Beatrice Thornberry had exactly three goals for her cousin Veronica’s wedding: arrive on time, avoid the open bar, and absolutely do not draw any attention to herself. As she stood in the hotel parking lot at precisely two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, clutching her sensible beige clutch and wearing her sensible beige dress, she felt confident about her chances. Beatrice was an accountant who specialized in being unremarkable. She’d perfected the art of blending into wallpaper.
What Beatrice didn’t know was that the universe had other plans. Very different plans. Plans that would turn this wedding into a legendary family story told at every gathering for the next thirty years.
The first sign of trouble came when she walked into the hotel lobby and realized she’d forgotten which ballroom the ceremony was in. The Grande Montclair Hotel had seventeen ballrooms, a fact Beatrice discovered with growing horror as she wandered past rooms labeled everything from “The Crystal Palace” to “The Duchess Garden.” She’d left the invitation in her car, naturally, because bringing it inside would have been too sensible.
After fifteen minutes of aimless wandering, Beatrice finally heard music and followed it to a room called “The Imperial Terrace.” She slipped inside just as the ceremony was starting, relieved to have made it. The room was packed with at least two hundred guests, all dressed in their finest. Beatrice squeezed into an empty seat in the back row, next to an elderly woman who smelled strongly of mothballs and was already crying.
The bride looked radiant as she walked down the aisle. Beatrice squinted. Something seemed off. Veronica had definitely said she was wearing her grandmother’s vintage lace dress, but this bride was in a sleek, modern gown with a dramatic train. Also, Veronica was a redhead, and this bride was blonde. Very blonde.
Beatrice’s stomach dropped. Wrong wedding. These awkward situations turning into comedy were exactly the kind of thing that happened to her, and only her. She’d somehow crashed a stranger’s wedding.
The smart move would have been to quietly slip out. Instead, Beatrice froze like a rabbit in headlights. The elderly woman next to her grabbed her hand and squeezed it, apparently mistaking Beatrice’s panic for emotion. The woman whispered, “Beautiful, isn’t it? I never thought my grandson would find someone after that incident with the alpacas.”
Beatrice nodded weakly, having no idea what alpaca incident she was supposedly aware of, but too mortified to speak. She’d wait until the ceremony ended, then escape during the chaos of everyone moving to the reception. Easy. Simple. No one would even notice her.
The ceremony proceeded normally until the officiant asked if anyone objected to the union. In the silence that followed, Beatrice’s phone began to ring. Loudly. At full volume. With the ringtone she’d forgotten she’d set last week as a joke: a recording of a screaming goat.
Two hundred heads turned to stare at her. The bride’s eye twitched. Beatrice fumbled with her clutch, her hands suddenly made of rubber, as the goat continued its electronic bleating. She finally silenced it, her face now roughly the color of a fire engine.
“Sorry,” she whispered to no one in particular. “So sorry. Very sorry.”
The officiant cleared his throat and continued. Beatrice wished for the earth to open up and swallow her whole. The elderly woman was no longer holding her hand. In fact, she’d scooted several inches away.
The moment the ceremony concluded with “you may kiss the bride,” Beatrice bolted for the exit. Unfortunately, she bolted directly into a waiter carrying a tray of champagne glasses. The tray went flying. Glasses shattered. Champagne went everywhere, including all over the front of Beatrice’s sensible beige dress, which now looked like she’d been involved in a water balloon fight.
The waiter, a young man with kind eyes and enviable composure, immediately apologized even though it was clearly Beatrice’s fault. “I’m so sorry, miss. Are you alright?”
“Fine! Totally fine! Never better!” Beatrice squeaked, sounding like she’d been sucking helium. She grabbed a handful of napkins from his tray and pressed them to her dress, which only succeeded in making her look like she was wearing a paper towel mosaic.
She finally made it to the lobby, dripping champagne and dignity in equal measure. She checked her phone for the correct ballroom location. The Sapphire Suite. She was in The Imperial Terrace. They weren’t even on the same floor.
Beatrice took the elevator up three floors, leaving a trail of champagne drops behind her like the world’s worst Hansel and Gretel. When she found The Sapphire Suite, the ceremony was just finishing. Perfect. She could slip in with the crowd, and no one would know she’d missed it.
