“At least you got what you wanted in the end,” my husband says with a rueful smile.

I look down at my empty hand and raise my shoulders in a shrug. “Not as good as I expected.”

***1 hour before the event* **

“Where have you been?” Bethany hisses.

I slow my stride out of the church bathroom, the tissue freezing beneath my eye.

My apparently possessed wedding planner tracks it, her own eyes bulging.

“Your makeup!” She cries like I’d commited an unforgivable sin.

I guess, to her, I have.

Her acrylic taloned hand wraps around my bicep beneath sagging sleeves of my pristine white dress and she shakes me in a way that I don’t particularly appreciate.

“Were you _crying_?!” She demands.

I bat wildly at her grip. “Do you _want_ me to?”

She shoves me away just before Grandma Rosy turns the corner, heading our way.

Bethany’s mask of politeness eerily slams into place.

The fake smile makes me snort.

Rosy’s lips twitch at the sound as she shuffles by, affectionately patting my arm as she passes.

“Killer party,” the crone jokes.

Her arched back curves further in relief at my laugh.

It’s the only way for her to truly identify the occupants of a hallway in such a busy venue, seeing as she’s completely blind now.

Bethany doesn’t seem to recall this tidbit about Grandma, seemingly waiting for Rosy to get out of sight and earshot in order to start in on me again.

I take advantage of her lack of research and bolt towards the reception hall.

If I don’t get my crab cake, I will riot.

***3 hours before the event* **

I roll my eyes at Matt, my fiancée, who’s barely holding in his laugh that shakes our connected hands.

The priest between us doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to drone on and on to a couple hundred of our closest friends.

Pews squeak as they shift uncomfortably in their finery, collectively suffering through this soliloquy all about wives submitting to husbands.

I’m not loving the liberties he’s taking here.

Especially when conveniently leaving out the rest of 1 Corinthians 7:4, that states husbands do the same for their wives.

Matt bugs his eyes out, knowing me well enough to at least attempt the heedless plea.

I turn to the priest anyway.

“Sir?”

There are a couple gasps in the crowd.

Must be the members of Matt’s family I haven’t met yet. They’ll learn.

The priest seems most startled of all.

“We’ve met, right?” I confirm loudly.

My question echoes off the high beamed ceiling of the antique church.

It’s a beautiful venue, really.

I was disappointed my speaking role was so short, just an ‘I do’ and I’m done, so I’m almost grateful for this opportunity.

The octogenarian swallows roughly, eyes bouncing around the room for help he won’t find.

“Yes,” he answers reluctantly, which is strange for someone who was just so chatty before.

“Do I seem like someone who would _submit_?”

The room, full of people who know me well, erupts in laughter.

The priest pales, sweat visibly beading down his increasingly ashen brow.

I turn to my future husband and find him laughing openly with an indulgent shake of his head.

But then the man between us makes a strange guttural noise, claws at his chest, and collapses.

Rapidly turning laughter into screams.

***4 hours before the event* **

“You look beautiful,” Bethany croons, her clasped palms pressed dramatically under her chin.

I do a little turn as I emerge from the closet in my wedding dress, my only discomfort coming from my previously normal coordinator.

Something is really _off_ with her today.

“Matt is going to lose his mind when he sees you,” she breathes out a bit sadly.

It takes long moments of her staring off into nothing before she returns back to the moment, noticing me watching her in concern.

She’d been so excited to hear her best friend and I had gotten engaged, but it’s obvious that something changed.

Blinking rapidly, she clears her throat and makes a loud clap that startles me.

I laugh. She doesn’t.

“C’mon,” she encourages, almost bitterly, “let’s go make sure this is a _perfect_ day.”

***2 hours before the event* **

“At least we made sure to have a kid free wedding,” my fiancée attempts to joke on the church’s steps as the coroner slams his van’s back door closed.

“I killed him,” I voice hollowly.

Matt dives into my line of sight and carefully cups my cheeks.

We’d have to have the coroner circle back if Bethany saw him desecrating my immaculate makeup with his touch.

She’d screamed like a banshee and launched from the wings when she saw my first tear fall as I watched a priest die at my feet.

That’s actually pretty apt.

You know, _banshees_, the creatures that predict death and all.

My only complaint is her timing.

“You did _not_ kill him,” Matt insists, his voice bringing me back.

“It was me and my wicked feminine ways that did it,” I whine.

