"I love a third wedding," Wooyoung said happily, as we stood by the pool, watching guests take their seats. "Everyone is so relaxed. I feel like we should just specialize in them."

"Not enough business in it," my mom, always the realist, told him. "Plus you'd missed the nervousness of young brides. It would be a waste of your gift."

"True," he agreed, as his eyes followed an older guy in a tight suit who was about to sit in one of the front rows of chairs reserved for family. Wooyoung was the most hyper-aware person I knew. I realized I was holding my own breath until the guy's wife took his elbow, pulling him farther row. "Speaking of young brides, I spoke to Julee and she's confirmed for first thing Monday morning for preliminary."

My mom sighed. "You know I hate rush job, Wooyoung."

"The wedding is in August. It's April."

"Late April," my mom grumbled. "Which would be fine, if it was a third wedding. but it's not. It's high society, and high maintenance, which means we should have started planning a year ago."

"You're leaving out high budget," Wooyoung pointed out.

"Money isn't everything." I waited a beat for what I knew was coming next. Sure enough: "You can't put on a price on your sanity."

"But if you could, they'd pay it."

They both fell silent as another guest started for the front row. It would be only a matter of minutes before Wooyoung pulled out the pre-printed RESERVED cards (in his almost calligraphy-like handwriting, aka the official font of a Soojung Bae Wedding) and put them on the seats. He usually tried to resist, refraining  from any extra clutter in a venue, even nicely printed cards. But you could never underestimate the Moron-ness. That was another one of my mother's rules.

"Twenty-minutes," she said, flicking her wrist to check her watch. "Put down a few cards, just so we don't have to police. Suzy, can you take BRR?"

I nodded, pulling out my phone to double check it was on silent. Back Row Right was often my spot at events like this one, when there was a walking factor involved. It was a variation of our three approaches: she launched the wedding party, I keep tabs as they were moving, and  Wooyoung was positioned up front. There, he'd be ready to spring into action in case someone fainting, rings being dropped or forgotten altogether, or flower girls and ring bearers going crazy mid-ceremony. (Which often happened, although only one time all at once, at an event we now referred to as The Disaster.)

Now we broke, each taking our positions. This event, the Eunjung Oh Wedding, had been in the works for the last nine months, and Wooyoung was right: it had pretty much been a breeze. The bride was in her fifties, the groom his seventies. They had plenty of money and few specific requests, other then wanting the wedding to be at the Gwangju County Groove, where they'd met on the tennis court. The groove was handling food, they'd hired our preferred DJ, and the whole thing was expected to wrap up by ten p.m. sharp.

The only wrinkle had come from the bride's daughter, Bora. When she'd gotten engaged a couple of weeks ago, she decided she, too, had to have a Soojung Bae Wedding Complicating things was the fact that she and her fiance were getting married in mid-August before moving across country at the end of summer for a medical residency, so everything had to happen ASAP. Normally, with the waitlist and my mother's obsession with organization, we didn't take on anything that came close to last minute. But Eunjung Oh had been so easy, and they were spending so much money, that Wooyoung, at least, had surrendered. Which was, well, forty percent of the event.

I walked to the back of the rows of chairs I'd helped set out a couple of hours earlier, taking my place on the aisle. As usual, there were a few people clumped in the back row, which was sure to annoy Wooyoung, who liked his audiences uniform. "What are they thinking? It's not like they're going to called on to participate," he'd huff. In extreme cases, I'd even witnessed him pulling his rank and reseating people, although that only happened when he was feeling especially pissy.

I didn't have such strong feelings, so I just nodded at the couple a few seats away from me as I pulled out my phone, checking the time. There were fifteen minutes to go when the first group text my mom arrived.

SONGS HEADED TOWARD THE POOL.

A beat, and Wooyoung appeared, magically, from behind a light-draped curtain. Smoothly, he interrupted a woman and her kid, both in bathing suits, then redirected them back past the AREA CLOSED FOR EVENT sign.

Then there was the organ music, so sudden I was not the only one who jumped in my seat upon hearing it. Before my mom could type WTF??? I slid out of my chair, hustling to the back of the pool patio, where the DJ, Suga, was already holding up hands apologetically. Under control.

