh God, I'm actually getting married.

This couldn't be real. I was standing in a janitor's closet in a neon-lit motel chapel, wearing a dress that looked like it had come from a discount Barbie nightmare and clutching a bouquet made entirely of hot glue and fake roses. And somehow, despite all logic, this was actually happening.

My stomach flipped. My hands were clammy. Every part of me was screaming for a moment to breathe, to think.

Instead, I forced down the rising panic, braced myself, and opened the door.

Bob stood waiting, transformed into what I could only describe as Elvis by way of suburban yard sale. He wore a rhinestone-studded white jumpsuit that strained alarmingly around the waist, gold chains layered over a hairy chest, and golden sunglasses so reflective I could see my horrified expression staring back at me in miniature.

Cookie had swapped her leopard print for a mauve bridesmaid dress straight out of a 1985 prom catalogue—complete with puffed sleeves and enough tulle to smother a small dog.

Cookie's expression softened when she saw me. "Honey, are you okay?" she asked, brows knitting together. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"We can always distract the groom while you climb out the back window and make a run for it," Bob added helpfully, planting his hands on his hips. His golden sunglasses glinted ominously under the flickering fluorescent light.

I shook my head, trying to conjure a smile I didn't quite believe in. "No, I'm fine. Just a little nervous."

"Jitters are normal, sweetheart. Happens to the best of us." Cookie gave me a warm, lavender-scented hug and pressed a crunchy plastic bouquet into my hands. One of the roses crinkled when I squeezed it.

"All righty then!" Bob bellowed, slipping the golden shades back over his eyes. He gave his hips an exaggerated swivel that made something in his jumpsuit pop ominously. I winced.

"Let's get you married!" he announced in his best Elvis drawl—somewhere between Memphis and Midwestern.

Before I could protest, he looped his arm through mine and began shuffling down the aisle with all the gravitas of a Vegas lounge act.

To my horror, his mother-in-law—perched behind an ancient electronic keyboard—launched into the wedding march. Or what I assumed was the wedding march. It was recognisable, but warped, like someone had fed the song through a karaoke machine in hell. Every note landed slightly off, twangy and tinny, like the instrument was protesting the whole situation.

The carpet beneath my feet was threadbare and slightly sticky. My heels wobbled dangerously with every step. I tried to hold the bouquet in front of me to preserve what little dignity I had left, but the veil kept sliding forward and the tiara refused to sit straight.

And yet... at the end of that absurd, twinkle-lit aisle stood Jacques.

Faded jeans. Tight black T-shirt. Rain-damp hair falling across his forehead. He looked completely out of place in this pastel fever dream—and somehow more perfect because of it.

His eyes found mine, and for just a moment, everything else melted away. The fake roses. The Elvis. The neon sign promising Forever Love in Comic Sans.

When Jacques smiled at me, something in my chest loosened. Just a little.

I tried to smile back, but most of my focus was on keeping the ridiculous dress from riding up and praying I didn't trip over a melted jellybean embedded in the carpet.

When I finally reached him, I grabbed his hands like they were the only solid thing in the world.

They kind of were.

Because walking in heels this high in a gown this short, on carpet this sketchy?

That was a disaster just waiting to happen.

And I was already in the middle of one.

But at least I wasn't alone.

Elvis launched into the ceremony like he'd been waiting his whole life for this spotlight. "Love me tender, love me sweet, always on my mind..." he crooned, voice drifting somewhere between an Elvis impression and a dramatic soap opera monologue.

I tuned out most of it.

Not because it wasn't memorable—it was seared into my brain against my will—but because all I could focus on were Jacques' hands in mine. Warm. Steady. His thumbs gently brushing over my knuckles like he knew I was one deep breath away from having a full-blown meltdown. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. His grip said everything.

We exchanged vows that, despite the rhinestone spectacle and Cookie crying in the corner with a handful of tissues that may have been used before, felt oddly intimate. There were no grand declarations, no poetic flourishes—just honesty. Simple and raw and true.

When it came time to sign the register, Bob produced a pen with a fluffy feather attached, like something stolen from a novelty gift shop. Jacques accepted it like it was a sword, turning to me with a ridiculous flourish and slipping it into my hand with a wink.

"Your weapon, milady."

I rolled my eyes, but I smiled too. I couldn't help it.

We signed the battered ledger perched on what might have once been a pulpit but now mostly looked like a repurposed ironing board. Our names scratched out in blue glitter gel ink. Binding. Official. Completely surreal.

Bob clapped loudly. Cookie blew her nose.

"For an extra fifty bucks," Bob offered cheerfully, "I can serenade you down the aisle. Full Elvis sendoff. Cape and all."

Jacques looked at me, eyebrow raised.

I gave him a tight-lipped please no look, and he nodded solemnly. "Tempting," he said. "But I think we'll take the unplugged version."

And so, accompanied by the slightly off-key stylings of Bob's mother-in-law—who had apparently decided the keyboard's "steel drum" setting was romantic—we walked back down the aisle, hand in hand. Past the stained carpet. Past the fake floral arch. Past the handwritten "Just Married" sign duct-taped to the exit.

Out into the parking lot, where a single flickering bulb lit up the cracked concrete like a spotlight from a horror movie.

Cookie met us outside, already holding a chunky Polaroid camera like she'd been born for this exact job. "Say 'eternal love and questionable choices'!" she sang.

The camera flashed.

We stood grinning in the picture, soaked, rumpled, ridiculous—with Elvis grinning wildly between us, throwing up finger guns like he'd just won a Grammy.

Jacques took the photos when they finished printing. He studied them for a second, then carefully slipped one into the pocket over his heart. He handed the other back to Bob.

"When my good friend Nico comes looking for me," Jacques said, tone casual but laced with something sharper underneath, "give him this. And send him my fondest regards."

Bob gave a two-fingered salute, sunglasses sliding halfway down his nose. "Will do, partner. And hey—congrats. You kids got style."

We walked back to the bike, my heels clicking on the pavement, dress flapping in the wind. Jacques glanced over at me, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"That was the most ridiculous wedding I've ever seen," I said.

He looked smug. "And yet, somehow, also the best."

I didn't argue.

Because he was right.

It kind of was.