The Wedding Game

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Or they don’t talk at all.” I look across the set at the confessional room, wishing I could hear what Team Rossi is saying.

  We just finished up our interview, during which Thad went on and on about the goddamn feathers he can’t seem to stop touching. He talked for five minutes about how they feel against his fingers and how they make him feel young again. The producer finally cut him off and asked us to talk about the other teams and what we thought of them. Naomi took the lead on that question, complimenting everyone. When they looked to me for an answer, I kept my mouth shut. I may have some opinions about Team Rossi and the distaste for my shoes on set, but I wasn’t about to say anything that could be taken the wrong way, especially since I have a job that requires me to be professional.

  But that doesn’t mean Luna isn’t saying something nasty about me this very minute.

  I sigh loudly, resenting the producers, who insist we stay even after our interviews are over, just in case they want to ask us another question about what the opposing team might have said. So it’s another long day, to say the least.

  “Why are you staring at the confessional room?” Thad asks. “Do you want to go back in there?”

  “What?” I shake my head. “No. Just wondering how much longer we’re going to have to wait. They should be booking us in time slots rather than making us all come at the same time and wait around. We have lives.”

  Just as I say that, the door to the confessional opens and out walk Cohen, Declan, and Luna. They’re all laughing, and it sends a bolt of insecurity through me.

  Are they laughing about me?

  What does it matter? It shouldn’t.

  But for some reason, it does.

  Cohen and Declan go to the workstation as Luna takes off for the food table.

  Before I can stop myself, I stand from my chair and head in her direction. When she arrived this morning, I did a double take—she looked nothing like the girl I saw this morning. Her hair was smoothed out, straight and silky. Her face was devoid of any leftover mascara from the night before, and instead of smelling like death, I caught a whiff of her as she passed me and she smelled like brown sugar and vanilla. It was incredibly appealing. Almost too appealing.

  She’s making a sandwich as I walk up next to her. “Did you have an exorcist come to your place this morning and remove the rest of the devil from you?”

  She doesn’t even look at me. “No, you did a good job of that at the diner. You seem to pull the worst out of me.”

  Not a pleasant compliment.

  Not something I’ve ever heard anyone say to me before.

  Not something I’m proud of.

  And yet, I can’t quite stop poking the bear.

  “Maybe you’re just starting to discover yourself.”

  She lifts a brow and glances at me. “Are you saying I’m coming into my womanhood? Because I did that when I was twelve, at my brother’s basketball game. Want to hear the whole story?”

  I stuff some pretzels into a cup. “I’m good, thanks.” Turning toward her, I pop a pretzel in my mouth and ask, “Talk about me in there?”

  “Who’s the egomaniac now?”

  “Seriously.” I nudge her with my foot. “What did you say?”

  “Looks like you’re going to have to watch it on TV.”

  “So you did talk about me.” I smile.

  Placing her sandwich on her plate, she faces me. Her dark eyes are framed by black, catlike eyeliner and mascara. Captivating—it’s the only way I can describe her eyes: completely captivating. “I didn’t talk about you, but I did mention Team Baxter and how I can’t wait to see you incorporate feathers into everything you do. I also think I mentioned wanting a pink tux for each groomsman, especially the best man.”

  “Cheeky.” She’s turning to walk away when I say, “You’re scared.”

  She freezes and slowly faces me, a hand on her hip. “I’m not scared.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You are. You don’t want to fail your brother.” Her lips purse to the side and her jaw clenches. “You don’t want to fail him, so you’re deflecting and focusing on everything we’re doing.” I take a step forward. “Do you know why we won yesterday?”

  “Because you’re paying the judges. I told you that already.”

  “No. Because we’re not focused on anyone but ourselves. We’re not overthinking it. We’re just putting together what we like. We’re not screaming about wood and burlap and trying to be the best.”

  Her eyes search mine, her nostrils flair, and I can tell she’s not even close to happy about my little moment of advice.