Twelve minutes. I turned around, looking at the entrance to the patio, where my mom was now bent over a ring bearer. With everything that could go wrong in a ceremony, she disliked the chaos factor of kids and dogs, and took what she considered to be appropriate offensive action with both. For dogs, supply of cut-up hot dogs, stuffed up her sleeves in a Ziploc bag. For kids, candies and a stern voice usually does the trick, although balance was important when it came to the latter. There was enough emotions at stake without a crying kid kicking off the whole thing.

By seven minutes, I was back in my seat, watching Wooyoung survey the crowd as the final guests found seats. Whenever he saw the lack of bodies between the fourth row and the last one, he winced, although I was pretty sure only I noticed.

At six on the dot, the music was supposed to begin. Instead, my phone vibrated again. I read the text twice and still didn't understand.

SOB AWOL 4 AISLE WALK.

Up front, Wooyoung was also getting the message. He looked at me, raising his brow.

WHAT? I typed, as the man two seats down from me checked his watch.

GET HERE NOW, was the response, and I didn't even finish it before I was on my feet and moving.

Don't run, don't run, I reminded myself, trying to hurry in an efficient but not panicked way across the patio. When I got to the lobby, the wedding party was lined up, the now teary-looking ring bearer in the front. Past him, and the pairs of bridesmaids and groomsmen, was a talking Eunjung Oh - looking radiant in a pale yellow gown; I loved third weddings! - her daughter, Julee, and my mom. Everyone was talking at once.

". . . have to be confident of the precise order to do our job properly," my mom was saying as I walk up. "Last-minute additions make that difficult if not impossible."

"I understand that," Eunjung said, as Julee, her own phone to her ear, looking around the room. "But he was just here!"

"He's sly like that," Julee told me, as if I knew what was happening. "Maybe check outside?"

I looked at my mom, who said, "You heard her. Go check outside!"

"For who?" I questioned. "Everyone's here."

I knew this, because the Cheat Sheet was one of my assigned jobs. The night before every event, I put together a single piece of paper containing a list of the wedding party and relevant family, contact info for the vendors we'd hired (caterer, DJ, florist) as well the final, approved wedding schedule from arrival of guests to our departure. Now, only moments in, that was out of the window.

"Sehun," Eunjung said. Hearing this, my mom tried to mask her frustrations.

"Who?"

"My brother," Julee told me, shifting her bouquet of flowers to her other hand. She was a beautiful girl, wavy dark hair with creamy skin, the kind of good-looking that would be annoying if she wasn't so nice. "He wasn't going to be here, but now he is. Tall, dark hair like me, most likely talking to a girl. Smack him if you have to."

SOB was Son of Bride, then. "On it," I said to my mom, starting to the lobby exit. Before pushing the door open, I took one last look behind me, just in time to see Wooyoung moving quickly down the aisle, his phone to his ear. If he and my mom had moved to actual talking on the phone, this was even worse than I thought.

Outside, I took a quick look of the parking lot. Two golfers was standing by a car with clubs poking out of the trunk, talking, while a guy in chef whites stacked vegetable crates by the kitchen entrance. Otherwise, nothing to see. Or so I thought until I heard the melodic laugh of a pretty girl.

It was coming from behind the florist's van a few spaces down from me, and was followed by another laugh, a male. I walked toward the van, wondering again why hadn't I just chosen to work in a coffee shop, bookstore, or some other place that didn't involve collecting strangers against their will. I rounded the van's back bumper, clearing my throat.

When I first saw Sehun Oh, I had two distinct thoughts,  sticking to how I feel about him from that point on. I didn't know this at the time, though. All I registered was this: First, he was incredibly good-looking. Second, just the sight of him - a mere glimpse, in profile, from a distance - annoyed me in a way I couldn't explain.

First, his looks. Julee was right: they did share the same coloring and features. But Sehun, who was in a suit and white shirt, was tall with long arms and legs, distinct cheekbones, and a swoop of black hair just tousled enough you knew he had to spend time on it. He was like that upside-down exclamation point at the beginning of a Spanish phrase, the mere appearance of which warned of something complicated ahead.

