At her wedding, my sister told me my boyfriend couldn’t be in the family photos because he’d “ruin the aesthetic.” I bit my tongue then, but what she did at the reception was the last straw! In one move, I made sure she’d regret her cruelty. The country venue my sister had chosen for her wedding looked like something ripped straight from a luxury magazine spread: all rustic beams and manicured gardens.
It screamed money without actually saying it out loud. “You think she’ll like it?” Jamie asked, reaching into the backseat for the wine gift bag we’d spent way too much time picking out at the local shop. I knew my sister too well.
“Honestly? No, but I will.”
That made him laugh, which was good because we were both going to need our sense of humor that weekend. Trust me on that one.
Meanwhile, staff members in matching navy polos appeared like genies, all bright smiles and clipboards, ushering us toward the stone patio where Melanie’s “Wedding Weekend Experience” was already in full swing. And yes, she actually called it that in the invitation. I’m not making that up.
Custom water bottles emblazoned with the bride and groom’s names sat on every surface. A banner stretched between trees, letters spelling out #GrantMeForever in what I can only assume was supposed to be witty wordplay. Melanie materialized beside us like she’d been waiting in the wings, champagne flute in one perfectly manicured hand.
Her fiancé Grant appeared at her side, looking like he’d stepped out of a luxury watch advertisement, all sharp jawline and confident smile. Melanie squealed and pulled me into a hug. “Nora!
And Jamie! I didn’t recognize you without your flannel.”
Jamie’s smile tightened just a fraction, but he held out the wine bag like the gentleman he is. “Congratulations, Melanie.
This place is incredible.”
“Of course it is.” Melanie peeked inside the bag, her smile slipping for maybe half a second before snapping back into place. “Oh. I think the bartenders are only pouring our varietals tonight, but maybe we’ll crack this open tomorrow for, like, the cleanup crew?”
Grant’s laugh boomed across the patio.
Jamie glanced at me and shrugged. Melanie was already moving on, waving enthusiastically at a woman with an enormous camera. “We’re doing the start-of-weekend family shots now!
Everyone, if we could gather on the back lawn right by the arbor with the white roses? I want the garden in the background.”
As we followed Melanie, she launched into what can only be described as a location scouting presentation. “We’re using the bluff overlook for the ceremony portraits tomorrow, the terrace with the string lights for cocktail hour candids, and this garden setup for the ‘Weekend Welcome’ album.”
Guests shuffled toward the roses like well-dressed sheep.
Melanie conferred with the photographer about angles and lighting, as well as how much floral coverage the lens should capture. It felt like I was watching my sister direct a movie about her own life. “Okay, let’s get everyone in!” Melanie clapped her hands together.
“Immediate family toward the center, then outer relatives and bridal party fanned out on the sides.”
Jamie and I stepped into the group. The photographer raised her camera, adjusting settings with professional efficiency. “Perfect,” Melanie called out.
“Now, let me just tweak the spacing.”
And that’s when things got interesting. And by interesting, I mean awful. She moved through the group like a stylist, adjusting posture, tugging jewelry straight, and swapping positions.
When she reached Jamie, she paused. “Oh. Jamie?
Would you mind stepping out for this one? It’s just the Weekend Welcome set. Family only.
And I want this shot to be really clean. Like, editorial clean.”
Jamie blinked, confused. We both glanced over at Uncle Bob’s girlfriend and my niece, who’d brought her best friend as a plus-one.
Melanie hadn’t asked either of them to step out of the photo. The photographer hesitated. Jamie, being Jamie, covered the awkwardness with grace.
“It’s fine. No worries.”
He stepped back with a polite smile. See, Jamie won’t get angry.
He’ll internalize it, make excuses, and blame himself. But I will absolutely get angry enough for both of us. The photos took forever.
Click after click of Melanie’s curated perfection, with Jamie standing off to the side throughout like some kind of wedding crasher. When it finally ended, she announced it was time for the welcome dinner. Guests began filing toward the patio, but I couldn’t act like she hadn’t just excluded my boyfriend.
I grabbed Melanie’s elbow before she could make it to the pergola steps. “What the hell was that?”
“Be more specific,” she said, frowning delicately. “The photos.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
