The Wedding Crashers Plus One

Listen This Story

Lola was an artist. Her canvas was the open bar, her medium was the “Conga Line,” and her masterpiece was blending into a room full of people she had never met. She was a professional wedding crasher. Not for the free food (though the lobster bisque at the Kensington Hotel was to die for), but for the thrill. The ephemeral connection. The sheer electric joy of strangers celebrating love.

But every artist needs a muse, or in Lola’s case, a wingman.

She met Miles at a coffee shop on Tuesday. He was charming, wore a suit well, and had that deer-in-the-headlights look that suggested he was spontaneous enough to say yes to a crazy idea, but polite enough not to ruin it.

“Do you like fondant?” Lola had asked him over a latte. “I tolerate it for the cake beneath,” Miles had replied. “Perfect. Pick you up on Saturday at 5. Wear the navy suit. We’re going to the Vander-Hoven nuptials.”

Miles didn’t ask who the Vander-Hovens were. He just grinned and said, “It’s a date.”

The Infiltration

The Vander-Hoven estate was less a “venue” and more a small European nation transplanted into the Connecticut countryside. There were peacocks roaming the lawn. The security guards wore earpieces and looked like they had been bred in a laboratory for intimidation.

Lola pulled her beat-up Honda Civic up to the valet, tossed the keys to a teenager who looked terrified of the scratch on the bumper, and hooked her arm through Miles’.

“Rule number one,” Lola whispered, adjusting her silk shawl. “We are the cousins from the groom’s side. The groom is named… let me check the invite I pulled from the trash… Arthur. We are Arthur’s cousins from ‘The West Coast.’ It’s vague enough to be uncheckable.”

“Got it,” Miles said, adjusting his tie. He looked nervous, but handsome. “Cousins. West Coast. Arthur.”

They breezed past the checkpoint. Lola flashed a smile that could melt glaciers and said, “We’re late! Aunt Muriel will have our heads!” The guard, not wanting to deal with Aunt Muriel (whoever that was), waved them through.

They stepped into the garden. It was a wonderland of white roses, crystal chairs, and a string quartet playing a violin cover of “WAP” that was surprisingly tasteful.

“We’re in,” Lola beamed, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing tray. “To Arthur and… whoever Arthur is marrying.”

Miles took the glass. He looked around, soaking in the opulence. Then, his eyes drifted to a massive, gilded easel holding the seating chart.

The Realization

Lola watched the color drain from Miles’ face. It didn’t happen gradually; it was instant, like someone had pulled a plug. He went from sun-kissed tan to sheet-white in three seconds.

“Miles? You okay? Is it the champagne? It’s a Brut, I know it’s dry, but—”

“Lola,” Miles choked out. “Who is the bride?”

“I don’t know. Some girl named Vanessa. Why?”

Miles dropped his champagne flute. It didn’t break on the grass, but the thud felt seismic.

“Vanessa,” Miles whispered. “Vanessa St. James?”

“I think so. Why?”

Miles grabbed Lola’s shoulders. His eyes were wide and filled with a specific kind of terror usually reserved for bomb disposal technicians.

“I dated her,” Miles hissed.

Lola blinked. “Okay. Small world. But that was probably years ago, right? High school sweetheart?”

“No,” Miles said, his voice trembling. “We broke up six months ago. It was… messy. She threw a toaster at me. She told me if she ever saw my face again, she would turn my intestines into balloon animals.”

Lola looked at the altar. She looked at the hundreds of guests. She looked at Miles.

“We have to leave,” Miles said, turning around.

“We can’t!” Lola hissed, grabbing his arm. “The ceremony is starting. The doors are closed. If we try to run now, we’ll draw attention. We have to blend.”

“Blend? Lola, I am the Ex. I am the Ghost of Boyfriends Past. If she sees me, she won’t say ‘I do.’ She’ll say ‘Attack!’”

The Ceremony of Stealth

The string quartet swelled. The guests stood up.

“Get down!” Lola hissed.