As far as the annoyance factor, it was harder to quantify. Maybe it was that he was so good-looking, like the chiseled, flat-chested surfer boy ;) doll of my childhood morphed into human form. Never before I would disliked someone on sight. It made me feel shallow in a way I didn't like.

At that moment, however, he hadn't even noticed me, too busy leaning into a curvy girl wearing khaki shorts and a golf shirt with the place's logo. She was resting against a car, a set of car keys dangling from one hand. They were about as close to entwined as you could be without touching, and despite my vocal warning, neither of them noticed me.

"Sehun," I said, in my stern voice. This time, he looked over, that swoop moving to the other side of his forehead. Straight on, I saw it was a perfect curl, so intact you couldn't help but want to reach out and pull on it. Just thinking this annoyed me again. "The wedding is starting. We need you in place."

He smiled at me, the lazy, rich boy smile, all teeth and confidence. "Well, hey there. Who are you?"

The girl made a face, clearly unhappy with this situation. I said, "I work for Soojung Bae, the wedding planner. I need you to come with me. Now."

He laughed, then saluted me, his hand brushing the curl. "Yes, ma'am! Just give me two shakes." And with that, he turned back to his friend, who tilted her head up once she had his attention again.

Some people asked themselves in difficult situations What Would __ Do? For me, when it came to work at least, there was only one true example to follow, and I knew that in my shoes she'd take whatever measures were necessary to get things back on schedule. Next summer, a bookstore or coffee shop, I promised myself. Then I marched over, grabbed Sehun Oh's wrist, and started dragging him toward the entrance.

"What the hell?" the girl said, her eyes narrowing. "You can't just -"

But I could, and I was. I'd expected resistance, which is why I'd grabbed him with such force. Instead, he immediately lost his balance, stumbling forward into me while flailing for something to grab on, which turned out to be my left . Now I was dragging someone while being d, while the golfers looked on. Nice.

"Normally I like an assertive girl," Sehun said, regaining his balance as I shoved his hand off me. "But you're coming a bit strong."

I ignored his comment, afraid of what I'd say if I did respond. We were almost to the entrance; once over the threshold, he'd be my mom's problem and I could get back to BRR duty, where I belonged.

"I feel like we haven't been properly introduced," he continued, as I pulled open the glass door with my free hand. "I'm Sehun. And you are?"

"Finally," my mom hissed, interrupting us the moment we stepped inside. I looked at a nearby clock: it was 6:15. As she was someone who deeply prided herself on the timeliness of her events, every minute of a postponement caused an uptick in annoyance. Sehun might not have known it, but if he'd waste time longer, more than his wrist would have been twisted. As it was, he gave her the same charm-confident smile, which she countered with a stare so icy I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"This way," she barked, as I dropped his hand, relieved to step out of the way. He followed her without any comment, protest, or dragging involved. Even he knew right off who was the boss.

My phone buzzed. Wooyoung. UPDATE?

ALL IN PLACE, I replied. HEADING TO BRR.

I walked past Sehun and his mom, then the rest of the wedding party, which had been lined up for so long their tiredness was obvious. As I passed the bridesmaids, I felt a hand on my arm. When I turned, Julee gave me a grateful smile. "Thanks for getting my stupid brother."

I nodded, markedly not assuring her he was nothing of the sort. "Of course."

back in the last row of chairs, there was an obvious buzz of speculation as to the delay. To the untrained ear, all waiting sounded the same, but I knew the difference and so did Wooyoung, who claimed the energy of a bad start had the potential to curse any event that followed it. When I spotted him behind the pillar, I was not surprised his mouth was a thin line, the closest he'd allow to frown while working.

Finally at 6:23, the professional music began. I sat in my seat, looking over my shoulder as the ring bearer and flower girl walked adorably down the aisle, tossing rose petals in front of them. As Wooyoung ushered them into their spots, the bridal party followed, two by two. When Julee passed me, she smiled at me again, and the distinct feeling she was used to apologizing for her brother. In contrast, when he and Eunjung came along next, the crowd oohing at her yellow gown and him so handsome in his suit, he didn't even see me.