“They’re my favorite thing about you.”

I flail a hand in the direction of the departing corpse. “Yeah, well, he wasn’t such a fan.”

Matt fights a smile and loses, which unfortunately influences mine. He coaxes me forward, tucking my head under his chin.

“Maybe you were right about –“

“I’m always right,” I interject.

He pinches my side through the dress.

I yelp. He chuckles.

“As I was _saying._ Maybe you were right about not having a big wedding.”

I sigh heavily.

“Murder wasn’t exactly on my pro/con list. But you did know how to sway me to do this whole production though.”

He grunts curiously. “You still want your crabcakes?”

I shove off his chest and look up at him like he’s a stranger. But then he’s smiling, the jerk.

He scans my face with a warm smile before taking his time admiring my dress. “Go get cleaned up, beautiful. I’ll meet you outside the reception hall.”

***The Event* **

After signing our marriage certificate without further fatalities, Matt and I make our entrance into the dinner to subdued cheers.

I wanted to call out to the sullen crowd and ask, “Who died?!” but Matt predicted this and promised me his crab cake if I held it in.

We take our place at the designated table of honor, pretending as if nothings amiss.

Guests gradually shuffle through their buffet while our dinner was specially made.

I eagerly grasp my fork and knife, going still as I scan the food on my plate.

“Chicken?” I whisper.

A tear falls in the stupid fancy greenery.

I look up and around the room.

My fist tightens on my knife.

_Everyone_ has a freaking crab cake.

_They’ve been placed in the buffet._

My eyes catch on Bethany watching the beginnings of my breakdown with glee.

I’m too busy wondering if the coroner actually does takes two for one specials to notice Grandma Rosy bringing me a crab cake, bless her heart.

Too busy to warn her about the table brought out that is now in her way.

Matt stands, preparing to do so, but too late.

Her hip hits the table holding our ornate cake.

No doubt intentionally lacking architectural integrity on behalf of my insane coordinator, the excessive layers immediately topple.

Cake and icing explode outward so violently that they knock over the buffet chafing dishes as well as the fueled fires maintaining warmth beneath them, sending the entire food display aflame.

“No!” Both Matt and I cry.

I wait only a moment to ensure he’s going to confirm Rosy is fine, then I’m diving at the fire, tackling an untouched covered chafing dish until both it and I land on the other side of the display in a heap.

There are screams.

The distinct roar and crackle of fire catching.

Audible splashes of liquid, possibly the water from drinking glasses battering the flame.

I curl my body around my precious cargo and contort to blow out the heat beneath.

Footsteps sprint my way.

I peek up at a panicked Matt rushing me with two pitchers of water that he desperately pours on the skirt of my dress.

I look down to find the hem of it singed away to above my knee. Cute.

Bethany screams again.

For which purpose, at this point, I couldn’t say.

Sirens sound outside immediately.

Smart, that they’d been waiting on this inevitability.

Matt offers a hand to help me up.

I gratefully lift the covered food pan into his embrace.

He scoffs while yet again fighting laughter.

“Is Rosy ok?” I ask.

The laugh escapes him that time.

“She’s covered in cake. She’s thrilled.”

It’s my turn to laugh as I stand, letting out a long breath as I watch firefighters ushering our remaining guests out of the smoldering room.

Bethany is struggling between two of the uniformed men, fighting to cross the space to us as she screeches, “You ruined everything!”

Matt and I turn to each other with matching raised brows.

He tilts his head towards a closer exit.

We stride out onto the patio that we’d intended to use for dancing.

“Which one of us was she talking to?” I ask him.

“Does it matter if we’re never going to talk to her again?”

His question surprises me more than the night had. He strides over to an iron table and places the container on top. Lifting the lid, he gestures to the array of crabcakes.

“She did this to you on purpose, right? And I bet it’s not the only thing she did.”

It’s meant to be a question, but it’s more of a statement.

I nod. He mirrors the action as if it’s settled.

Unable to help myself, I snatch up a crab cake and shove it into my mouth.

Matt grabs my right hand with a laugh as I grab more food with my left, encouraging me to do a spin in my singed outfit, before leading us in our first dance.

Just us and my fistful of crabcakes, swaying to the tune of fire alarms.

It’s perfect.

“At least you got what you wanted in the end,” my husband says with a rueful smile.

I look down at my empty hand and raise my shoulders in a shrug. “Not as good as I expected.”