Your father had never mentioned how much of a disaster planning a wedding was. Granted, Frank and Monica Gallagher probably eloped at the courthouse while drunk off their asses, but a warning would've been nice.

The kitchen table seemed to be a permanent warzone now. The sample bouquet was in a vase and desperately needed water, fabric swatches in various colors were piled up around. You'd collected enough business cards from catering companies to start a bonfire. The mess had forced you and Mickey to start eating at the coffee table in the living room.

Your older brother Lip was already teasing you about Mickey being a bridezilla. And he wasn't wrong. Mickey Milkovich was surprisingly picky about the whole ordeal, insisting that the wedding needed to be perfect. You'd given Mickey a lot of happy days since you'd met, but the wedding was going to be the happiest of them all.

Mickey was already in the kitchen when you woke up Wednesday morning. He'd made you slightly burnt scrambled eggs and bacon, which you accepted with a kiss. "Good morning, Milkovich."

Mickey scribbled on the guest list in an attempt to get the ink flowing in his nearly empty pen. "Who all are we fuckin' inviting to this thing? We don't even know more than ten people."