A wedding is a series of special moments, strung together like beads on a chain. Sure, by themselves, they are lovely, but them together and you get art. If we did our job right, the fact that the initial moments were off wouldn't even be remembered after the first dance, toasts, and cake cutting were done. But really, in a perfect wedding - or world - you wanted the best possible beginning. Start on a high note and, no matter what song follows, chances are just better that it will be music to your ears.

♡ Now and for the Last Time ♡

At 9:44, despite the strict ten p.m. sharp ending on the schedule, the dance floor remained crowded. Still, I took no comfort in the fact I'd been right talking to Gayeon earlier. The day had been unexpectedly hot for the end of April, and the combination of stress, sunshine, and multiple hours on my feet had taken a toll. I didn't want to go to the club, much less make the effort required to be "out there," with two boys I didn't even know. And I definitely didn't want to dance. Which is why, when Sehun Oh emerged from the back of a sloppy-looking line, spotted me, and gestured, I only shook my head.

This was a no-brainer, but not because of anything to do with him. The Golden Rule of working a Soojung Bae Wedding: remember your place. It wasn't  unusual for clients, over the course of many moths of planning, to develop a certain dependency on us. Huge life events that were fraught with emotion often led to displaced feelings. However, "Nobody wants to look at their pictures later and see their wedding planner acting like a guest," my mom always reminded extra employees we took on from time to time for bigger events. "If we don't stay out of frame, we haven't done our job right."

So I wasn't surprised to be asked to dance. It happened, especially at open bar events. I was, however, not expecting him to respond to my no by shaking his own head, then walking right over and stick his hand out to take mine.

"Dancing is healing," he said, opening his palm wide to me as the music faded out to another song. "Let's heal."

"No, thank you."

He wiggled his fingers wildly, as if imitating a plant might change my opinion.

"Thanks, but no," I told him, switching up my three allowed words in this situation.

"Sehun!" a girl in a short violet dress, her now bare feet crisscrossed with the evidence of previously worn sandals, yelled from the floor. "Get over here! We need you for the conga line!"

"Hear that?" he said to me. "Conga! You got to get in on this." When again I shook my head, he sighed loudly, then bent over with his hands on his knees, as if my response was tragic it had knocked the air out of him. After a second, he lifted his head, then one hand, bustling out the wiggly fingers again. "Conga. Healing. Come on."

"No, thanks."

People were starting to form the line now, stumbling as they grabbed on to each other, laughing and flushed. If there was benchmark of the Beginning of the End of a reception, this was it. Sehun looked over, smiled, then turned back to me. "Don't worry," he said. "I don't have to squeeze tight."

"You won't have to squeeze at all," I said. "Because the answer is still no."

"Aren't you supposed to be working at this event?"

"I am."

"So you should dance, then."

"That's not how it works."

"Why?"

The last thing I felt like doing was getting into the dance floor with a clumsy, wavering conga line coming. "I'm not a guest, I'm an employee. We don't dance. We work."

He considered this briefly. "Okay, then I'm asking you to be my date. You're off duty."

"That's not how it works either," I said.

"Man! You are tough!" He shook his head, that curl I couldn't seem to not focus on bouncing. The conga line was now moving around a nearby chair. "So what you're saying is that you are never going to dance with me right now, no matter how I plead or beg you, even if conga is involved."

"Correct," I nodded.

"Really?" He made a face. "Darn. I hate not having what I want."

This was such a weird feeling for him to say - arrogant, honest - that I found myself, for the first time, without a set response. But as the conga line came up behind him, the girl in teal let out a cheer as she reached for his belt buckle. I almost wished for a final beat to address this thought, one I still had myself, more often than I could admit.

I hate not having what I want.

"Don't we all," I mumbled quietly, as the line blurred past me, weaving through the tables. And just like that, I reached the point where the whole thing was too much color and life and laughter, and all I could do was turn and walk away.