Sweet Romance12 min read
I Crashed a Wedding, Stole Three Red Envelopes, and Met August
ButterPicks11 views
I was supposed to be invisible that weekend. My mother had a long speech about family obligations, and I had my own plan: eat a free wedding meal and be home by two. I never thought "invisible" would lead me into a hallway of flying doors, inflatable hammers, and a man whose smile I would remember for weeks.
"I told you not to go," my mom had said as she stuffed a folded cash note into my hand.
"I'll be back before dessert," I promised.
She shrugged and went back to her mahjong. "Don't embarrass yourself, Journee."
"Embarrass me? It's a wedding, Mom. I'll be polite."
I lied. I was polite for five minutes and then followed a crowd downstairs because someone said they'd go to the bride's house. I sat in the car like a shadow, watching people laugh and call out. They pulled me out like I belonged. I didn't. I only belonged to the idea of free food and the thrill of being somewhere I didn't have to be.
"You're sure you want to go in?" an older woman asked me, but before I could answer, the door of the bride's house exploded inward.
"Who did that?" someone shouted.
"It's just the door!" another voice laughed.
A group of bridesmaids blocked the room; their faces were bright and determined. Groomsmen pushed against the door, shoving red envelopes through the gap. Suddenly, an inflatable hammer struck my head.
"Hey!" I said, rubbing my scalp. My teeth felt a little loose from laughter.
A tall man—he had thick eyebrows and sharp eyes, a face that seemed carved for attention—reached out and grabbed me. His hand was firm. Before I could say anything, his palm pulled me in front of him like a human shield.
"Sorry!" he said, and the hammer hit him instead of me.
I was furious.
"Don't you dare use me as a body shield!" I shouted, and the bridesmaids turned to grin.
"That's my defense now," he said, without shame.
The moment I felt the sting of insult more than pain, I went wild. I snatched up a nearby inflatable hammer and charged into the melee. From where I stood, he was the most annoying handsome man in the room. He had no right to be both convenient and attractive.
"You hit him!" an aunt declared as the room dissolved into chaos.
"Watch this one," a bridesmaid hissed in my ear. "She fights."
"Good," I told myself out loud and swung.
I didn't just swing. I targeted him, the one who had used me as a meat shield. I smacked, I jabbed, and at the end of the frenzy, we all stood panting among tossed red envelopes and a missing door.
By the time we left for the banquet hall, I had three red envelopes hiding in my bag. I had taken them like a thief in broad daylight. Someone called me reckless, someone else called me brave. I called it a good snack plan.
One of the cars in the convoy had few people in it. I picked the empty seat that felt most like a private island and sat down in the front passenger seat—only to find the driver was the same tall, handsome man.
He looked at me and smirked. "Did you enjoy the smash-and-grab?"
"Story needed," I said, making a face. "For dramatic effect."
He laughed and didn't say another word. The convoy moved. The radio hummed. We rode in silence until his phone buzzed. It said: "EX." Big letters across the screen.
He glanced at me. "Answer?"
"Help you?" I asked.
"Say you're my girlfriend," he said, casual and almost bored. "I'll tip you two envelopes later."
"What's in it for me besides envelopes?" I asked.
He shrugged. "A story."
"Deal," I said.
I put on the voice I thought a girlfriend might use—soft, a little breathy, a little coy. "Hello? This is August. He's sleeping."
A roar of angry shouting came through the phone. She screamed his name, and then demanded he come out. I rolled my eyes and said, "He's napping. Call back tomorrow."
When I hung up, he grinned and asked, "So, did he sound convincing?"
"Yes," I said. I pocketed the promise of two envelopes and tried not to check how my cheeks had gone warm.
At the hotel, I dodged a sea of guests and took a corner table. I had already slipped into the bridesmaids' crew like I was part of the family. They fed me gossip and kept my hands full of small tasks. I enjoyed the small madness of it. It was noisy and loud and deliciously alive.
"Is that your girlfriend?" August asked quietly as he walked past with a tray.
"No," I said, with a little nervy grin.
"She looked like she was protecting you earlier," he said, nodding toward the stage.
