The Wedding Game

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Hey, I can save a few hundred with limiting our rental space,” I say, doing the math.

  “Really?” Cohen asks with excitement. “We can up the food-and-beverage package then.”

  “Macaroni bites, here we come,” Declan says just as the timer goes off.

  I finally lift my head and take a deep breath. As the judges walk around, inspecting our work, I scan the other workstations. Helen and the girls look frazzled, while Thad and Naomi nervously chew their lips. But the guy who thinks he’s going to win it all barely looks like he’s broken a sweat.

  After the judges deliberate, they relay their choices to Mary, and she nods.

  Cameras on.

  She smiles.

  And . . .

  “In third place, Team Hernandez. You’ll be receiving no extra money. In second place . . .” I hold my breath. “Team Baxter. Which means Team Rossi takes first. The judges were very impressed with your ability to maximize the space and save money while doing it.”

  I can’t help it—I yelp and jump into Cohen’s arms. He chuckles and whispers, “There’s my girl.”

  Week Three—Invitations

  “Luna, where did you learn such great penmanship?” Luciana asks as the crew wraps up around us. PAs are bustling about, cleaning up and setting up for next week, while Mary DIY and Diane walk off the set, studying something on a clipboard. Another missed opportunity to speak with Mary, another week gone by without getting to share my crafty memes with her.

  “I’ve been doing hand lettering for a while now. I’ve actually created a few fonts that I sell on Creative Market.” I swivel on my stool and plaster on a smile. I like Luciana and Amanda. Helen . . . well, she’s a different story.

  “Wow, well, it shows. Congrats on the win.” She gives me a short wave and then takes off with Amanda, hand in hand.

  “Yeah, really wonderful invitation,” Naomi says as she walks by me, a soft smile on her face. Thad trails behind her, head down. And I know why: this is the second week in a row they haven’t won, and they actually came in last this time.

  We had to create our invitations on a computer and were provided all the tools, from a drawing pad, to Photoshop, to Word for the people who don’t know the systems.

  Well, I got to work right away, creating a flawless rustic design on the drawing pad that transferred onto the computer. I kept it simple, using hand lettering to showcase Declan’s and Cohen’s names, and then used a sans serif font for the rest. I was honestly a little shocked at how great they came out. Luciana and Amanda used a template and put their names on it. It looked nice, but it wasn’t original. And then poor Thad and Naomi . . . they tried to do something in Word and wound up with just a black-and-white invitation written out in Times New Roman.

  At least they used all caps for their names.

  I tried to block them out, but there was a lot of irritation coming from their end of the set, and when I peeked up just once, I caught Alec sitting back, arms crossed, not helping at all. In his defense, Thad kept saying, “Let me do this, let me do this.”

  Maybe he should have let someone else do it.

  “Breakfast for dinner tonight?” Declan asks as he kisses me on the cheek.

  “I’ll be there. We can strategize next week’s challenge . . . wedding attire.”

  “Can’t wait.” He winks, and Cohen gives me a hug before walking away as well.

  I’m gathering up my things when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a tall figure walking up next to me. I don’t have to look to know who it is. We’re the only two left on set, we haven’t spoken in the last two weeks, and we’re the only two contestants who seem to hate each other. Well, besides Helen, but I think Helen hates everyone.

  “Who’s paying the judges now?” Alec says, and instead of acknowledging him, I finish taking pictures of the invitations we worked on today and then gather up my samples of cardstock, envelopes, and embellishments to take home so I can look them over. “What, not going to talk to me, now?”

  Nope.

  I carefully slip the invitation paper and envelope we chose into a stiff file folder so they won’t bend. While the other teams chose online invitations because they spent extra on their venues, we were able to spring for paper invites. Cheap paper—but at least we have something tangible to offer.

  “I see. Because you won two challenges, you’re too good to talk to me.”

  Ignore, ignore, ignore.

  “I would like it to be known, after we won our first challenge, right out of the gate, I still spoke with you. It wasn’t beneath me to have a conversation with you.”

  Conversation or argument?

  “Fine, you don’t want to talk? That’s your choice. But just so you know, I actually was going to pay you a compliment.”

  “Ha!” I exclaim before I can stop myself. “That’s why you started off by insinuating I was paying the judges.” After the words have fallen past my lips, I remember what Farrah told me to do. “I mean . . . woof.”

