The Wedding Game

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Ah yes, I heard fetuses are experts at wielding a glue gun.” I drag my hand over my face in exasperation.

  Thad’s face falls. “You’re in a bad mood.” Wow, he’s a regular old Sherlock Holmes. “Is this because of the coffee miscommunication? Are you uncomfortable because she keeps staring daggers at you?”

  I glance toward Luna, whose head is down as she draws something on a piece of paper. “No.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Thad nudges me toward the middle of the floor. “Go apologize.”

  I hold my ground. “I’m not apologizing.”

  “You really should apologize. We don’t want bad blood with the other contestants.” He nudges me again.

  “I’m not fucking apologizing.”

  Nudge.

  Nudge.

  “Go on.”

  “Stop pushing me.”

  Nudge.

  “Don’t be scared.” Nudge. “She’s a little thing—she won’t bite.”

  “The little things are usually what bite.”

  Thad glances over my shoulder. “She doesn’t look like she has sharp teeth. She won’t break skin. Now go.”

  Nudge.

  “Stop, Thad. I’m not—”

  “Hey, Luna,” Thad calls out, pushing me to the other side of the aisle, where I stumble against Team Rossi’s workbench. “Alec wants to apologize.”

  Repair your relationship with your brother.

  It will be great.

  It will bring you closer together.

  Family is everything.

  Do it for the baby . . . the baby you want a relationship with.

  Bullshit . . . it’s all bullshit. My feelings for my brother are shifting from annoyed to hateful.

  “He’s very sensitive. Likes his hair stroked for reassurance,” Thad adds with a smile.

  Scratch that, I’m not starting to have hateful feelings. I have them. Hateful, hateful feelings.

  Because I have no other option, I turn toward Luna, who quickly sweeps the paper she was drawing on behind her back and scowls at me—a look I’m becoming very familiar with.

  “Hiding secrets behind your back?” I ask, straightening up. Cohen and Declan both take off toward the bathroom, leaving me alone with Luna and the heaping pile of disdain sitting between us.

  “Mind your own business,” she shoots back.

  “You’re friendly,” I say sarcastically.

  Her brows raise. “Are you kidding right now? Kind of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?”

  “No. I’m a nice guy.” A nice guy who’s living in his own personal hell surrounded by crafts and mushy love.

  “Is that your opinion? Or do other people actually think that, because I can say I’m a unicorn until I’m blue in the face, but it isn’t true until someone else validates it.”

  “That’s not accurate at all. I don’t need another human’s validation to characterize myself.”

  Her face reddens in anger. “You’re not a nice person. Now go away so I can finish my idea. I don’t want you stealing it.”

  Back away, Alec. Back away.

  But I can’t seem to listen to the voice of reason. I’m irritated, Thad has pushed all the right buttons to heighten that irritation level, and frankly . . . I’m embarrassed.

  Embarrassed that everyone on set seems to have a connection with their loved ones while I’m struggling to find common ground with my brother. I knew going into this that it wasn’t going to be easy, but this hard, this soon? There doesn’t seem to be any reasoning with Thad, and we haven’t even started to compete; we’ve only done the intros.

  And for some reason, the anger that’s building up inside me has to be spilled out somewhere. Luna seems to be the lucky one to receive the wrath.

  I place my hand on the workbench and lean forward. “I am a nice person,” I say through clenched teeth, like if I say it any harder, I can Jedi mind trick her into thinking it. “And I don’t want to steal your ideas because I’m sure they’re not as good as the ones I have up here.” I tap my temple. I know full well there are zero wedding ideas up top, but a guy’s got to save face, you know?

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure a divorce attorney has a lot of ideas. If anyone knows anything about weddings and marriage, it’s the person who helps rich assholes get out of them.”

  Well, she’s fucking rude. She has no idea what I actually do and whom I represent.

  “Told you he was a great guy,” Thad calls out. “Real stand-up fella. Great at apologies too, huh, Luna?”