  “You lucked out yesterday, Baxter. Enjoy your rare win, because it will be your last.”

  “Wow.” I rock back on my heels. “That confident, huh?”

  “I know men like you, the ones who don’t care about love or marriage, who think it’s all a joke.” Accurate. “Well, I care.” She points to her chest. “My parents have a beautiful marriage, the kind of love you read about, and they set the perfect example of what my brother deserves. Cohen found his forever in Declan. He struggled getting there, but he found him, and I’ll be damned if I don’t help kick-start his marriage with one hell of a wedding . . . and an equally amazing penthouse.” She gives me another searing once-over. “Stay out of my way, Baxter.”

  “Are you declaring war?”

  “It’s been war ever since you demanded coffee.”

  Dismissing me with her back, she walks away, leaving me to wonder: What did I just start? Or, I guess, What did I start yesterday?

  “There’s the craft queen himself.” Lucas pops into my office, a smirk on his face. “How was it?”

  “Annoying.” I lean back in my chair and fold my hands over my stomach. “More annoying than I thought it was going to be.”

  “A show about love and marriage doesn’t necessarily read Alec Baxter.”

  “You could say that.”

  I recount how yesterday was a giant waste of time, and that I asked the director if they could schedule out time slots for confessionals so I wouldn’t have to wait around all day for nothing. Diane told me it was a great way to get to know the other contestants. I told her it was a great way to fall behind on my cases. Thankfully, she granted my request, and all confessionals will be specifically scheduled from now on.

  “And how was my girl Mary?” Lucas asks.

  “No idea.” I shrug. “She wants nothing to do with the contestants. I don’t think she’s talked to one of us without the camera rolling.”

  “Damn, a stone-cold bitch?”

  “You could say that. Bit of a diva.” Then again, guess I was a bit of a diva with the whole coffee incident, but we don’t need to get into that.

  “She just needs me to warm her up. So, you’re going to take me to the set next week?”

  “No.”

  “Alec, come on. Be a good friend. Introduce me to Mary DIY and make all my dreams come true.”

  “Dude, she’s pretty, but there’s no spark in her eyes. She’s like a robot. Zero personality.”

  “Doesn’t mean she doesn’t have great tits I can bury my face in.”

  Jesus Christ.

  I sit up and open an email from one of my clients, who’s been a nervous wreck ever since she decided to leave her husband. She’s shown me pictures of the bruises he’s given her and recounted multiple accounts of assault, but it took months to convince her to actually send the pictures to me, or to even file for divorce. But after some persuading from her friend and getting a safe place to stay—courtesy of me, free of charge—we’re finally pressing charges and divorcing the bastard. And boy am I going to bleed him dry and send his ass to jail.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Huh?” I look up from my computer.

  “Did you win the challenge?”

  “Oh, yeah. We did. Thad put together some feather-boa wedding. I don’t know—I was just there to hand him things.”

  “Feather boa? I fear for you.” We bo
th laugh, and then he asks, “I’m guessing you’re not catching the spirit of the show?”

  “Not even a little. I’m counting down the minutes until it’s all over.”

  “How does Thad feel about that? He doesn’t seem like he’s going to let you skate by.”

  I shrug. “I’m there, aren’t I? I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.” But even as I say that out loud, I know it’s probably not going to be enough for Thad. Hell, he invited me over again this week to review the next challenge and prepare by watching clips of previous episodes. I feigned work and took off before he could start begging or lecturing me about my participation, or lack thereof.

  Here’s the problem: Thad and I are on different wavelengths when it comes to love.

  He wants the fairy tale Luna was talking about.

  The marriage her parents have.

  He wants everlasting love and happiness with Naomi.

  And that’s not something I understand. I’ve seen pictures of my parents before everything started going downhill. Hell, I’ve seen videos of them. They were in love. I could see it in their eyes, the way they touched each other, or held hands. But that was in the videos, in the past. In reality, I never witnessed that type of adoration, or any adoration. Dad was always working; Mom was always trying to be the perfect Park Avenue wife. They argued every night about pretty much anything they could argue about: money—always money—engagements, working late, Dad staying at hotels when he should have been home. You name it, they argued about it.