Except that everyone immediately noticed her champagne-soaked dress.
“Beatrice!” her Aunt Patricia shrieked. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing! Just a small drink accident. Barely worth mentioning. Wedding was beautiful, by the way.” Beatrice hadn’t seen a single second of it.
Veronica, the actual bride, rushed over. Unlike the blonde stranger downstairs, Veronica was indeed a redhead, wearing indeed her grandmother’s vintage lace. “Bea! Oh my god, you’re soaked! Did someone spill on you?”
“More like I spilled on myself. You know me. Coordination of a newborn giraffe.” Beatrice laughed nervously. “But congratulations! You look stunning. The vows were very moving.” She had no idea what the vows had been.
“Moving? Bea, we did traditional vows. Like, the same ones from the 1600s. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house though when Gary’s grandmother started singing during the unity candle lighting.”
“Oh yes, that part. Very touching. Especially when she… did that thing.” Beatrice was in too deep now.
Veronica looked at her suspiciously but was distracted by another well-wisher. Beatrice made a beeline for the bathroom to assess the damage. The mirror delivered bad news: her dress looked like a crime scene, her mascara had migrated somewhere south of her cheekbones, and her carefully styled hair had collapsed into something resembling a bird’s nest. Also, she had a napkin stuck to her hip.
She was attempting to salvage the situation with industrial-strength paper towels when another woman burst into the bathroom, similarly distressed. She was wearing a bridesmaid dress in a shade of purple that could only be described as “aggressive.”
“Hide me,” the woman gasped. “If one more person asks me when I’m getting married, I’m going to fake my own death and move to Alaska.”
“Get in line,” Beatrice muttered, scrubbing at her dress. “I just crashed a stranger’s wedding, ruined their ceremony with a goat ringtone, assaulted a waiter, and lied to the bride about remembering vows I didn’t hear.”
The bridesmaid stared at her. Then she started laughing. “You’re having a worse day than me, and I just found out my ex-boyfriend is the best man, and I have to do a choreographed dance with him later.”
“There’s a choreographed dance?” Beatrice’s horror was genuine.
“Welcome to Veronica’s wedding. She’s very extra.” The bridesmaid extended her hand. “I’m Sloane, cousin from the groom’s side.”
“Beatrice, cousin from the bride’s side. Professional disaster magnet.”
They shook hands, bonding instantly over their shared misery. Sloane had a spare dress in her car, a black cocktail number that was slightly too tight but infinitely better than wearing a champagne-soaked beige sack. They made a plan: stick together, protect each other from nosy relatives, and survive this wedding as a team.
The reception was being held in an adjacent ballroom, and Beatrice felt cautiously optimistic as she and Sloane entered together. The room was gorgeous, decorated with thousands of fairy lights and flowers. Round tables surrounded a large dance floor. A DJ was setting up in the corner. An enormous cake dominated one wall, each tier more elaborate than the last.
“Okay,” Sloane whispered. “Key to wedding survival: look busy at all times. Always be walking somewhere purposefully. Hold a drink. Nod seriously. If a relative approaches, point across the room and say you need to catch someone before they leave.”
“You’re a genius,” Beatrice breathed.
They executed their plan flawlessly for approximately twelve minutes. Then the DJ announced that the bride wanted everyone to find their assigned seats for dinner, and Beatrice discovered she’d been placed at the singles table. The dreaded table two, where families traditionally banished all their unmarried relatives to contemplate their life choices.
Sloane, mercifully, was also at table two. So was Sloane’s ex-boyfriend Marcus, the best man, who arrived with perfect hair and a smile that could sell toothpaste. He and Sloane immediately began radiating so much awkward tension that Beatrice worried they might create a small weather system.
Also at the table: Veronica’s brother Todd, who was very interested in cryptocurrency and very uninterested in whether anyone else wanted to hear about it. A woman named Jasmine who spent the entire salad course taking photos of her food from different angles. Gary’s cousin Kevin, who was clearly already drunk despite cocktail hour having ended twenty minutes ago. And an elderly man introduced as “Uncle Herbert,” who immediately fell asleep.