  We both ignore him as we start the most epic staredown of the century.

  Gloves on. Ding, ding, ding . . . time to duke it out.

  “Judging a book by its cover, huh?”

  She tilts her head to the side, lips pursed. “I don’t have to flip open the cover to know what’s inside.”

  “Oh yeah?” I fold my arms over my chest. “Please, enlighten me about myself.”

  She doesn’t even blink. “You’re an entitled asshole who believes everyone works for him. You spend your career dissolving marriages rather than creating them. You’re rude and have acquired no manners in the”—she looks me up and down—“thirty years you’ve been alive.”

  “Thirty-two.”

  She rolls her eyes. “In the thirty-two years you’ve been alive, and frankly, Helen was right. Your shoes are hideous.”

  I glance down at my black loafers. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

  “Entirely too fancy for a show like this.”

  “Well, I’m not about to wear work boots.”

  “And a snob as well,” she huffs, bringing her paper back out and examining it but not showing me anything.

  “You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”

  “Doesn’t take a genius to spot a rotten tomato.”

  Wow . . . just . . . wow.

  “Well, it doesn’t take a genius to spot a self-absorbed egomaniac either,” I say, forgetting that the whole point of getting pushed over here was to apologize.

  Her eyes whip up to mine. “Egomaniac? How do you figure? Because the way I see it, an egomaniac would never have gotten a self-righteous boob some coffee.”

  “Jack of all trades, master of every one,” I repeat, ignoring her comeback, because frankly it’s a little true, and I’m trying to make a damn point here.

  “Uh . . . okay.” Her confused look is almost cute . . . almost.

  “That’s what egomaniacs say.” It’s an incredibly weak argument, especially for an attorney, but with very limited research, it’s all I’ve got.

  She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she studies me . . . hard.

  It’s unfortunate that she’s gorgeous. Smooth skin, dark lashes, silky hair, and lips that look entirely too tempting. But the scorn in this girl’s eyes ruins any chance at actually getting to know her.

  Her tongue runs over her teeth, and then she gives me the slowest once-over I’ve ever experienced. Starting at my shoes, which she raises a brow at—seriously, what’s wrong with them?—up to my torso, and then stopping at my eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest and very calmly says, mind you, with a smile, “You’re reaching.”

  What a wench.

  She’s a goddamn wench.

  “You’re obnoxious,” I shoot back, reverting to an admittedly juvenile comeback.

  But . . . she joins me.

  “You’re pompous.”

  “You’re repugnant.”

  Her mouth falls open for a second before she says, “You’re terribly unpleasant.”

  “You’re . . . you’re short.” Good one, Alec.

  “You have horrendous taste in shoes.”

  “There’s nothing—” I take a deep breath. “There is nothing wrong with my shoes. But there is something wrong with your personality.” I give her a once-over too. “And taste in clothing. 1990 called—they want their bedazzler back.”

  Luna gives me a look that could tear any man in half.

  “I sugges
t you walk away,” she practically spits at me.

  “Already on it. Hope your glue gun burns your finger off.”

  Before she can respond, I stride back to our workstation, where Thad has his hands clasped, waiting impatiently for my return.

  “How did it go?”

  “Swimmingly,” I mutter.

  Thad grips my shoulder. “I knew you could do it. See? A little apology goes a long way.”

  In this case, I’m sure name-calling is going to go a long way too . . . but in the wrong direction.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LUNA

  His shoes really aren’t ugly, but ugh . . . he made me so mad I had to do something about it.

  “Are you breathing heavily for a reason?” Cohen asks me.

  “What were you doing in the bathroom for so long?” I snap, my irritation at an all-time high.

  The nerve of that man.

  Alec Baxter.

  Divorce attorney, as we learned in the intros. No special talents but apparently knows how to make a wicked pot roast.

  Ha, doubtful.