  Why is that the life Thad wants?

  Naomi is great, and yes, I can see how perfect she is for him. But they’re having a baby. Babies bring stress, stress brings fights, fights bring hatred, hatred brings you right back to where you were—single. Why go through all the pain and heartache for nothing?

  “Just remember what I said,” Lucas says, growing serious. “You only have one brother, man. Don’t waste the time you have with him.”

  “I know.” I pull on the back of my head and look out my office window. I was so out of my element on Saturday, so uncomfortable in front of the camera.

  Showing up is the best I can do right now, because honestly, how am I supposed to help when I don’t believe in what we’re creating?

  CHAPTER NINE

  LUNA

  “Are you ready?” Farrah says, coming from behind me and massaging my shoulders. I move my head side to side while we both hop up and down. “Did you do those finger exercises I told you about?”

  I flex my fingers and nod. “Yup, all warmed up.”

  “Do you have your game face on?” Farrah spins me around and grips my shoulders as I mean mug it at her. “Ooo, you’ve been practicing in the mirror. I can tell.”

  “When I brush my teeth. I really feel like I’ve mastered the scowl.”

  “Honey, you mastered the scowl years ago. Now you’re just coming into your own with it.” She holds up her hands, and I start boxing into them as we leap around the apartment. “Quick on your feet, quick on your feet.” Farrah swings her hand at me, and I duck. “Focus, hone your attention.”

  “Focused.”

  “Tell me, who’s going to kill it today?”

  “I am.” I bob back and forth and then give Farrah a one-two punch to her hands.

  “Who’s going to do anything necessary, even sit on someone’s face if you need to, in order to win today’s challenge?”

  “I am. Show no mercy. My ass is coming for your face.”

  Farrah pauses, winces. “I’m not sure I like that.”

  “Just go with it.”

  “Okay, Luna’s ass is coming for your face.” She shrugs. “Next week let’s work on your trash talk.”

  “Might be necessary.”

  Circling again, I box at Farrah’s hands, feeling light on my feet and ready for anything that comes my way. “You’re going to ignore all conversations from Mr. Snobby Shoes.”

  “I don’t even know he exists.”

  “Your eyes are on the prize. And what is that prize?”

  “Giving Cohen and Declan the best wedding possible.”

  “Exactly.” She lowers her palms. “Quick, flash me your hands.”

  I lift my hands, and she inspects them carefully.

  “You lotioned—good. Nails are clipped to a perfect length, and those fingers are stretched and strong. Rotate your wrists for me.” She lowers her ear to my wrists as I circle them around. “Perfect, no cracking, no tension.” She points to the ground. “Fast feet.”

  My feet start bouncing up and down, like in those football movies, and I hold my hands at my hips, ready for the call . . .

  “Draw!” Farrah shouts.

  I pull my glue gun from my hip and point it at her. “You’ve been glued.”

  Farrah claps her hands. “Reaction time was spot on. You’re ready.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods. “You got this, girl. This competition is yours for the taking. And remember what we talked about: don’t focus on what you think will win . . .”

  “Focus on what will bring Cohen and Declan joy.”

  “Precisely,” Farrah says with an endearing smile.

  After some deep thought about the first challenge, I realized that unfortunately Alec Baxter was right: they won that competition because they were playing from the heart. They picked what they wanted and created something that spoke to them, not something they thought was going to win.

  Blame it on the lights, the cameras, the plethora of craft supplies, but I was momentarily blinded, and from here on out, I plan on making sure I focus on Cohen and Declan and what would be great for them, not great for the win.

  “Don’t worry about anyone else. Just focus on what you’re trying to accomplish. And if Alec Baxter starts talking to you, what do you do?”

  “Start barking like a rabid dog.”

  “Exactly. That shit freaks people out.” She pulls me into a hug. “You got this.”