"Protecting me? She was being dramatic."
He shrugged. "I thought you were part of my sister's family."
"I said I'm from the bride's side," I replied.
"That should make you on the other team's side," he said, and then he lifted one shoulder. "I don't actually have a relative called a great-uncle's nephew's niece's..."
I blinked. "What?"
"You said something about a relation, and I said I don't have a great-uncle like that."
I choked on my fork for a second and pulled out my phone to call my mother. "Are you sure I'm in the right place?" I hissed.
"New groom's last name?" I asked August. "Does he have the same family as the bride?"
He frowned. "He is my brother. He shares my last name."
I cursed under my breath and ran. Of course I had the wrong wedding. Of course.
"Hey! Where are you going?" August called, not unkindly.
"To explain to my mother that I was wrong about every relationship she's ever told me," I muttered.
By the time I went back into the other reception and gave the second two-hundred-dollar envelope (because my mom, stubborn as sin, insisted I give something), August found me again outside the hotel.
"Running into trouble again?" he asked, hands in his pockets like he belonged to the world and not to my mess.
"Yes," I snapped. "Because my mother lives in myth and genealogical fiction."
He laughed and tossed two more red envelopes at me. "For the inconvenience. Keep them."
I shoved them into my bag, suddenly not as angry about switching weddings. I felt safer with him nearby in the absurd way he made the chaos feel smaller.
He had this easy way of looking at me that made strangers seem like background. "Promise you'll add me on that fancy phone thing," he said.
"What's the benefit?" I asked.
"I will protect you from exes."
"That's a low bar." I smiled and added him.
That night, I went home with extra cash and an absurd memory. I told myself I'd never meet him again. People like him exist like comets—sudden, bright, and gone.
Three days later, I was at a basketball game with Blair. The air smelled like hot sun and sweat. The court around us pulsed with energy and the visiting team was wearing a black jersey.
"Isn't that—" Blair began, and then she stopped because she saw the same face I'd seen at the wedding.
He dunked, grabbed a bottle of water, and then came over when my little drama with a junior player—Grayson Roth—got awkward. The junior tried to help. He was polite. But August swooped in, took my water, and said, "My girlfriend's water."
"You're making this up," I hissed at him.
"Say yes," he said into my ear, and because the crowd was watching, I did. Grayson left with a small, bruised expression.
"You're terrible," I told August.
"You said you'd help with exes," he grinned.
We walked away in that awkward pretend-couple way. People hooted. I felt my face heat up.
Over the next weeks, campus became smaller because August was everywhere I needed him to be. When the visiting team's ex-girlfriend—Katalina Yang—showed up later and caused a scene at his dorm, he called me like it was emergency duty. He offered five hundred dollars for me to come and be his decoy. I hesitated for three seconds. "Five hundred?" I asked.
"Five hundred," he repeated.
I went. I brought Berkley, who was exactly the kind of friend you bring into every kind of trouble. Berkley fought like a legend. She pulled hair, she cursed, she won the brawl without trying. Katalina left with a bruised face and a smirk that had been wiped away.
We thought that would be the end of it. It was not.
The school went into a weird kind of lockdown later when a health scare closed the campus. We were put into a quarantine dorm, and the roster included Katalina. She and Berkley went from enemies to something like friends, which I watched with the same confusion I felt about a soap opera.
August kept showing up in ways that were equal parts infuriating and comforting. He was the one who checked my pulse when I fainted on the field—at one point he leaned in so close my face felt his breath. "Don't be dramatic," he said softly, but his hands were shaking.
"Did you just... almost kiss me as first aid?" I asked when I came back to my senses.
"No. I gave you proper care," he said, but his ears turned pink enough to tell the truth.
Weeks stretched into something warm. We fit together into a rhythm of small acts: he pushed me through crowds, I stole his fries, he called me his "little trouble magnet," and I pretended not to like the warmth in my chest when he said it.
Then the confession on the campus field happened. I thought it would be fake. I thought it would be a prank. Instead, under the glow of candles and a cloud of people, August walked forward and asked me, simple and direct, "Journee, will you try dating me?"
