Welcome back to another episode of Flash Fiction Friday! I’ll let this little feature speak for itself, because I have no idea how to introduce this crazy thing.

Brideshrilla

There are some people who I could sit back and listen to their voice all day. Beyonce, Morgan Freeman, Harry Styles’s singing. But, Stephie Monroe was never one of those people.

I went out of my way to avoid her in high school, but that high-pitched, ditzy voice of hers carried throughout the entire Linwood Whaley High campus. Forget the sound of nails on a chalkboard; even Fran from The Nanny would jump off a cliff to provide her ears with a sense of peace.

But, it wasn’t just Stephie’s voice that made me want to shove my head into the nearest toilet and flush whenever she entered the same restroom as me. Her grammar–for the love of Shakespeare, her grammar–made me want to grab our principal by the shirt collar and demand how she’d managed to pass each school year. She added me as a friend on Facebook, and within two weeks I grew sick of the:

“who gone go two da party saturday nite?”s

and the ever so drama-seeking:

“ppl this days! Day r such taters!”

And, yes… taters is the direct quote. I assumed it was a typo, but you also see what we’re dealing with. I blocked her after that.

But, looking back, the annoyance of Stephie Monroe was basically the only thing I genuinely loathed about my time in high school. Plus, things have nothing but flourished since then.

Like tonight, for example. I have a good feeling that things are about to get pretty serious with my long-term boyfriend, Wyatt. The roses he left on my porch yesterday made me curious, but the note attached that said he wanted to take me to Amici’s tonight was a dead giveaway. That, and he hinted last week that I’ll get to meet his family from out-of-state soon. By 10 tonight, my new diamond will be the highlight of Facebook and Insta. Say hello to the future Mrs. Wyatt Caldwell.

I watch out the window as Wyatt’s Land Rover rolls up my driveway. Oh yeah, he drove the good vehicle. I fluff my hair before meeting him at the door, standing on my toes to give him a lavish kiss.

“Someone’s excited to see me,” he says, holding the door open for me.

“You could say that.” I grin, swinging my hand in his as we walk to his car.

“Well good. Because I’ve got a surprise for you tonight!”

It’s difficult for me to contain a squeal as he holds the car door open for me. I try to remain nonchalant on the car ride to the restaurant, but a smile remains plastered to my face. Wyatt doesn’t seem to notice though; he’s too busy fussing about the traffic.

“I hope Mom and my sister don’t get stuck in that mess on Main,” he growls, turning into the parking lot. “They said they’d be here in a few, but you never know with it being rush hour.”

“Mhmm,” I reply, studying my fingernails. Thank God I splurged on that manicure yesterday afternoon.

“Reservation for Caldwell,” Wyatt states to the host as we reach his podium.

“Ah, your guests have already arrived, Mr. Caldwell. Please let me escort you to your table.”

As we follow the host, a familiar–scratch that, infamous–laugh emerges. Whoever she is sounds like a goose on the run. My eyes bulge from their sockets. No. Not on my engagement night.

We round a corner, and there, in the booth where the host is headed, sits Stephie Monroe. This has to be a mistake.

“Wyatt,” I whisper, grabbing my boyfriend’s shirt sleeve, “how do you know her?”

“Psh, don’t be jealous, Lucy. She’s my half-sister.”

“Er mah gawd! It’s Lucy Hayes! We went to high school together, girl!” Stephie bellows, pulling me into an embrace I would have easily traded in for an anvil on the head.

The circumstances numb me, shattering every ounce of faith I had in tonight. I barely contribute to conversation as I munch on the free bread and my salad. After the entrée is served, I begin to think that they’ve forgotten I’m here. I’ve done my best to remain quiet, attempting to block out Mother Goose as best I can. Either that, or I’ll scream.

“Hey Lucy.” Wyatt grabs my hand, looking at me tentatively. “Can you do something for me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He gets down on one knee. The one thing I longed for, and now dread. “Will you be my wife?”

Before I can provide a response, Stephie jumps up from the table. “O to the M to the G. Imma be maid of honor, y’all!” Red wine spills across the table, bleeding onto my new white blouse.

Um, do I even have to say the word never?

© Copyright 2017, Allyson Kennedy. All rights reserved.

Maybe y’all thought it was funny, maybe not, but I had an awesome time writing this! Check back with me soon!

-Allyson 😀