She yanked Miles into the third row, shoving him into a seat behind a woman wearing a hat so large it could have its own zip code.

“Stay behind the hat,” Lola commanded.

“She’s walking down the aisle,” Miles whimpered. “I can feel her presence. It’s cold. Why is it cold?”

“It’s the AC, Miles. Pull it together.”

Vanessa St. James glided down the aisle. She was stunning. She looked like a Valkyrie dressed in lace. Her eyes scanned the crowd, not with love, but with the precision of a predator scanning the savannah.

As she passed their row, Miles sneezed.

It was a small sneeze. A suppressed, squeaky sneeze. But in the silence of the garden, it sounded like a gunshot.

Vanessa’s head snapped toward them.

Lola reacted on instinct. She grabbed Miles’ face and pulled him into a deep, aggressive kiss. She mashed her lips against his, using his head to shield him from the bride’s view.

She felt Vanessa pause. She felt the burning gaze of a woman who possessed weaponized toaster-throwing skills. Then, the footsteps continued toward the altar.

Lola pulled back, breathless. Miles looked dazed.

“Did it work?” he squeaked.

“She didn’t see your face,” Lola wiped lipstick off his nose. “But we are now officially the couple making out during the processional. We have to move.”

Tactical Positioning

The ceremony was an exercise in military stealth. Every time Vanessa looked toward the crowd during the vows, Lola shoved Miles behind a floral arrangement.

“Do you take this man?” the officiant asked.

“I do,” Vanessa said, her eyes narrowing as she looked at a Hydrangea bush that was trembling slightly.

“We need to get to the reception,” Lola whispered. “Crowds are thicker there. Open bar. Dim lighting.”

“I need to go home,” Miles whispered back, hugging a vase. “I need to move to Peru.”

“Stick with me, kid. I’ve crashed a funeral for a mob boss. I can handle an angry bride.”

As the couple kissed and walked back up the aisle, Lola tripped Miles. It was cruel, but necessary. He fell flat onto the grass, completely hidden by the pew. Vanessa swept past, her train brushing the back of his head.

“She touched me,” Miles groaned into the dirt. “I’m cursed.”

The Cocktail Hour of Doom

The reception was held in a massive ballroom. This was Lola’s turf. The dim lighting, the clinking glasses, the chaotic energy—it was perfect camouflage.

Unless you were with the one person the bride hated most in the world.

“Okay,” Lola strategized, handing Miles a scotch. “Drink this. It will help with the shaking. We just need to stay on the opposite side of the room from the white dress. We orbit. Like moons. If she moves North, we move South.”

“She’s looking at the seating chart,” Miles pointed. “She’s realized there are two ‘Cousins from the West Coast’ that she doesn’t know.”

“Abort mission on the crab cakes,” Lola said, grabbing his hand. “To the ice sculpture.”

They hid behind a five-foot swan made of ice. Through the distorted, melting beak of the swan, they watched Vanessa moving through the crowd. She wasn’t greeting guests. She was hunting. She was whispering to the bridesmaids. The bridesmaids nodded, their faces grim. They fanned out.

“She mobilized the bridal party,” Miles gasped. “They’re sweeping the perimeter.”

“It’s a search and destroy mission,” Lola noted, impressed. “This woman is efficient. I like her.”

“She’s a monster! We have to hide.”

Under the Table

There are very few dignified ways for two adults in formal wear to hide under a buffet table, but desperation breeds innovation.

Lola and Miles squeezed beneath the long tablecloth of the “Seafood Station.” It smelled of shrimp and linen.

“This is the worst date I’ve ever been on,” Miles whispered, hugging his knees.

“Really?” Lola grinned in the dark. “I think it’s thrilling. Most first dates are just awkward questions about hobbies. We’re bonded by trauma. It’s romantic.”

“We are hiding from my ex under a shrimp table, Lola.”

“And yet,” Lola reached out and fixed his crooked tie. “You haven’t run away without me.”