Dinner was surprisingly pleasant despite the company. The food was excellent. Todd’s cryptocurrency monologue was interrupted by Kevin knocking over a water glass. Jasmine got a great shot of her chicken piccata. Uncle Herbert snored gently. Marcus and Sloane maintained arctic silence. Beatrice began to relax. Maybe the worst was over. Maybe she could actually enjoy the rest of this wedding.
Then came the speeches.
Gary’s best man speech was sweet and funny, full of anecdotes about their college days and their disastrous road trip to Vegas. Veronica’s maid of honor gave a tear-jerking tribute to their friendship that had even Beatrice reaching for a tissue. Everything was going perfectly.
Until the DJ announced, “And now, a special surprise speech from the bride’s family! Please welcome Beatrice Thornberry!”
Beatrice choked on her wine. This had to be a mistake. She wasn’t supposed to give a speech. She’d specifically declined when asked months ago, citing her crippling fear of public speaking. She turned to Sloane in panic, but Sloane just looked confused.
Gary’s mother was already gesturing enthusiastically for Beatrice to come to the microphone. The entire reception was applauding. Aunt Patricia was beaming. Veronica looked puzzled but was clapping politely. These awkward situations turning into comedy were becoming the theme of Beatrice’s entire existence.
Beatrice walked to the front on legs that felt like overcooked spaghetti. She took the microphone from the DJ, who whispered, “You’ve got this!” He did not, in fact, got this.
“Hello everyone,” Beatrice began, her voice coming out strangled. “I’m Beatrice. Veronica’s cousin. As you can see.”
Two hundred people stared at her expectantly. Beatrice’s mind was completely blank. She couldn’t remember a single story about Veronica. She couldn’t remember Veronica’s husband’s name. Was it Gary? It was definitely Gary. Probably Gary.
“Veronica and… her husband… are perfect together,” Beatrice continued, desperately stalling. “I remember when we were kids, and Veronica always said she’d marry someone special. And she has. Someone very… special. With qualities. Good qualities.”
Someone coughed. This was dying. She was dying. The speech was dying. Everything was dying.
In desperation, Beatrice’s brain decided to help by retrieving literally the only Veronica-related memory it could access: the time in third grade when Veronica got her head stuck between the staircase railings at school and the fire department had to be called.
“Actually,” Beatrice said, her voice gaining strength from sheer panic-induced momentum, “let me tell you about the real Veronica. When we were eight, she got her head stuck in a staircase railing.”
The room erupted in laughter. Veronica buried her face in her hands, but she was laughing too. Encouraged, Beatrice continued. “The fire department came. Local news showed up. She was on television. And you know what she said when they asked if she was scared? She said, ‘No, I’m not scared. I’m just wondering how long until snack time.'”
More laughter. Beatrice was on a roll now, her nervousness transforming into something else entirely: comedic momentum. “That’s Veronica. She doesn’t panic. She doesn’t give up. She just focuses on what’s important. Like snacks. And now, like Gary. Although Gary is definitely more important than snacks. Probably. I mean, Gary’s great. Gary’s wonderful. But snacks are also pretty important.”
She was rambling now, but people were loving it. She told another story about Veronica trying to give her cat a bath and ending up needing six stitches. Another about Veronica’s disastrous attempt at baking that nearly caused a small kitchen fire. With each story, the laughter grew louder, and Beatrice’s confidence grew with it.
She concluded with, “Veronica has always been brave, determined, and just chaotic enough to keep life interesting. Gary, you’re marrying someone who will never bore you. She might occasionally get her head stuck in things, or set things on fire, or adopt animals that hate her, but she’ll never bore you. To Veronica and Gary!”
The room erupted in applause and cheers. People were wiping tears from their eyes. Veronica was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Gary looked delighted. Beatrice handed the microphone back to the DJ and practically floated back to her table, high on adrenaline and disbelief.
“That was amazing,” Sloane whispered. “You’re a natural!”
“I blacked out,” Beatrice admitted. “I have no idea what I said.”
