Page 199 of Unconditionally Yours

“Yes,” I say louder, louder, until it’s a scream. “Yes to all of you.”

There is a beat of stunned, horrified silence.

And then Destiny throws her vape in the air like it’s a bouquet round two and screeches, “poly harem blessing from the chicken gods! May your loves be filthy and your enemies cracked like eggs!”

Venus screams “slut power!” from the punch pool.

The crowd goes wild.

Benji’s crying, trying to lift me. Jett shoves him. Rhys gets trapped between my thighs and his ethics.

I am wearing a bouquet crown now. Someone shoves a chicken nugget into my cleavage like an offering.

The chicken mascot salutes me.

I have never known joy like this.

The reception buffet is delicious. Deviled eggs. Chicken fingers. Nuggets. A suspicious punch sloshes in a kiddie pool next to a pile of gummy worms.

The cake is shaped like handcuffs and bleeds red velvet when cut.

First dance? Toxic. They don’t slow dance. They grind. They mosh. They bless the dance floor with vape smoke and chicken grease.

Benji slow dances with Destiny’s grandma. He dips her. I swear she moans.

Rhys tries to hide behind the drink table until I yank him onto the dance floor by the wrist. He glares. I grin. He twirls me once, stiffly, and tries to escape, but Jett cuts in like a fucking panther with tattoos. I scream in delight. Benji grabs my hand, spins me too, and we all become a blur of glitter.

The wedding favors are contraband: spell jars, custom lighters, a Ziploc of gravel labeled “healing quartz,” and glitter that almost definitely has drugs in it. I pocket two and a lighter shaped like a dick.

As the sun sets, Destiny and the Chicken Man walk hand-in-hand into the forest.

They disappear into the trees like myth and madness.

The air smells of fried chicken and ozone.

Somewhere, a chicken screams.

And honestly?

That’s love.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Delilah

A Few More Weeks Later

Mini Golf, Maximum Chaos

The 7th Annual Pirate’s Cove Battle of the Balls

When I signed us up for the mini golf tournament, I had one goal: humiliate Chad, Hank, and Margo in front of God and every child unlucky enough to be at the pirate-themed funplex today.

This isn’t just a game. This is war. With balls.

We trained. Hardcore. Long nights under flickering neon. We studied angles like horny physicists. We scoped the competition. We did unspeakable things behind the windmill on hole three. A duck saw. The duck will never forget. Somewhere along the way, Benji found a concession stand that sells foot-long hot dogs with nacho sauce, and now we all dip everything in cheese like it’s sacred law.

Jett adds chili. Then dips that in cheese. He’s disgusting. I love him.