Shipped

SERA

Piss on a pickle.

I fell asleep... rookie mistake.

A suspicious sliver of sunlight cuts across my eyelids, and I groan. Cursing myself upside down and sideways, I try to ignore the unmistakable scent of tequila and what some may call “poor life decisions”.

I crack one eye open and confirm what I already know. Florida daylight is already sneaking through the blinds, and a stranger is snoring softly into the freckled curve of my shoulder.

Awesome.

I gently peel his arm from my waist and sit up, noticing the throbbing behind my eyes and the putrid taste in my mouth. My wild orange-red hair is a tangled mop against my face, and when I push it back, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored closet door.

Smudged eyeliner.

A missing gold earring.

One certified hot mess.

I glance around, hoping for something... anything... that’ll help me feel a little less feral. No luck there. My studio apartment looks exactly like what it is: a glorified storage unit with a bed. The walls are bare, there’s no couch, and the coffee table is really just an old trunk with stickers from six continents. Polaroids spill off the kitchen counter, and a tripod is somehow tangled in yesterday’s laundry. Makes sense, considering I’m never actually here.

It’s not much, but it’s mine. And this morning? It feels especially invaded.

The stranger sleepily reaches for me and I dodge the advance without thinking.

This.

This is why I don’t let them stay the night. I don’t do the morning-after “Let’s do this again” word vomit of lies and pretense. No, thanks. I far prefer the “You finish me, I’ll finish you. Okay, later, boo.”

But seeing as I’ve clearly screwed that up, I guess we’re going with Plan B: the ninja escape.

I’m halfway out of my bed when my phone starts buzzing somewhere in the pile of last night’s clothes. I dig through the mess and fish it out of my baggy jeans, the screen flashing with the photo of my best friend.

Three missed calls.

Make that four.

I wince. Naya does not call repeatedly unless someone’s died or she’s rethinking the wedding flowers. Again.

“Naya,” I answer the video call, voice hoarse. “If you’re calling to tell me you changed your mind on the white lilies, I swear to God-”

“It’s a disaster,” she blurts, her dainty face popping onto the screen. She’s breathless, panicked. The normally flawless beauty is as wrecked as I am. “The venue. The whole thing. It’s flooded. Gone. Everything’s gone.”

I blink. “Wait. What?”

Behind me, the stranger stirs. I turn, give him a quick smile and a small, apologetic wave. “Sorry,” I whisper, holding up my phone. “Best friend. Wedding emergency. I should go.”

He blinks at me, groggy and adorably confused, and I do feel a small twinge of guilt. But not enough to linger. Not with Naya in full panic mode, fresh tears streaming down her warm ebony skin.

“I’ll, uh... let myself out?” he asks, sitting up.

“Perfect,” I say, already shimmying into my pants. “You were great, by the way. Four out of five stars. Would recommend.”

He gives a slow, bemused nod as I tuck my blouse into my jeans, grab my flats, and start hopping into them one at a time while juggling my phone.

“Naya,” I snap back into the call, “slow down. What do you mean it’s flooded? Like... a little busted pipe or-?”

“It’s Noah’s frigging Ark, Sera!” she shrieks. “The venue’s by the marshland! They said some drainage issue? It rained all night and now it’s a damn indoor swimming pool! The whole place is under water. The tables I rented are floating!”

I pause, glancing out the window where the thick humidity fogs the glass. The bright sunlight bounces off rows of pastel buildings and heat-rippled palm trees nearby.

“Okay, deep breath. This is a fixable problem.”

“It’s not! We’re only a few weeks out!”

I swipe a hand over my face before grabbing my camera bag, slinging it over my shoulder. This is not how I thought I’d be ending a hookup, but here we are... shirt on inside out, bra shoved in my back pocket, and summoned for bridal damage control before my coffee.

“Alright,” I say, channeling my inner crisis manager. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m getting caffeine and going into work. You’re going to stop picturing drowned banquet rooms. Then, we’re going to find a new location.”

“How?!” she squeaks. Her sobs have morphed into derailed hiccups and I sigh.

“Sweetie, I’ve got venue hookups on four continents and two celebrity family group chats. If it exists and has an aisle, I can book it.”

“Okay, Ser,” she whispers.

I’ve known Naya since we were two sleep-deprived freshmen at the University of South Florida, surviving off ramen and whatever we could scrounge from the campus café. Even back then, she had this quiet kind of confidence, like she already knew who she was and didn’t need to prove it to anyone. She was radiant. Always poised, thoughtful, and drop-dead gorgeous in that effortlessly magnetic way that made people stop mid-sentence. Meanwhile, I was all elbows and camera lenses, ghostly skin, and forever putting my foot in my mouth. Somehow, she saw past all of that and chose me. We’ve been each other’s person ever since.

“Hang tight,” I click off the call and race through the apartment complex. “I’ll fix this.”

I might not personally buy into the whole “big wedding” idea, but Naya and Nate? They’re the real deal. I was there the day they met in art school, and even I felt it... the earth shifting beneath my feet when their eyes locked. It was fast and unmistakable, the kind of love my mom and dad have. The kind I know Naya deserves.

Outside, the Miami morning hums with energy and possibility. My waves frizz in protest the second I step out the door, fighting the thick, salty air. It smells of cafecito and the lingering scent of day-old rain. Joggers streak past, already slick with sweat, their sneakers slapping against the pavement. A couple of street vendors are setting up their carts, overflowing with tropical fruit and handmade jewelry.

