Happily Never After

DID I AGREE?

Yes and no.

“I’m not sure if I agree entirely about love not existing,” I said, carefully choosing my words so as not to upset the recently cheated-on almost bride. “But I do think love is a gamble and most people walk away from the table with less than they brought.”

I was a risk versus reward kind of guy, and experience had taught me that the risk definitely wasn’t worth the reward.

No, thank you.

“Nice analogy,” Sophie said, moving so her legs were curled underneath her. “So did you lose at the table and that’s why you do this? Is that The Objector’s origin story?”

I wasn’t going to tell her my life story, because I didn’t even know Sophie’s last name, for God’s sake, but I also didn’t like the origin story comment. I wasn’t some mercenary who compulsively broke up weddings for money out of some twisted need for retribution.

“For starters, I don’t really ‘do this’ very often. I helped out a friend in a bad situation, and then through word of mouth, did a few more favors for acquaintances with limited options.”

“Tell me everything,” she said, grinning and leaning her head against the back of the sofa. “But go get the rest of the pizza first, Maxxie.”

“Not my name,” I said, standing. “But I want to make sure I get another slice before you kill it, so I will obey anyway. Just this once.”

“Smart boy,” she replied as I walked over to the bar. “Now tell me about your first objection.”

It was a little surreal when I thought back to it, because I hadn’t even known the woman very well at the time. “Hannah was the administrative assistant at my office. Nice, but pretty quiet. Kept to herself.”

I grabbed the box and carried it over to the sofa, where Sophie was patting the table as if directing pizza traffic.

“She was getting married to the governor’s son, so even though she was an introvert, everyone in the office knew it was going to be kind of a big deal wedding.”

“Ah,” she said, throwing open the box the minute I set it down and grabbing a piece of pepperoni. “The bald douchebag governor?”

“That’s the one,” I said, noting the way she crinkled her nose like she knew every little thing about the former governor and hated his guts. “But two days before the wedding, I left work late, around eight p.m., and she was sitting in her car in the parking lot, crying.”

“Oh, no,” Sophie said through a mouthful of food, eyes wide. “What happened?”

Despite the seriousness of the story, she looked like such a kid that I sort of wanted to laugh.

“She got a call from a woman who’d been seeing her fiancé—apparently Douche Junior had neglected to tell the side piece who he actually was or that he was in a relationship.”

“Gross,” she said, shaking her head and looking disgusted.

“The woman called to warn her so she could call off the wedding—total class act—but Hannah said she couldn’t. Apparently Douche Junior was a master at gaslighting and anytime she questioned anything in their relationship, he reached out to her parents because her paranoia made him ‘worry she was relapsing.’ ”

God, just remembering made me want to hit that guy again. I plopped down beside Sophie on the couch.

“Relapsing?” she asked.

“He was using her mental health against her—total bullshit. Apparently she’d really struggled with depression as a teen and shared that with him, which he took as a green light to treat her like she was on the brink of drastic measures anytime she disagreed with him.”

“Oh, my God, I hate him so much,” she said, picking up her bottle of Heineken and raising it to her lips.

“Right?” I grabbed a piece of pizza and took a bite. “So she knew that if she called off the wedding, he would convince everyone she was crazy, in addition to the fact that her parents would be embarrassed and blame her for the loss of thousands of dollars they’d spent on the wedding.”

“What a nightmare.” Sophie took a drink, then lowered the bottle and said, “So then . . . ?”

“So then we went from ‘what if someone else called off the wedding’ to ‘let’s call his side piece and get all the details’ to ‘holy shit this is a plan let’s do it.’ ”

“You stepped in.” She said it in a near whisper, looking at me with wide eyes. “You hero.”

I reached out my foot and knocked her feet off the table. “Shut it.”

“I’m serious,” she said, pointing her beer at me. “You absolutely are my hero. My dad works for Stuart’s dad, and the man is a soulless prick. There is zero question that if I called off the wedding, he would fire my dad in a hot second out of spite. He’s just that kind of guy.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I took another bite of pizza.

“I was actually going to marry Stuart knowing full well I would be annulling it or divorcing him in the near future because I couldn’t let my dad lose thirty years’ worth of work because of me.”

“There’s nothing worse than not having a choice in your future,” I said, meaning it. I couldn’t imagine Sophie marrying that guy—an asshole who cheated on her twice. “I’m glad I could help.”

“You are out here performing a public service, Objector,” she said, finishing her pizza and dusting off her hands. “Halting a lifetime of misery, one wedding at a time.”

“Hell, yes, I am.” I laughed, more buzzed than I’d planned on becoming. “Like a firefighter, only without the bravery and dangerous working conditions.”

“The softest of all heroes,” she said around a laugh, and I liked her. I mean, I didn’t know her, so she could be a total ghoul in real life, but for someone to kill a few buzzed hours with, she was cool.

She asked, “So do you have rules?”

The question caught me off guard because I absolutely had rules but hadn’t expected her to ask me that.

“The gist is that I only do it for people with no way out and who are about to marry someone they have proof has wronged them.” I wondered what time it was. “Cheaters and assholes, basically.”

“Is it lucrative?” she asked, scratching at the label on her bottle with a perfectly manicured fingernail. “I don’t even know how much Asha paid you.”

“Nah,” I said. “Beer money.”

That was a lie.

I hadn’t set out to do any of it, but the side hustle had slowly grown legs on its own. I’d helped Hannah, who then insisted I take money for the help. Good money.

A month later, Hannah’s sister’s best friend reached out for help getting out of her wedding. I tried saying no, but as it turned out, I was a sucker when it came to people who were doomed to wed a dickhead. Knowing I was their only hope messed with me, especially when the phrase till death do us part was involved.

I found it impossible to say no. As a compromise, I usually only kept enough to cover the expenses, then donated the rest.

“God,” Sophie said, looking young and tipsy as her mouth slid into a smile. “What an idea. I bet there are enough unhappy near brides and almost grooms that you could make a full-time career out of objecting if you wanted to. Hell, you’d probably have to turn away business, because one person wouldn’t be enough to handle the sheer number of people desperately trying to escape their doomed weddings.”

“Maybe that’s your calling,” I said, trying to imagine her doing it. Somehow I just knew she would kill it. “You could be The Objectress.”

“I like my job,” she said, laying her head back on the sofa and closing her eyes. “But that could be a fun side gig, being the Objectress to your Objector.”

“I don’t know if fun is the word I’d use,” I replied, letting my eyes close as well.

“Trust me, Objector,” she said, her voice a sleepy drawl. “We’d have fun.”