Wrong Bride

A wedding's planner life

"Another closed happy-ending chapter accomplish," Maxfield Riker says as he always does when is past midnight on days like these ones. After the last box is place on the trunk and the vehicle's engine roars as if it was aware of the celebration. The waving of hands as the car seems to turn even smaller by every second that elapses. Then, the only thing left around is the memory of the newly happy couple heading towards their final destination

...and the mess in the inside of the local.

Now you see not everything about a wedding day is bright as it is claim. At least not for us wedding planners.

"We always do a stunning job as a team--no, more like a family," says Prescott Cleveland as we all make our ways inside the wide room so we can clear the tables from any wrappers, gather all the utensils to wash them, remove the bright fibers from the windows, and the cloths from the round tables which most of them had been unoccupied during the ceremony. There is never perfect assistance in such events.

"We do," agrees Field. We use to call Maxfield by the name of 'Field'. Your American-average would mostly abbreviate his full name with a simple 'Max', but for Prescott that was call being 'common' and for a DJ that term didn't seem to be best swallow. Besides, he believes his last name is another way to recall his cleverness, thing that a smart person wouldn't think about. At first, Maxfield wasn't all-convince of being call like that, but eventually he started being the one to choose names for the rest of us.

"You know what the ironic thing about this whole situation is?" Prescott mutters with a grim expression on his face. The large speaker on his shoulder isn't very helpful when it comes for him to talk. We remain silent for him to continue and so he does. "We have been planning these 'wedding-events' for half a decade and none of them had been for ourselves."

I cough at his comment. My eyes wander the room from side to side until they rest on a pile of crimson cloths where behind them stands a Tanner folding one herself. Field seems to follow my gaze for he gape at my direction, almost dropping the half-empty glass cup he holds. Only the growl that escapes from a furious Prescott is able to bring him back to reality and the mess that still surround us.

"No," he says after he recovers his composure. "No-no-no. You cannot be serious. This-this-you have to be joking." I shrug, aware that his golden eyes still rest on me, even when my concentration seems to fully be on the curtains I remove from the windows.

"You should ask that to her yourself, don't you think Emerson?"

"What," she seems distracted, unaware of the mockery she is receiving. Or perhaps she is pretending. As long as we've known her, Emerson is an expert when it comes to hide the truth from others.

"Is it true that you're getting marry," Fields eyes widen even more, if that turns out to be possible, "this young!"

"What!" She hesitates. "No-no, of course not. I've seen way too many weddings to wish one for myself. And besides, I'm twenty-five, old enough to get marry," Field narrows his eyes at that last comment, for she quickly adds. "Which I am obviously not planning to-ever."

"You're lying," Field accuses her. As myself, he is also aware of Emerson dressing up the truth for her own convenience.

"I am not!" She grunts in frustration. "Mara, tell him, I'm not lying, not this time. I swear."

"She was the one who told me so," he points out. Emerson seems slightly insult for his words and shots a mortal glare all the way up to the ladder I'm on top of, still struggling to untie a knot from the golden curtain.

"Thank you very much, friend."

"Hey, what's with all the disarray around here?" Prescott holds his hands up high as he crosses the front door he had left to put away the large speaker.