Miles looked at her. In the sliver of light coming from the gap in the tablecloth, his eyes softened. “Well, you are my ride. And… you’re surprisingly good at this.”

“Shhh,” Lola put a finger to his lips.

A pair of white satin heels stopped right in front of them.

The Close Call

“I saw him, Vanessa,” a bridesmaid’s voice said. “I swear. He was by the ice swan. He looked… sweaty.”

“If he is here,” Vanessa’s voice was icy calm, “I am going to strangle him with his own tie. Today is my day. My day! He doesn’t get to ruin it with his pitiful, puppy-dog eyes.”

Lola felt Miles tense up. She squeezed his hand.

“Check the patio,” Vanessa commanded. “And tell security to lock the side exits.”

The heels walked away.

Lola let out a breath. “Okay. Side exits are burned. We need a new extraction point.”

“The kitchen,” Miles said. “I used to date her, remember? She’s a foodie. She’ll never go into the kitchen because she trusts the Chef implicitly and doesn’t want to micromanage. It’s her one blind spot.”

Lola looked at him with new respect. “Miles, you beautiful genius.”

The Kitchen Run

They crawled out from under the table when the coast was clear. They moved like spies, darting from a chocolate fountain to a pillar, then to a waiter’s station.

They pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

It was chaos. Chefs were shouting, flames were rising from pans, and waiters were rushing in and out.

“Act like you belong,” Lola said. She grabbed a tray of empty dirty glasses. “Carry this.”

Miles grabbed the tray. They marched through the kitchen, heads down.

“More champagne to the floor!” a Sous Chef yelled at them.

“Right away, Chef!” Lola shouted back.

They made it to the back loading dock. The cool night air hit their faces. Freedom.

“We made it,” Miles laughed, setting the tray down on a dumpster. “We actually made it.”

“Not yet,” Lola said. “My car is at the front valet. We have to circle the building.”

The Confrontation

They rounded the corner of the estate, running through the manicured hedges. They were laughing now, the adrenaline high kicking in.

They burst out onto the front driveway… and ran smack into the bride and groom, who were taking golden-hour photos by the fountain.

Silence.

The photographer lowered his camera. The groom looked confused.

Vanessa stared at Miles. Miles stared at Vanessa.

Lola stepped in front of Miles, ready to fight.

Vanessa looked at Miles’ disheveled suit. She looked at the spinach in his teeth from the buffet. She looked at Lola, who was standing protectively in front of him.

Vanessa’s face contorted. She took a deep breath.

“You,” she pointed at Miles.

“Vanessa, I—” Miles started.

“You brought a plus one?” she asked, looking at Lola.

“I did,” Miles said, his voice surprisingly steady. “This is Lola. She’s… she’s great.”

Vanessa looked at Lola. She looked at the fierce determination in Lola’s eyes.

For a second, it looked like the toaster-throwing rage was bubbling up. But then, Vanessa looked at her new husband, who was holding her hand.

“Good,” Vanessa said coldly. “She looks like she can handle you. Now get out of my wedding before I set the peacocks on you.”

The Getaway

Lola didn’t wait to be told twice. She grabbed Miles, sprinted to the valet stand, snatched her keys from the board (ignoring the valet), and they jumped into the Honda.

She peeled out of the driveway, gravel spraying behind them.

They drove in silence for a mile, the estate shrinking in the rearview mirror.

Then, Miles started to laugh. It started as a chuckle and turned into a full-body roar. Lola joined in. They laughed until tears streamed down their faces.

“You realize,” Miles said, wiping his eyes, “that we didn’t get any cake.”

“We survived,” Lola said. “That’s better than cake.”

She glanced over at him. He looked messy, relieved, and alive.

“So,” Lola said, turning onto the main highway. “There’s a Bar Mitzvah at the Hilton next Saturday. Chocolate fountain. No ex-girlfriends guaranteed. What do you say?”

Miles looked at her. He loosened his tie.

“I’m in,” he said. “But only if we hide under the dessert table.”

Lola smiled. She had found her permanent Plus One.