My heart leapt so high I nearly tumbled. I could see Berkley grinning like someone who had set a match to fireworks. I could see Katalina watching from the side, quiet and strange. I stammered, "Yes," and in a noisy second he pulled me in and kissed me; the crowd shouted like a sea.
After that night, we were no longer a joke and not yet a couple—just something in-between, and it felt good.
But happiness is messy. A rumor started, a video surfaced. Some of Katalina's old behavior had been captured—a phone video where she was aggressive, calling him names, swearing she would never let a breakup stand. Suddenly, people who had admired her stopped and turned their cameras away. The video spread. Katalina's fierce image began to crack.
One afternoon, the campus booked a public reconciliation meeting at the amphitheater. People filled the steps: students, staff, friends. I was there because August had asked me to come. Berkley sat two rows down, arms folded. Blair passed me a water bottle. The air buzzed like static.
Katalina came in late.
"Why are you here?" Berkley whispered.
"To make more trouble, probably," I muttered.
Katalina took the stage when the dean's assistant called her name. "I want to clear things up," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I was wronged. I was the one who—"
A voice cut through from the back. "You said you didn't hit anyone."
"No, I didn't—"
"Then whose hand is on that video?" someone shouted. A student holding a phone stepped forward. "Is that you, Katalina? Is this what you did?" He hit play.
The amphitheater went quiet as the recorded footage rolled across a big screen. It showed Katalina in an earlier incident, shoving and screaming. The footage wasn't clipped; it was full context—text messages, time stamps, and audio where she admitted making threats if she didn't get her way.
For a beat there was silence, and then everyone started talking at once.
"She lied."
"That's not the Katalina I knew."
"She should apologize."
Katalina's face went white. Her practiced swagger fell away like a cloak.
"I didn't—" she said, voice thin.
"You did," the student said. "We got the messages. You told your friends to follow him, to block his calls. You said you'd make his life miserable if he left you."
"I didn't—" she repeated, this time louder, and the deck of excuses began to tremble.
The dean's assistant stepped forward. "We have verified this material. We called witnesses. This is not only a violation of campus conduct but a pattern."
Katalina's eyes darted for an ally and found none. The crowd turned its attention away, phones up, recording every twitch of her face.
"This is harassment," someone yelled. "You tried to ruin him. You stalked him. You lied to the class council."
Katalina tried to speak, to say something big and defiant, to twist the evidence into a different story. "You don't know the whole story," she cried. "He hurt me first—"
"Where are the messages?" a student demanded. "Where's proof? You've been the one to threaten him."
"I—" She collapsed into a string of denials. Her voice climbed and fell. She accused other people, she called out names, she said she had been misunderstood. At first her tone was angry, then it shifted into panic, then to pleading.
"Please," she begged, looking directly at me and August. "Please forgive me. I was confused. I was—"
The amphitheater didn't soften. People who had been on her side withdrew like a tide. Several students turned their backs. Someone took a step forward and snapped a picture. Laughter turned to quiet contempt. Where there had been a dozen friends, only a handful stood awkwardly at the edges, their faces flushed with embarrassment.
"I have reported this to student affairs," the dean announced. "There will be an investigation. Until then, I advise you to cease contact with any parties involved."
Katalina's reaction changed like a scene on a screen. At first there was arrogance—she walked on the stage like she owned it. Then shock—her eyes opened wide. Then denial—she shook her head and called the evidence fake. Then collapse—she started to cry, a high, ugly sound that made everyone uncomfortable. Then pleading—she begged for a second chance and then begged for privacy. The crowd's talk turned into whispers, then into murmurs of disgust.
"Why would you do this?" someone asked from the audience.
"I'm sorry!" she wailed. "I'm so, so sorry!"
But the words felt empty. People filmed her apology, not because they wanted to forgive her but because no one wanted to miss the fall. A student near me leaned over and whispered, "She had it coming."
Katalina's friends—those who had stayed—shuffled toward the exit. One by one, they backed away. One student aimed a camera and, without malice but with purpose, uploaded the footage live. People around us took out their phones and started to type. A social media thread built faster than I could blink.