I take a deep breath, tap open a new text message to my boss, and smile to myself.

Let’s save a wedding.

---

Far and Found Magazine doesn’t do clutter. It does floor-to-ceiling windows, Italian leather chairs, and a scent that’s probably trademarked. Every surface gleams. Every travel print is perfectly aligned in black metal frames, like someone Photoshopped an art gallery into our magazine office. It’s the kind of place that whispers “luxury” and “don’t you dare spill.”

I stick out like a sore thumb on my best day.

By the time I walk into the building, I’ve already processed the pandemonium swirling in my head. If anyone can help me pull this off, it’s my editor, Curtis. But while he’s got the connections and the patience of a saint, it doesn’t mean he’s going to love my idea.

Curtis is sitting behind his desk when I walk into his office, flipping through a stack of image selections. He looks up, giving me a weathered smile that suggests he’s seen me traipse in like this far more than HR would approve. My shirt is still askew, hair in a messy knot. But I’ve got a habit of turning mayhem into art, and bless his pretty face, he’s learned to roll with it.

“Sera,” he says, putting the proofs down and adjusting his black-framed glasses. “You look like you wrestled an alligator and lost. Twice.”

I grimace, dropping my camera bag and leaning against his desk. “You should see the bride.”

He shifts forward, reaching into a drawer for a spare button-down. He tosses it to me, shaking his head in disapproval as he turns around. I peek to make sure none of my coworkers are passing through before I discard my top, hook my bra, and tug on the oversized pinstripe dress shirt.

Curtis is my editor, but more than that, he’s one of the few people in my life who’s never made me feel like I have to tone it down. Not the wild hair. Not the impulsive career choices. Not the tendency to show up to work smelling like last night’s bar crawl.

“All clear,” I announce, fastening the buttons. “Now before you start lecturing me about professionalism, here’s the pitch-”

He raises a brow. “Let me guess... something went to hell, and you want to turn it into content.”

“Bingo,” I reply, crossing my arms. “It’s a flooded venue, my best friend’s in meltdown mode, and the only way to save this wedding is to make it a feature in our magazine. Real vows. Real love. What do you think?”

He doesn’t immediately respond, his fingers drumming against the wooden desk as he thinks it over. Curtis is not a man who jumps to conclusions, but I know he’s already got a hundred reasons why this could fall apart. He’s got that look. This isn’t my friend, this is my editor-in-chief.

“You’re talking about scrapping the entire pre-scheduled shoot with the cruise line?” Curtis asks, leaning back in his chair. “And replacing it with your friend’s wedding, on a destination coast, 3 weeks before the event?”

I nod, my heart racing. “Exactly. Full editorial coverage. Ceremony, portraits, candids, reception. I’ll make it work. We’ll get a spread and digital gallery.”

He’s not convinced.

“Think about it,” I attempt again. “A true destination wedding on a maiden voyage. It’s emotional. It’s gorgeous. It’s chaos in couture. Readers won’t just scroll, they’ll swoon.”

He raises a finger, still not fully sold. I can practically hear him running through the idea in his mind. “I don’t know, Sera. Weddings are unpredictable. What if it rains? What if they cry ugly? What if it’s all beige?”

“It won’t be,” I assure him. “The bride is stunning, the groom’s a softie with a gruff beard, and the cruise is luxe as hell. The ship looks like a billionaire’s vacation home. Give me two hours of golden hour and a steady deck, and I’ll get you magic.”

He taps his pen against the desk, skeptical but intrigued. I press on, lowering my voice to a pitch-perfect sales tone.

“This isn’t a shoot. It’s a story. Authenticity is trending! People want behind-the-scenes, not just styled perfection. This gives us that. It’s fresh, it’s raw, it’s love in motion.”

Curtis exhales slowly, like he’s trying not to be charmed. As he glances toward the side of his desk, my eyes follow, landing on the small photo frame beside his monitor. It’s him and Marcus, all dressed up and beaming at the mountaintop vineyard ceremony I was just cool enough to score an invite to. Curtis in navy. Marcus in pale gray. Pure joy, captured mid-laugh, champagne flutes in hand.

I tap the corner of the frame lightly. “You remember this day, don’t you?”

His expression softens before he can stop it.

“Real love,” I say, holding his gaze. “Messy, beautiful, soaked-in-champagne kind of love. That’s what this is. Just with more wind and possibly a rogue seagull.”

Curtis sighs through a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re shameless.”

“Unabashedly,” I reply. “But I mean every word.”

Curtis exhales, clearly torn. Finally, he leans forward, his eyes narrowing in that calculating way he does when he’s making a decision.

“Only if the cruise line plays ball,” he says slowly. “You get them on board, and I’ll greenlight it.”

I can’t help but grin. “They will. I’ve already got a contact. If I pitch it as free press with a built-in photo package, they’ll bite.”

Curtis nods slowly, letting the idea settle. “Alright, bring me a guest list and a timeline in the next 24 hours. I’ll get corporate to sign off. And if this ends with a cake fight or a man overboard, you’re on your own.”

I give him a mock salute. “Deal. Thanks, Curtie. You won’t regret this.”

“Don’t call me that.”