  Pot roast is only wickedly delicious when caressed every hour while in the Crock-Pot. Everyone knows this. Alec doesn’t seem like a caresser: he’s more of a dump it, leave it, and eat it kind of Crock-Pot human. Just because it steams and cooks the food on its own doesn’t mean it should be left unattended. Crock-Pot meals need friends too!

  Bet the guy doesn’t have any friends, not with his surly, ostentatious attitude.

  “Get me coffee . . .”

  Honestly, who talks to other humans like that? We all have to unzip our flies when we pee, which means we should all be treated equally. That’s how I see it. Apparently, Alec’s pants magically vanish when he has to pee and then reappear when he’s done. Must be fun in public restrooms, his two butt cheeks just hanging out in the open. Talk about an awkward encounter.

  And yes, I spat in his coffee, multiple times. Three to be exact, and I’m not even sorry about it. I know he didn’t drink it. I watched him toss it in the trash can and mumble something to himself, but the sheer fact that he had the coffee he’d demanded but couldn’t drink it was all I needed to feel justified.

  I felt like I got what I needed, and yes, I might have been scowling from time to time during intros, but it was because I couldn’t believe the man’s audacity. And then having to watch him so effortlessly talk to the camera with that handsome, stupid face of his . . . it irritated me more than I care to admit.

  Yes, handsome; the man is handsome. I want to say his face looks like a garbage can and call it a day, but we all know that would be a lie, and do you know why? Because, I swear on my Cricut Maker—my most prized tool—Alec Baxter is Chris Evans’s long-lost twin brother, but I think we know who ended up with the winning personality . . . and who didn’t.

  Don’t want to take my word for it? Well, Declan even leaned in and whispered, “He looks just like Chris Evans without the shaggy beard.” Yup, just annoyingly smooth man skin.

  Man skin and pretty eyes. Not Chris Evans blue, but this pretty green that seems to darken when he throws insults. I would refer to it as “meadow green.” Not that it matters, because it doesn’t. He’s rude and abhorrent.

  And that apology was laughable. It wasn’t even an apology. And I felt myself sinking down to his level, tossing insults right back at him. That’s not something I do. I actually never get this wound up over anyone. Maybe I’m overreacting a little because I still haven’t had a chance to introduce myself to Mary DIY. Or any of the judges, for that matter, though they’re all standing at the other end of the set, clustered around what they’re calling a “craft services table.” Marco Vitally, the king of wedding invitations, is present, looking handsome as ever with his signature black hat and wedding-themed tattoos that cascade up his forearms and disappear under his shirtsleeves. Standing beside him is Henrietta Hornet, a staple in the wedding-planning community who started out her career throwing parties for children but is now world renowned for her lavish celebrity weddings. The type of weddings we peasants could only dream of. I ignore a stab of jealousy as she turns and murmurs something to our third judge, Katherine Barber, cake master with a perpetually sour face. She’s the reason there was an epidemic of lavender in cakes in New York City. She made it popular.

  But Mary DIY, sigh, she’s a goddess with a pair of scissors, a goddess I have yet to say hi to. Not that meeting her is the reason I’m here, but hello, we’re breathing the same air—it would be nice if I could grab her attention for two seconds.

  “Did you hear me?” Cohen asks, poking me in the side.

  “What?”

  “What’s going on with you? You’re acting weird.”

  Giving Cohen my full attention, I turn my back on Team Baxter. “What were you doing in the bathroom for so long?”

  “I peed and then grabbed a quick bite of a muffin. Thad was raving about them, so I wanted to try one. That okay with you, Mother?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Declan looks at his watch. “It’s been longer than five minutes. Think I can grab a muffin too?”

  “Not if you’re going to take as long as Cohen.”

  “Hey.” Cohen pokes me in the arm. “You’re the one who dragged us here, so lighten up.”

  Guilt instantly hits me, and I press my hand to my forehead. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just . . . irritated. That Alec guy really presses my buttons.”

  “Which buttons?” Declan asks, raising his brows suggestively.

