Chapter 3Not Your Billion Dollar ATM

“Brock, enough.” Garrett finally spoke.

But his tone held no reprimand, only a kind of weary, almost affectionate indulgence, like a father scolding a mischievous child.

“Alright, alright, no more messin’ around,” Brock snapped his fingers and yelled toward the back. “Cue the video! Time to look at the groom’s beautiful youth!”

By the official schedule, this was when the romantic documentary of my and Garrett’s engagement trip to Paris and Tuscany should have played. I had hired a professional team and spent two weeks on the shoot and edit.

The massive LED screen flickered.

The image that appeared wasn't the Eiffel Tower or a Venetian gondola.

It was a series of grainy, decade-old photos. They were all of Garrett and a girl: holding hands on a quad, sharing a booth in a cafeteria, sleeping side-by-side in the library.

The majestic strains of the classical wedding march were abruptly replaced by some sad, overplayed indie folk song.

Across the screen, four large words flashed: A REQUIEM FOR LOST YOUTH.

The entire ballroom erupted in a collective gasp.

I stood beneath the giant screen, the last photo showing Garrett in a college sweatshirt, pinning the girl against a tree and kissing her passionately. The girl, with her delicate profile and innocent eyes, was Jocelyn.

In that instant, this million-dollar wedding transformed into a grotesque farce.