Chapter Text
You were sure about three things in your life: one, the New York Knicks were the best team in the whole world. Two, coffee was to be worshipped at least three times a day. And three… you had the worst luck in the universe.
You were looking at the last email from your main supplier and the last order you’d made was going to be delivered late. Like really, really late. You’d stubbed your pinky toe on the table that very morning and, of course, there was that small thing about catching your fiancé screwing your friend’s brains out in your own fucking bed, two months before the wedding. You know, minor details.
You snorted as you ran your hands over your face in a futile attempt to calm yourself. You snapped the laptop shut and paced around your empty flower workshop, eventually stopping by the window. Downtown Manhattan was bursting with activity, even at nearly 10 p.m. People walked by your display window, most of them slowing down, giving impressed looks at the neatly displayed flowers and decorations. Not for nothing, your creations had been featured in several high-end wedding magazines, including Vogue. Flowers were your thing. They always had been, as a third-generation florist, specialized in events and weddings. Which was ironic, considering you’d been ditched by a grade-A douchebag right before yours.
“Better before than after, right?” people said. “You wouldn’t want to have to go through a divorce on top of everything else, right?” Sure. How about not going through anything at all, huh, Aunt Muriel? How about that?
Feeling a bit more calm, you made your way to the back and reopened the laptop, typing out a short, albeit passive-aggressive reply when a notification caught your attention. It was from your personal email, not the work one. And the subject line read: Honeymoon in Iceland.
That, alone, was a red flag. The issue with cancelling all the wedding providers was supposed to be over, thanks to your parents, your sister and your best friend Julia, who worked alongside you. There were not supposed to be any loose threads. None at all. So when you clicked on it and started reading, your blood pressure began to rise.
“You have got to be kidding me…” you mumbled to yourself as you skimmed past the polite introduction and straight to the point:
“After careful consideration by our management team, we regret to inform you that your cancellation request does not meet the criteria for force majeure. As the reservation was made under a non-refundable rate, we are unable to issue a refund.
You may, however, choose to proceed with the trip as scheduled, traveling alone, in which case your booking will be upgraded to premium seating and a superior hotel category. Alternatively, you may decline the trip and forfeit the full amount paid.
We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.”
You brought a hand to each temple, massaging them slowly. Okay. You had two options. You could burn the travel company’s headquarters down (tempting, cathartic, wildly impractical), or you could accept the very clear message the universe was sending you and get on that plane alone.
There was, annoyingly, no third option.
You leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. Iceland. Solo. Honeymoon suite and all. Nothing says emotional stability like upgrading your seat while your life implodes.
“Well,” you muttered to the empty room, “at least someone’s getting their money’s worth.”
You exhaled, long and slow, already knowing the answer even as you pretended to weigh it. Losing that much money wasn’t an option. Letting them win wasn’t either.
Fine.
You weren’t cancelling your honeymoon.
You were just… repurposing it.
And if you were going to be miserable, you might as well be miserable somewhere breathtaking.