Updated Mar 13, 2026 • ~6 min read
“What about orchids?”
I’m sitting at my desk, surrounded by fabric swatches and floral catalogs. Wedding planning books are stacked three feet high.
I plan weddings for a living. You’d think planning my own would be easy.
You’d be wrong.
“Orchids are nice,” Holden says from the couch. He’s pretending to read a contract but I can see him watching me spiral.
“But are they TOO nice? Are they trying too hard?”
“Flowers can’t try too hard. They’re flowers.”
“You don’t understand. Every choice is a statement. Orchids say ‘we’re sophisticated.’ Roses say ‘we’re traditional.’ Wildflowers say ‘we’re free spirits.'”
“What do we want to say?”
I stare at the catalogs. “I have no idea.”
Holden sets down his contract and crosses to me. Kneels beside my chair.
“Hey. Look at me.”
I do.
“This doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be us.”
“But I’m an event planner. If I can’t plan my own wedding perfectly—”
“Who cares? We’re already married. This is just a party.”
“It’s not just a party. It’s our real wedding. The one that counts.”
“They both count. Vegas counted. It was chaotic and ridiculous but it was real. This one will be different. More traditional. But not more real. They’re both real because we’re both real.”
He’s right. Of course he’s right.
But planning my own wedding is harder than I thought. Every detail feels weighted. Important. Like if I choose the wrong flowers or the wrong song, it’ll somehow diminish what we have.
“I’m overthinking this,” I admit.
“You absolutely are.”
“Help me.”
“Okay. Let’s start simple. What do you actually want? Not what’s trendy or impressive. What do YOU want?”
I think about it.
“I want small. Intimate. Just the people who matter.”
“Good. That’s already decided.”
“I want it in that garden. The one where you told me you wanted to marry me again.”
“Also already decided.”
“I want simple flowers. White roses. Nothing fancy.”
“Easy.”
“I want string lights overhead. Even though it’ll be daytime.”
“We can do that.”
“I want to wear Eleanor’s necklace.”
“Done.”
“And I want to actually remember this one.”
He smiles. “I think we can manage that.”
I feel the tension ease slightly. “This is doable.”
“More than doable. We have two weeks. We can plan a simple, perfect wedding in two weeks.”
“Two weeks,” I repeat. “Oh God. Two weeks.”
“Breathe, Tessa.”
“I’m breathing!”
“That’s hyperventilating.”
He’s right. I’m spiraling again.
“Okay. Let’s make a list. Concrete tasks. Things we can actually accomplish.”
I grab my notebook. Start writing.
“Venue—done. Flowers—white roses. Food—we need to book a caterer.”
“Margot has a friend. I’ll text her.”
“Music. We need musicians.”
“String quartet?”
“Perfect. I know a group.”
“Photographer.”
“Wren’s husband does photography.”
“He does?”
“Yeah. He offered at the celebration dinner.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s… that’s actually really sweet.”
The list grows. Officiant (Noah knows someone). Cake (my mom insists on making it). Invitations (unnecessary—everyone’s already coming). Dress (I need to go shopping).
“The dress,” I say suddenly.
“What about it?”
“I need a dress. A real wedding dress. Not whatever I was wearing in Vegas.”
“You were wearing a tank top and shorts.”
“Exactly. I need an actual dress.”
“Okay. So let’s go dress shopping.”
“When?”
“Now?”
“It’s 7 PM on a Tuesday.”
“Tomorrow then. I’ll take the afternoon off. We’ll go together.”
“You want to come dress shopping?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Because it’s bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the wedding.”
“Tessa, I already married you once. I think we’ve exhausted our bad luck quota.”
He has a point.
“Okay. Tomorrow. Dress shopping.”
“With Wren and Margot and your mom?”
“Oh God, do I have to?”
“It’s tradition.”
“I hate tradition.”
“You’re an event planner. You love tradition.”
“I love OTHER people’s traditions. My own are exhausting.”
He laughs. Pulls me up from the chair. “Come on. You need a break from planning.”
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere. We’re staying here. But you’re going to stop looking at floral catalogs and we’re going to watch a movie and eat ice cream like normal people.”
“We’re not normal people. We’re people who got married by Elvis and are now planning a second wedding.”
“Exactly. So we deserve ice cream.”
We end up watching some mindless rom-com while eating ice cream straight from the container.
My phone is face-down on the coffee table. Wedding planning books are closed.
This is nice. Just being together. No stress. No decisions. Just us and chocolate chip mint.
“Can I ask you something?” Holden says during a commercial.
“Sure.”
“Are you happy? Like, actually happy? Or are you just going through the motions because we’re already married?”
I set down my spoon. “Are you asking if I want to marry you?”
“I’m asking if this wedding is because you want it or because you think you should have it.”
“I want it. I really do. I want to stand in front of our families and say vows I actually remember. I want to walk down an aisle toward you. I want all of it.”
“Even the stress?”
“Even the stress. Because at the end of it, I get to be your wife. Again. Officially. In a way that everyone sees.”
“You’re already my wife.”
“I know. But this makes it real to everyone else. Not just us.”
He pulls me closer. “Okay. Then we’re doing this. The whole thing. Stress and flowers and your mom crying and everything.”
“Everything.”
“Can I make one request?”
“What?”
“At some point during the wedding, can we just—pause? Take a minute. Just us. To actually absorb that this is happening?”
“Like a private moment?”
“Yeah. Away from everyone. Just you and me and the reality that we chose this.”
“I’d like that.”
We finish the movie. The ice cream. Eventually head to bed.
But before I fall asleep, I grab my phone and open my notes app.
Wedding To-Do:
- Flowers: white roses ✓
- Venue: garden ✓
- Dress: shopping tomorrow
- Caterer: Margot’s friend
- Music: string quartet
- Photographer: Wren’s boyfriend ✓
- Cake: Mom is making ✓
- Officiant: Noah’s contact
- PRIVATE MOMENT: Just us
I add that last one and smile.
In two weeks, I’m marrying Holden Reid.
For the second time.
And this time, I get to remember it.
END OF CHAPTER 18
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