  “Thank you.”

  She hands me my bag and cups my cheeks. “Make Mama Farrah proud.”

  “I will.”

  Hoisting my bag over my shoulder, I give her a parting wave and stride out of our apartment to grab a cab to Midtown and the studio where the show is filming.

  After last week and everything that went down—the loss, the miscommunication, the outbursts on my end, and the unfortunate conversations with a certain Chris Evans look-alike—I realized one thing: I’d lost all sense of why I was there and what I was doing.

  This is about Cohen and Declan and giving them a great wedding, one I know we can do within budget, one that will wow America and highlight the beautiful love they share.

  So, that’s what I’m setting out to do.

  Focusing on Cohen and Declan and barking at any distractions.

  I smile to myself as I hail a cab. Even though this is about Cohen and Declan, I secretly can’t wait to see the look on Alec’s face when he tries to talk to me and I let out a big woof.

  Let’s just hope they don’t catch it on camera.

  Now . . . cue the wedding-competition montage in five, four, three . . . two . . . one . . .

  Week Two—Venues

  “Have you looked at what’s left on the board?” Cohen asks, looking nervous. “I haven’t heard of any of these places.”

  “I have,” I say. “I’ve done tons of decorations for people in the city, and I’ve made deliveries and hung things as well.” I talk quietly as we prepare for our turn to pick. To our dismay, we drew the short end of the crochet hook, and we have to choose our venue last. From a list of five.

  Only five. Of course Team Baxter got first pick, and they went with a warehouse down in Meatpacking. Team Hernandez went with an old flour factory turned event space in Brooklyn, which I know offers cheap food and beverage—it’s where I was looking for Cohen and Declan before they opted for a courthouse marriage. That leaves us with the Harbor House, the Rooftop Restaurant—which is so not them—and the Shed.

 
“One minute, Team Rossi!” Mary calls out while the other teams wait for us to choose. I can feel Alec’s gaze on me, his smirk from picking the best venue. Thankfully, though, I’m not letting it bother me.

  “Harbor House is out,” I say.

  “They might have good seafood,” Declan says.

  All we have is one picture of each venue, a few dimensions, and their best food option, along with the budget. So unless you know the venues, you’re going to have to just base your decision on what’s handed to you. Lucky for me, I know the venues.

  “They have a good crab cake, and that’s it. They’ve also been flagged for food poisoning a few times, and their decor is 1980s-sailboat themed. Captain’s chair in a horrible orange. Trust me, it’s a bad choice.”

  “The Rooftop won’t go with our theme,” Cohen says, looking worried, “and the Shed sounds like a place we’d take wedding guests to chop up.”

  “Rooftop is a no go. It won’t go with our theme, like you said, and that will hurt us. But I’ve heard the Shed is actually nice. I believe there’s reclaimed wood throughout the rooms, which are small and sectioned off. The space isn’t open, but it can be cute if we do it right.”

  “Then let’s go with that,” Declan says.

  “The Shed!” I call out.

  Mary picks up an envelope with The Shed written in perfect calligraphy on the back and hands it to me. “Each envelope contains two food-and-beverage plans. Choose wisely. You’re going to have twenty minutes to decide, which includes making your selections for alcohol, appetizers, setup, and where you’re going to have the actual ceremony. All decisions are final. The challenge: make the best use of your space. Go.”

  We tear open the envelope, and I zero in on the floor plans. “You guys take the food. I’ve got the space.”

  And just like that, we get to work. The rules state that we’re not allowed to have over one hundred guests, so with that in mind, I scan through the maximum occupancy for each room and start dividing up the party. Not only do I develop a seamless space to walk through, but I also come up with a brilliant idea for the ceremony’s layout, where guests sit in a circle around the couple in the loft, forming a ring of love and trust. As I look through the pictures and the floor plan, I manage to select only three rooms total, saving us money and creating a warm environment for everyone—as well as a pretty awesome dance space.