I devoured this book in two days—partly because the witty dialogue had me snort-laughing in public (yes, I got stares), but mostly because Phoebe’s journey felt like someone had peeked into my own existential crises. That scene where she accidentally becomes the wedding’s unofficial therapist? Iconic. I’ve never related harder to a fictional character chain-drinking mini-bar wine while dispensing life advice.

The pacing wobbles slightly (I skimmed a few overly descriptive buffet scenes), but Espach’s genius is how she turns a glamorous wedding into a microscope for human connection. One minute you’re chuckling at champagne-fueled drama, the next you’re staring at the wall reevaluating your life choices. Special shoutout to the grumpy groom’s uncle—his monologue about midlife regrets lives rent-free in my head now.

Don’t be fooled by the pastel cover—this isn’t fluff. It’s that rare book that leaves you lighter yet wiser, like therapy disguised as a beach read. Pro tip: Keep tissues handy for the last chapter. You’ll ugly-cry, then immediately want to call your best friend at 2am to discuss ‘what it all means.’