  “Not those buttons.” Yes, those buttons. “While you guys were gone, Thad sent him over here to apologize, and all he did was pick a fight with me.”

  “He’s scared,” Cohen says casually, as if he can see right into Alec’s soul. “Knows they don’t stand a chance against us.” Smiling for the first time since we’ve been here, he adds, “He knows the gays always win when it comes to weddings.”

  “Facts.” Declan offers Cohen a fist bump, and just like that my mood brightens. I can see the excitement in their eyes, the confidence, and Cohen actually looks like he’s ready to tackle this competition.

  I shake off the presence of Alec Baxter and set my drawing on the workbench. “Look at what I came up with for a chuppah.”

  “We’re not Jewish,” Declan points out. “Not even close to it. Catholic and Chinese American, care to forget that?”

  “Noooo,” I drag out. “You don’t have to be Jewish to be married under a chuppah. If we were sticking to Chinese tradition for Declan, then you guys would have multiple ‘costume’ changes, or at least the one who wants to act as the bride would.”

  Both Declan and Cohen stare at each other for a second. “And who might the bride be?” Declan asks.

  I smile. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “No,” they say at the same time.

  “Cohen. He’s more moody.” I wink and go back to my drawing as Declan laughs.

  “I’m not moody,” Cohen grumbles but then hunkers down next to me as I lay out my chuppah idea.

  “Okay, bro.” I pat his hand and turn to Declan. “This reminds me—are there any cultural traditions you would like included in the wedding?”

  He nods. “The tea ceremony, but we can do that the night before the wedding. I spoke with my parents, and since it’s more of an intimate ceremony, they would like to keep it out of the spotlight. They would also like to be in charge, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Got it.” I smile. “Does Cohen need to wear a dress for that?”

  Declan laughs out loud. “It will be required.”

  “What’s a wedding without a theme?” Mary DIY says as she spreads her arms, shining brightly at the camera.

  She’s so magical.

  “The families are going to have thirty minutes to devise a wedding theme from the mystery objects behind me, which are meant to serve as inspiration. They are to create a vision board that incorporates an overall theme, colors, and a catchy phrase that describes their wed
ding. Once a family takes an object, that object is off the table, so think fast, families. Your dream wedding might be swiped away by another contestant before you can say ‘wedding bells.’ And remember, whatever you put on your vision board must be incorporated into your wedding, so be careful with what you choose.” Mary moves to the button that will flip down the curtain and reveal the vision-board materials. “Contestants ready?”

  Clad in our team-color aprons—Rossi is pink, Hernandez is blue, and Baxter is purple—we all stand behind the competition line and get in position.

  Before today, I sat down with Cohen and Declan and, knowing the show’s format, went over the challenges I knew we would face. We drew up plans for each one so we’d know what we’d be looking for going into each challenge. Preparation is key.

  Prepared, I nod and get into a runner’s position, with reclaimed wood and tree trunks on my mind. Cohen is in charge of eucalyptus and greens. Declan must find all the lace and burlap.

  “On your marks, get set . . . plan.” Mary hits the button. The curtain falls, revealing the giant display, and for a brief moment, I’m overwhelmed.

  I’ve seen supply reveals many times, and I always shout at the contestants on TV to use their heads. I’ve never realized why they flail about until this very minute.

  A large countdown clock is right above the display, there are what feels like a million options, and everyone is rushing to the table at the same time, causing such a commotion that you have no time to think.

  Tulle and flowers, birdcages and vases, pearls and . . . gah! The insanity!

  “Remember, whatever you grab and put on your workbench must be used!” Mary shouts as I finally snap out of it and hurry to the table where Team Hernandez is already digging in. They’ve grabbed a lace tablecloth. Damn it.

  “Burlap, find the burlap!” I shout to Declan, who is furiously looking through a pile of tablecloths.

  “Luna, mason jar,” Cohen says, tossing me a glass mason jar that I miraculously catch.