"Stop recording," someone said—too late.
Katalina's denial turned to arguments, trying to discredit the recordings. "Someone edited that!" she cried. "It's photoshopped. I was set up!"
A calm man from student affairs walked up to the stage. He had the authority that makes people speak slower and listen. "We will review all material," he said, softly. "But for now, the evidence we have is substantial."
Katalina realized she had lost the room. Her voice softened into a small whine. She sank to the edge of the stage and curled her legs under her, covering her face. Those who had been watching reacted differently: some nodded with grim satisfaction, others snapped photos and whispered, "This is how it ends." A few passersby turned away in a gesture that felt like a verdict.
I watched August beside me. He looked tired. "You okay?" I whispered.
He nodded. "I didn't want this for her."
"Why did she do it?" I asked, because I wanted to understand why a person would burn bridges this hard.
August stared at the stage. "Because she couldn't let go."
The final moment of public punishment came when a woman from the student council—someone I didn't know well but who was brave enough—stepped forward with a thick envelope of printed messages and photos. "You will be suspended pending review," she announced, and the words slotted like another concrete block in the tide of condemnation.
Katalina's face crumpled. She attempted a last plea, then her knees buckled. Security guided her down the stairs while half the amphitheater looked on, some in disgust, some in shock, some with a morbid interest. As they led her away, people whispered and recorded and tweeted.
Katalina tried to say something to a camera, but her words were swallowed by the sound of people talking. The last thing I heard from her as she was escorted away was a broken, "I didn't mean—"
Then she was gone. The crowd's reaction shifted rapidly from satisfaction to a muted silence. People stared at their phones, then started to leave. Someone applauded, half in triumph and half in relief. Others muttered about consequences and responsibility.
It wasn't a clean end. It was messy and public and it left a mark on everyone there, including me. Katalina's transition from aggressor to pitiful figure was complete in public view: she had been wind and she'd become a small, wet thing trailed out by uniforms and whispers.
That night, social media fed on what had happened. People crafted their own narratives. Some painted Katalina as a villain, some asked for a fair process, some said we had no right to publicly crucify anyone. The school convened hearings, and the investigation took time. The universe didn't offer instant justice; it offered slow, grinding consequences.
Katalina's transformation—proud, fierce, then broken—was the kind of public fall that sticks. People replayed her expressions like a lesson. For a while, when I walked across campus, someone would glance my way as if checking whether I had been part of the drama. I had been. I had watched. I had felt awkward triumph, and a separate, quieter unease.
"Are you okay with what happened?" Berkley asked me later.
"It should be handled fairly," I answered. "But she scared people. She hurt him. It needed to stop."
"And now?"
"Now she has to live with it," I said. "In public. That's the punishment this time."
August and I grew closer without the shadow of her chaos between us. He kept his hands in the small of my back when we walked, and I let him. We learned each other's bad habits and started noticing small things. He liked plain toast with butter. I liked the way he frowned when he read a bad text. He stood up for me in small ways and big ones.
Weeks later, life slowed and the university resumed its rhythm. Katalina was a quieter rumor. Berkley got more laughs at dinner. Blair teased me for being in love. Grayson Roth kept bringing me water and small talks, but he had long since accepted a different kind of friend zone. August and I kept stealing moments—breakfasts, library walks, an occasional kiss behind the basketball court.
We were still early and messy, but the thing that mattered was this: at the center of the mess, we had chosen to be together.
On an ordinary afternoon, August reached into his jacket and slipped two small red envelopes into my palm.
"You kept my promise," he said with a grin.
"They were not big," I said.
"They were the ones," he said. "Because you deserve to keep more than what you take."
I looked at him and remembered the day we met—doors flying, hammers swinging, a wild slapstick kind of start. I laughed and kissed him in the middle of People’s Garden, and he laughed back, surprised but happy.
"Promise me one thing," I said, but paused and then changed my mind. I didn't want a promise that could be broken. So instead, I held his hand and let the sun be the promise.
The End
— Thank you for reading —