Jackie swiped the flask from Thea and downed a long drink. “Oh my God,” she spluttered after the first swallow, “it’s Sprite. Who keeps soda in a flask? Oh. My. God. He’s such a weirdo. Come on, it’s time!”

The dress fitting.

Yeah.

That’s what Thea was here for, not meeting a hot guy way out of her league who looked like a sexy badass even in a dorky early eighties tux and drank straight Sprite in a hip flask.

Someone in production was deep in their eighties nostalgia and Thea didn’t think it was possible to be more sick of a decade she hadn’t even been alive for.

Fine, her mood was sour after spending the entirety of the bridesmaid dress fitting being told that chicken cutlets and butt pads were available to help fill out her dress in all of the right spots—instead of the wrong spot of her belly that just wasn’t so concave it looked like she’d removed an internal organ or three.

Where were her round belly, no boobs or butt having kindred? Her kingdom for her apple-shaped sisters with solid, muscular legs!

Wow. All of that Mt. Dew she’d guzzled after tossing the hoop skirt across the room when she’d finally gotten to change out of the bridesmaid dress must have just kicked in. Her fellow scientists may have proven that there was no such thing as a sugar rush, but she sure felt like she was dancing on the thin string of an adrenaline-spiked high wire. It was like her whole body was telling her it was go time.

Except she wasn’t a go-time kinda woman. She was a melt-into-the-background-and-avoid-the-cameras-at-all-costs kind of woman. Too bad she stuck out like a sore thumb in her flowery cotton skirt and white tank top with her hair pulled back into a simple ponytail at what she’d thought was a relaxed meet-and-greet type of first night in Wyoming get together.

Yeah. Not even close.

Somehow she’d missed the memo that the entire week leading up to the wedding was eighties cosplay with each evening being a party like it was 1982 event. The resort’s barn had been decorated like the original Footloose prom for the reception and everyone was in their Madonna, Springsteen, or Prince and the Revolution best. Seriously, how did the others manage to get their hair that high? One of the bridesmaids had bangs that stood half a foot straight up from her forehead.

Thankfully, the producer, a perpetually stressed-out-looking woman named Justine Cummings, was ignoring Thea’s obvious misstep for bigger game—Jackie who’d gone AWOL.

Sorta.