83 hours until the wedding

I stare at the flight display, weighing the likelihood that I’m currently experiencing some kind of jet lag-induced delirium, or if my connecting flight from London to Belfast really is canceled. I blink a few times just to be sure, but in angry red letters the word canceled continues to flash aggressively across the screen.

The remnants of a partially digested bag of airline pretzels churn inside my stomach and for a brief moment I wonder if they’re about to make a reappearance.

How could this be happening? I double-, no, triple-checked the departure schedule before I left. But apparently sometime while I was flying over the Atlantic, the universe—or more specifically the shady budget airline I booked last ­minute—conspired to ruin my life.

But of course this happened. Because this is just one more ill-fated domino in a series of unfortunate events. Perhaps I ought to just accept my fate as a serially unlucky person. Throw in the towel now and resign myself to the life of a quirky heroine in an early 2000s chick flick…before she gets the makeover.

I wipe clammy hands against my jeans and try to focus. There must be a solution. Maybe there’s an open seat on another flight. Or maybe I could ride in the cockpit. They let people do that, right? I mean I’m sure if I explain the situation…

But the longer I stare at the display screen, the more my chest feels like a hollowed-​out pumpkin.