Chapter 2 — Wine, Woe, and a Wedding Planner’s Pitch

Emma

The doorbell rang just as I was debating whether eating an entire loaf of garlic bread straight from the freezer qualified as self-care or the opening salvo of my descent into madness. My hand hovered mid-reach, a bead of condensation forming on the frosty loaf. The chime came again, insistent and shrill, slicing through the cocoon of misery I’d so carefully constructed—unwashed blankets, a half-empty bottle of merlot, and the soft glow of my laptop looping true crime documentaries. The glow cast jagged shadows on the walls, the kind that mirrored the chaos inside me.

For a second, I considered ignoring it, but the doorbell was persistent, and the world outside my sanctuary was intruding whether I liked it or not.

“Emma, open up!” Marissa’s singsong voice carried through the door, warm but with an edge of steel. “I know you’re in there. I brought wine and carbohydrates, so don’t make me use my key.”

I groaned, the sound dragging out like a rusty hinge. My legs protested as I pushed off the couch, stiff from hours of immobility. Passing the hallway mirror, I caught my reflection: tangled hair resembling a bird’s nest, mascara smudges doing their best impression of a raccoon, and the faintest red traces etched under my eyes from too many tears. Perfect. Just the look to inspire confidence.

The door creaked open to reveal Marissa, standing like some bohemian angel of mercy. A bottle of wine dangled from one hand, and a paper bag peeked out from the other. Her auburn curls danced in the damp spring air, frizzing slightly, but her expression was all concern wrapped in familiarity.

“Oh, honey,” she sighed, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “You look like you were attacked by a rogue duvet cover.”

“That’d be the highlight of my day,” I muttered, stepping aside to let her in. The faint scent of jasmine followed her, a stark contrast to the stale air of my apartment.

Before I could close the door, a second voice chimed in, sharp and unmistakable. “And here I thought we were embracing chaos together. This is just sad.”

Tess Moreno swept into the room like a hurricane, electric-blue heels clicking on my hardwood floor with the precision of a metronome. She wore a leopard-print trench coat that flared dramatically as she moved, and her tote bag—a monstrous thing that looked like it contained half her closet—hung heavily from her shoulder.

“I didn’t invite you,” I said flatly, glaring at her.

“No, but you should have,” Tess replied, dropping the tote onto my coffee table with a theatrical thud. “You’re a woman in crisis, and I’m a woman who knows how to handle crises. Think of me as your fairy godmother, except instead of pumpkins and mice, I deal in heartbreak and spectacle.”

Marissa turned to me, eyebrows raised in silent inquiry. “You didn’t mention she’d be here,” she murmured, her voice low.

“She wasn’t supposed to be,” I whispered back, already feeling the migraine forming.

Tess clapped her hands, drawing our attention with the confidence of someone who could command a room full of CEOs and still have time to critique their suits. “All right, ladies, let’s get down to business. Emma, you’ve wallowed for—what? Three days now?”

“Two,” I corrected, sinking back into the couch’s embrace. The cushions enveloped me, their lumpy comfort a testament to how much I’d worn them in the past 48 hours.

“Two days too many,” Tess declared, perching on the armrest with practiced ease. “Listen, you’re sad, you’re angry, and your ex-fiancé is probably out there sipping overpriced scotch, feeling no guilt whatsoever. So, what are we going to do about it?”

Marissa set the wine and bread on the kitchen counter, her movements deliberate and grounding. “We’re going to support Emma, let her process this, and not push her into anything rash,” she said, her tone pointed, a quiet warning in her steady gaze.

Tess smirked, undeterred. “Sure, sure. But hear me out: revenge.”

I blinked at her. “Revenge?”

“Not, like, arson or anything,” she said quickly, flicking a manicured hand. “I’m talking about something classy. Cathartic. Something that says, ‘You messed with the wrong woman.’”

Marissa groaned audibly, her maternal patience beginning to fray. “Emma doesn’t need revenge. She needs time. And maybe therapy.”

“I’m right here, you know,” I said, mildly exasperated, though my voice lacked any real heat.

They ignored me.

“Emma,” Tess said, leaning forward conspiratorially, her tone dropping to a stage whisper, “don’t you want to make him squirm just a little? I mean, the text he sent—”

“Don’t,” I interrupted, holding up a hand. The words felt like acid on my tongue. “Don’t say the word ‘text.’”

Her mouth snapped shut, though the glint in her eye promised she wasn’t done.

Marissa sat beside me, her soft tone like a balm against Tess’s relentless energy. “Look, I get it. You’re hurt, and you have every right to be. But Tess’s schemes aren’t going to make you feel better. They’ll just drag you down.”

“Schemes?” Tess repeated, feigning indignation. “I prefer to call them… therapeutic exercises.”

“Do they involve glitter or public humiliation?” I asked dryly, though a kernel of curiosity stirred within me, unbidden.

“Not yet,” she said with a wink, her grin widening as if she’d just been dared.

I exhaled sharply, running my hands through my hair and immediately regretting it as they snagged on tangles. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to torch every memory of him and move on, and part of me wants to… I don’t know, make him feel as terrible as I do.”

Marissa’s hand found mine, her touch grounding. “That’s normal. But you’re better than stooping to his level.”

“And more creative,” Tess interjected, seizing her moment. “Which is why I’ve already come up with a list of ideas.”

She reached into the tote and pulled out a notebook, flipping it open with a flourish. Marissa groaned again, louder this time. “Oh, for the love of—”

“Option one,” Tess began, her eyes sparkling. “We send him a box of your unused wedding favors with little notes attached. Something cheeky, like, ‘Hope you enjoy these coasters, because you sure didn’t stick around long enough to use them.’”

Despite myself, a snort escaped. “That’s… actually kind of funny.”

Marissa shot me a warning look. “Emma.”

“What?” I said defensively. “I can laugh. It doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

Tess grinned, sensing a crack in my resolve. “Option two: we plant a fake story about him on that gossip blog everyone in the city reads. Something harmless but embarrassing, like he got caught stealing office supplies or—”

“Absolutely not,” Marissa cut in, her voice firm. “This is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous gets results,” Tess countered, undeterred.

The two of them squared off, their argument washing over me as I stared at the notebook in Tess’s hands. A part of me knew Marissa was right—revenge wouldn’t heal the ache in my chest or erase the memory of Ryan’s cowardly text. But another part… the part that replayed his words on a loop, that seethed at the thought of him moving on unscathed… that part wanted to consider it.

“Tess,” I said, cutting through their bickering. “I’ll think about it. No promises.”

“Good enough for me,” she said, snapping the notebook shut.

Marissa sighed, clearly frustrated but unwilling to press the issue further. “Fine. But if this blows up in your face, don’t come crying to me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tess said, flashing a victorious grin.

An hour later, after they’d left, I found myself staring at the notebook Tess had “accidentally” left behind on the coffee table. My fingers hovered over the cover, torn between shoving it into a drawer and flipping it open. The spring rain outside tapped softly against the window, a rhythmic reminder of the world moving on. Revenge, I thought. Maybe it wasn’t the answer. But maybe, just maybe, it was a start.