Zina
There are three things I don't trust: men with no social media, slow elevators, and Nigerian aunties who say "when are we coming to eat your rice?"
Add to that list: my own decisions after two glasses of champagne.
The wedding is on a rooftop in downtown Toronto, the type of place where even the napkins have a logo and the waiter's name tag says Léo with an accent. It's all florals and fairy lights and money. Everything smells expensive. Including the people.
I'm wearing a satin slip dress that clings like an unhealthy attachment style. My hair is slicked back. My lip gloss is lethal. I look good enough to accidentally ruin someone's relationship.
And honestly? That was the plan. I didn't come here to play nice.
Technically, I'm Lani's plus-one, which makes me two degrees removed from the bride and about six degrees removed from shame. I don't even know the couple that well. I just heard "open bar" and "men in suits" and said say less.
Lani, of course, is already on her third mini cocktail and looking like a Pinterest board for bad ideas. She's in a corset top, wide-leg trousers, and has earrings that say "CHAOS." Fitting.
"Z," she says, nudging me, "I'm giving you exactly twenty more minutes to find a wedding crush before I start setting you up with the DJ."
"I'm picky," I reply, sipping my drink like it's full of dignity. "I require a man with arms. Like arms. Veins. A strong jawline. Emotional damage."
"You say that like it's a checklist."
"It is. Add tattoos and rings."
Lani's about to roast me when she suddenly freezes, eyes narrowing at something (or someone) across the rooftop.
I turn.
And I see him.
Standing near the bar, lit by the fairy lights like God was just showing off, is a man who looks like he eats gym equipment for breakfast. He's tall. Broad shoulders. Tan skin that looks like it belongs in an oil painting. Black button-up rolled at the forearms, revealing ink. Veins. Rings. On multiple fingers. Not in a TikTok boy soft grunge way but in a "I may or may not have secrets in Sicily" kind of way.
He has the kind of jawline that makes you rethink your standards. His hair's slicked back, just messy enough to say "I didn't try" while knowing damn well he did. He's listening to someone speak, eyes a little distant like he's half-bored, half-patient. And then he...laughs.
Game over.
"Lani," I whisper, grabbing her arm.
"Oh my God."
"Lani. Jesus."
"I know."
"Who invited him? I want to thank them. Personally."
"Zina, stop staring."
"I'm not staring. I'm—" I pause. "Okay, no. I'm staring. But look at his hands."
She looks. Hisses. "Veins. Rings. Tattoos. Babygirl. That's a boss fight."
My heartbeat is being weird. Like, skipping. I shift, try to play cool, but it's hard when I'm mentally writing a Wattpad story called The Man With The Forearms and My Ruined Life.
"Okay," I say, grabbing a canapé for emotional support, "what's the plan?"
"There's no plan."
"I need a plan."
"Zina, we don't plan chaos. We become the chaos."
I stare at the man again. I imagine him saying something in Italian. Like girl. I'd pass out.
"Do you think he's Italian?" I whisper.
Lani shrugs. "He has that... mafia-adjacent aura."
"I bet his name is something like Luca. Or Matteo. Or Enzo."
"If his name is Enzo, I'm throwing myself off this rooftop."
We spend the next ten minutes casually hovering around the area, pretending not to orbit his gravitational pull like emotionally unstable satellites.
But I never speak to him. Not tonight.
Because every time I look, he's surrounded. Talking. Laughing. Being effortlessly fine. And I? I'm standing in the corner making eye contact with a shrimp skewer.
Eventually, he disappears. One second he's there, next second, poof. Gone.
I search the crowd, pretend to look for the restroom, even detour by the coat check. Nothing.
And just like that, the wedding ends. The lights dim. The music fades. I didn't get a name. Didn't get a moment.
But I got a feeling. A flutter. A spark of something. And the worst part?
He didn't even see me.
Not really.
So I sit in the Uber with Lani passed out beside me, my dress bunched awkwardly under my thighs, staring out the window like a heartbroken extra in a Nollywood film.
My phone buzzes.
Lani, half-asleep, mumbles, "You good?"
I nod, even though I'm not.
Because all I can think is:
I need to know who that man is.