Emily and River meet in Miami, where they have the time of their lives, but it isn't meant to be: the next morning, Emily leaves for San Francisco, leaving both their hearts broken. They don't think they'll ever see each other again.
Emily goes back...
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With a heavy heart he returned to the bar where Brian was still pouring drinks at the speed of lightning and the older lady—Emily's mother—was barking at him to go faster.
"I'm back," River announced.
Brian let out a sigh of relief, but didn't have the time to answer him and handed River a bottle of champagne instead. "Can't get it open," he managed to say between breaths.
"Brian, are you okay?" River asked.
Brian was panting. "I will be," he said. "Once today is over."
"Don't let her get to your head, you're doing great so far," River said. He turned around to grab more champagne glasses with the intention to help, but found an empty shelf instead. "Are you for real?" He sighed.
Brian didn't even answer this time, so River took the initiative of leaving the bar to collect the empty glasses from the welcoming hall. He found them in places like the seating room and the standing table, but as he was collecting them, he noticed a peculiar group of people enter the door.
"Is this a joke?" he asked Brian when he returned, pointing at the group standing in the opening. They were holding cameras and notepads and their hands were glued to their phones.
"Eyes don't lie, brother," Brian said, shaking his head at the sight as well.
He glanced up at the ceiling for a moment in hopelessness. The whole wedding was already exaggerated with silver diamonds and the champagne bottles costing hundreds of dollars apiece, but now even the media was here to report the wedding. "I'm sorry, I can't watch this."
Brian was grinning when he saw the determined look on River's face as he flounced to the group. "Oh please, go," Brian chuckled. He already knew this couldn't end well.
"I'm sorry, people," River announced himself to the group, but only one person looked up and give him her full attention. "What are you doing here?"
"We're with the San Francisco Chronicle," the woman, about twenty-five years old, said.
"But, why are you here?"
"We need to report about the wedding for the paper," she said, glancing at her phone quickly and he lost her attention for a second.
"But, why?"
She sighed. "Don't you get it?" she asked. "This is an important event. We're with the paper. The paper reports about important events."
He frowned. Important event? It was just a wedding—okay, it was an extravagant wedding that had more diamonds on the walls and hanging from the ceiling than there were people invited (and a lot of people were invited) but it was a wedding in Miami. Why did it interest these people from San Francisco so much?
"Why is it important?" he asked.
"You have too many questions, little boy," she said, sighing, and it was belittling to hear the words 'little boy' come from the mouth of a woman almost as old as him. "It's the wedding of Jason King and Emily Abbington, that's why."
