My best friend stole $300 from me with a cheerful text message, and that wasn’t even the worst thing she did.
It started with an honor and ended with a bill. A very, very long bill.
She asked for my time, my money, and my dignity, all in the name of her “perfect day.”
I smiled and paid, again and again, until I had nothing left to give.
But she underestimated me. She thought I was a doormat, but she forgot that even doormats get dirty, and eventually, all that dirt has to go somewhere.
She was about to find out that revenge isn’t just sweet; it’s a dish best served with a stain that will never, ever wash out.
The Golden Handcuffs: The First Little Ask
The phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, its screen lighting up with a picture of Jessica and me from ten years ago, all sun-bleached hair and cheap sunglasses. My son, Leo, didn’t look up from his furious scribbling of a dragon at the kitchen table. My husband, Tom, glanced over from the sink where he was washing dishes.
“It’s Jess,” I said, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “She’s probably going to tell me.”
“Tell you what?” Tom asked, his voice muffled by the running water.
“He proposed. I have a psychic feeling.” I swiped to answer, putting it on speaker. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You have some news?”
Jessica’s shriek was pure, uncut joy. “Oh my god, Maya, how did you know? He did it! Last night, at the botanical gardens! We’re engaged!”
A genuine smile spread across my face. This was it. The moment we’d been talking about since we were kids, passing notes in class about our dream weddings. “Jess, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!” I could hear the emotion in my own voice, a real, uncomplicated happiness for my oldest friend.
“We have to do lunch tomorrow. Just us. My treat,” she said, her voice giddy. “We have so much to talk about. So, so much.”
The next day, sitting across from her at our favorite downtown bistro, the diamond on her finger caught the light and sent a tiny rainbow dancing across the tablecloth. She was radiant, lost in the glow of her own future. She told me the whole story—the fairy lights, the surprise, the tears. I listened, rapt.
Then she leaned forward, her eyes serious. “Maya. You know you’re more than a friend. You’re my sister. There’s no one else I would even consider.” She took a breath. “Will you be my Maid of Honor?”
Tears welled in my eyes. “Of course,” I whispered. “Of course, Jess. Anything.”
She clapped her hands together. “Perfect! I knew it! Okay, first order of business.” She pulled out her phone, her thumb tapping expertly across the screen. She turned it to face me. The screen showed a model in a bridesmaid dress. It was a beautiful, floor-length gown in a very specific shade of dusty sage silk. It was also, according to the little numbers at the bottom of the screen, $550.
My smile felt suddenly fragile. “Wow, Jess. That’s… gorgeous.”
“I know, right? I want everything to feel high-end and cohesive. The silk photographs so well. I’m sending the link to everyone tonight. The order has to be placed in two weeks to guarantee the dye lot matches.” She beamed, completely oblivious to the sudden knot in my stomach. “It’s just the first step to making everything perfect.”
The Bridal Bible
Two days later, the email arrived. The subject line was cheerful, adorned with ring and champagne emojis: “Our Wedding Journey Begins! XO, The Future Mrs. Albright!”
I clicked it open while waiting for a client to approve a logo design. My work as a freelance graphic designer meant my income ebbed and flowed, and this month was definitely an ebb. Tom and I had just agreed to tighten our belts so we could afford to get the roof fixed before winter.
Attached to the email was a PDF file: Jessica’s Bridal Bible_Final_v1.pdf. It was twenty-two pages long.
I scrolled through it, my initial amusement curdling into a low-grade dread. It wasn’t a guide; it was a military-grade operations manual. There was a mandatory attendance policy for a list of events that spanned the next ten months. Monthly “Bridal Brunches” for planning. Three separate dress fittings, all on weekdays. A weekend-long “DIY décor workshop.” A series of dance lessons to learn a choreographed routine for the reception.
Each event was marked “non-negotiable.” The tone was a bizarre mix of corporate HR memo and summer camp counselor. “Let’s all commit to making this the most magical time of Jessica’s life! Punctuality is a sign of respect!”
Tom came into my home office, holding two mugs of coffee. He set one on my desk and glanced at my screen. “What’s that?”
“The scripture,” I said, my voice flat. I scrolled down to a section titled “Financial Commitment.” It outlined expected contributions for the bridal shower, the bachelorette party, and a group wedding gift, with a suggested minimum of $200 for each. It didn’t include the dress, alterations, shoes, or travel.
“Is she serious?” Tom leaned in, his eyebrows shooting up. “A DIY workshop? You don’t even own a glue gun.”
“I do now, apparently,” I muttered. “She also wants us to learn a full dance routine to a Bruno Mars song.”
He whistled, a low, soft sound. “This is more than a wedding. This is a part-time job that you pay for.” He looked at me, his expression softening. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “She’s my best friend, Tom. Since we were seven. How can I say no? How do you say no to your best friend’s dream?”
A One-Sided Poll
The bridesmaid group chat, christened “Jess’s I Do Crew,” had been silent for a few days, a nervous quiet after the Bridal Bible had been deployed. Then, one Tuesday morning, it lit up.
It was Jessica. “Okay ladies! Time for the most fun part! Let’s pick a bachelorette destination! I made a poll! Can’t wait to see what we decide! 🎉”
Below the message was a poll with four options: A quiet spa weekend in the mountains, a wine-tasting trip to Sonoma, a relaxing beach trip to Florida, or a wild weekend in Nashville.
I immediately voted for the spa weekend. It sounded calm. It sounded relatively affordable. A few of the other girls, Sarah and Emily, voted for wine tasting. Within an hour, the quiet, cheaper options were in the lead.
Then, a new message from Jessica appeared, completely ignoring the results. “OMG it’s so fun seeing everyone vote! I was just chatting with my mom and she said Nashville is AMAZING in the spring! The honky-tonks, the music… it would be an absolute blast! I’m getting so excited just thinking about it!”
An hour later, another message. “Okay, I’ve been looking at Airbnbs in Nashville and found the CUTEST place. It’s a 4-day minimum, but totally worth it. It’s looking like the total per person for the house and activities will be around $1,500. That’s not including flights, of course. I can go ahead and book it if everyone is on board! Let me know!”
A picture of a massive, sterile-looking rental home with a rooftop hot tub appeared. No one replied. The silence in the chat was deafening. The poll, with Nashville sitting at a single vote (presumably Jessica’s), was a monument to our collective powerlessness.
I stared at the number. $1,500. Plus flights. Plus the dress. Plus the other hundred things. I opened my banking app. The number staring back at me was significantly smaller.
Before I could even figure out how to phrase a gentle, diplomatic question about the budget, Jessica sent one last message. “Silence is consent, girls! Just booked it! NASHVILLE HERE WE COME! Get your cowboy boots ready! EEEEEK!”
A Destination Far, Far Away
We were on our first mandatory Zoom call, a “Bridal Brunch” where we were all supposed to have mimosas. It was 10 AM on a Sunday. I had a lukewarm coffee and a headache. Leo was watching cartoons in the other room, the volume just a little too loud.
Jessica was in her element, screen-sharing color palettes and floral arrangements. She talked for forty-five minutes straight, outlining her vision. It was less a conversation and more a corporate presentation. The other bridesmaids—Sarah, Emily, and Lauren—had their cameras on, smiling and nodding with the glazed-over expressions of hostages.
“And the vibe is just so important,” Jessica was saying. “It has to be an escape. It has to feel like a real getaway for everyone.”
“The flower arrangements you picked are beautiful, Jess,” Sarah offered, her voice bright and forced.
“Aren’t they?” Jessica glowed. “They’ll look stunning with the ocean in the background.”
About the Author
