This had me thinking about some uncomfortable shit. What would Mom say if she found out I was the reason a married woman was getting divorced? Would she sigh? Would she cry? Or would she just stare at me over her steaming mug of herbal "I told you so" blend and ask, "Peter, darling, couldn't you have found a slightly less... explosive hobby? Like collecting rare stamps? Or juggling chainsaws?"
Forget Isabella's particular Christ-on-a-crutch situation – the real grenade I'd lobbed into the societal China shop was Amanda. Literally. Stolen a bride. From her actual engagement party. Like some fucked-up fairy tale where the dragon rides off with the princess before the "I Do's," leaving the hapless prince holding a wilted bouquet and a lifetime of therapy bills.
We didn't just crash her upcoming wedding; we detonated it, scooped up the dazed, glittery debris.
