Backyard wedding or Luxury?

Three days after the Great Mocktail Incident, Jamila sat on the back porch in oversized pajamas, eating an entire jar of Nutella with a pickle spear.

“I give up,” she mumbled, licking her fingers. “Let Beyoncé sing at someone else’s wedding. I just want to marry you in stretchy pants with no bra on.”

Aayan, standing shirtless by the grill flipping wagyu burgers like he was auditioning for a billionaire version of Hell’s Kitchen, turned around and grinned. “So, you’re saying I should cancel the private fireworks and the floating swans?”

“Unless those swans know how to clean up toddler puke, yes.”

He laughed, wiping his hands. “You sure, babe? I mean, Bora Bora—”

“Can suck my swollen ankles.”

Jamila stood up, belly leading the way like it was trying to make an entrance. “Let’s get married right here. At home. In our backyard. We’ve got grass, some trees, and that bougie neighbor who plays the harp. Boom. Ambiance.”