“Whatever it was, it worked. Everyone loved it.”
The rest of the evening proceeded in a blur. Beatrice danced with Uncle Herbert, who woke up specifically to ask her for a waltz and turned out to be surprisingly spry. She photobombed approximately forty of Jasmine’s carefully staged shots. She watched Sloane and Marcus perform their choreographed dance, which was actually quite impressive despite their obvious mutual awkwardness. By the end of the dance, they were both laughing, and Beatrice noticed them disappearing onto the terrace together.
Beatrice found herself genuinely enjoying the reception, something she hadn’t thought possible six hours ago when she’d been standing in that parking lot dreading every moment. She caught the bouquet, entirely by accident when it bounced off Todd’s head and landed in her arms. She gave a slightly tipsy interview to Gary’s cousin who was making a documentary about the wedding for some reason. She ate three pieces of cake.
As the evening wound down and guests began filtering out, Veronica found Beatrice near the exit.
“That speech,” Veronica said, pulling her into a tight hug. “Honestly, that was the best part of my wedding. Everyone’s talking about it. You made this day so special.”
“I’m glad,” Beatrice said, meaning it. “Although I should confess something. I accidentally crashed someone else’s wedding this afternoon. Downstairs. The Imperial Terrace. I ruined their ceremony with a goat ringtone.”
Veronica stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. I was in the wrong ballroom for your entire ceremony. I have no idea what happened. For all I know, you got married by Elvis impersonator.”
“It was a normal officiant, actually. Very boring. Much less interesting than your adventure.” Veronica was still laughing. “Bea, you’re the best. Don’t ever change.”
Driving home that night, still wearing Sloane’s borrowed dress and carrying her ruined beige disaster in a plastic bag, Beatrice reflected on the day. She’d started with three simple goals: arrive on time, avoid the open bar, and don’t draw attention to herself. She’d failed spectacularly at all three.
But in failing, she’d somehow succeeded at something else entirely. She’d made people laugh. She’d made memories. She’d turned awkward situations turning into comedy gold, even if it hadn’t been intentional. She’d discovered that sometimes the best moments in life were the unplanned ones, the messy ones, the ones where everything went wrong but somehow ended up right.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Sloane: “Marcus and I are getting coffee next week. Thank you for the terrible singles table placement. Also, someone filmed your speech and it’s going viral on wedding TikTok. You’re famous.”
Beatrice groaned but was secretly pleased. She pulled up the video out of curiosity. It had already been viewed fifty thousand times, with comments like “This is the best wedding speech I’ve ever heard” and “The staircase story KILLED me” and “Can she speak at my wedding?”
Another text came through, this time from an unknown number: “Hi, this is the bride from The Imperial Terrace. Someone told me you were at our wedding by accident? And that you’re the goat phone lady? Just wanted to say thanks for the memorable ceremony. Also, my grandmother said you seemed lovely and she was disappointed when you left. Would you like to come to our reception next month? I feel like you’ve earned it at this point.”
Beatrice laughed out loud in her car, alone in the dark parking lot. She typed back: “I’d be honored. I promise to turn my phone off this time.”
As she drove toward her apartment, Beatrice thought about her carefully planned life, her sensible wardrobe, her dedication to being unremarkable and forgettable. Maybe, she thought, there was something to be said for chaos. For accidents. For goat ringtones and crashed weddings and speeches given in blind panic. For awkward situations turning into comedy and connection and unexpected joy.
She made a mental note to update her ringtone to something more professional. Then she immediately decided against it. The goat stayed. Life was clearly more interesting with a screaming goat in your pocket.
When Beatrice arrived home, she found another text waiting, this one from Aunt Patricia: “Your mother wants to know if you’ll give a speech at your cousin Timothy’s wedding in March. I told her you’d be delighted.”
Beatrice smiled and typed back: “Only if I can bring my goat.”
She didn’t clarify whether she meant the ringtone or an actual goat. Let them wonder. After all, predictability was overrated, and Beatrice Thornberry was apparently done being sensible.
She had weddings to crash, speeches to give, and a reputation as a walking comedy of errors to maintain. And honestly, she wouldn’t have it any other way.