  “Woof?” Alec’s brow furrows.

  I clutch the folder to my chest and face him now. Trying to look as snarly as possible, I go at him. “Woof, woof, woof.” I use my best baritone impression of a Saint Bernard. “Bark, ra-ra-ra-ra-roof. Bark. Woof.”

  “Uhhhh . . .” He scratches the top of his head.

  “Woof.” I take a step forward. “Woof.” One more step. “Woof.” He stumbles backward.

  “Are you barking at me out of choice, or are you experiencing some kind of psychosis and need me to call someone?”

  “Bark. Woof. Woof.”

  “Psychosis for sure.”

  I move past him and am starting to walk away when he calls out, “Hey, as long as you don’t lift a leg and pee on me, you can keep barking all you want.”

  I smile to myself, not wanting him to see that I actually found him funny . . . for a second.

  Week Four—Wedding Attire

  “For the love of God, where is the pincushion?” Thad shouts, his voice echoing through the set.

  I glance over at their workstation and cringe.

  Of all the weeks on The Wedding Game, week four is by far the fans’ favorite. Just like how the technical challenge is clearly the best challenge on The Great British Baking Show, because it can easily turn into a hot mess—well, that’s what week four, wedding-attire week, is.

  Each team has to design and construct the entire wedding party’s outfits.

  Yup, design and construct. Which means we’re provided four mannequins. Each mannequin has to have a corresponding sketch that goes along with the ensemble it’s dressed in. Some of the items have already been constructed, like button-down shirts and pants, but everything else needs to be cut and pinned together. Luckily, we don’t have to sew in a certain time limit. The pieces are brought to a tailor, who then replicates the look.

  Tables at the back of the set are covered in fabrics, accessories, embellishments . . . yes, even feathers, and once again, whatever we choose has to be used in our designs, though we have the option of dumping one item.

  Can you imagine why this might be the best episode? Some of the creations that have come out of it are Hall of Fame worthy, and I mean, “Ugliest Dress of All Time” worthy.

  Because of the mix of couples, there is no budget for wedding attire. It’s first come, first served, since wedding dresses cost more than a suit.

  “You don’t think we need more than this?” Declan asks, staring at the mannequins draped in button-up shirts and tasteful vests.

  “No, keep it simple. Trust me on this, okay?” I say, tongue sticking out as I carefully pin my “best man” dress together.

  “I’m sorry to pull a groomzilla moment for a second,” Cohen says, “but don’t you think you’re spending a little too much time on your dress?”

  “If you’d allowed me the honor, I would be spending just as much time on your dress. But you chose a suit, which was easy—I just cut out a nice vest for the both of you. A bow tie for Declan, a
tie for you. Done and done. You need to remember: we’re competing against a lesbian couple with two dresses, and if you haven’t peeked, they are flowy and gorgeous, so we need to make this dress pretty.”

  “She has a point,” Declan says. “Maybe add a layer of tulle?”

  I shoot him a look. “Stick to your bow tie.”

  He throws his hands up in defense just as Thad’s familiar scream rattles the set. “That was my ball sack, you dick nozzle!”

  Thunk.

  Everyone lifts their heads and glances over to the slowly self-destructing Team Baxter; Thad is curled up on the ground, and Alec is standing over him with a pin in his hand and a smile on his face.

  “I think we should have designed on the mannequins,” Naomi says. The poor girl is wrapped up like a sausage in white as she stares down at her fiancé.

  “Yeah, but then Thad wouldn’t have gotten a ‘feel for the attire,’” Alec says with air quotes. He nudges Thad with his foot. “Are you getting the feel for it now?”

  Week Five—Bouquets and Boutonnieres

  “Pass me the twine!” I shout, sweat dripping down my forehead. Declan tosses me the twine as Cohen sits in front of me, telling me what to do.

  Remember when I said wedding-attire week is a fan favorite? Well, bouquets and boutonnieres is where the drama really ramps up. It’s not as simple as decorating and putting something together.

  Nope, you have to play the game of “trust your family.” Which means the person in charge of distributing tools and supplies must stay silent. That would be Declan. Then there are the eyes and the hands. One “eyes” member of the team has to stand in front of the “hands” member and tell them exactly what to create. And “hands” just has to trust them. Basically, my chest is plastered to Cohen’s back, my arms looped under his as he tells me what to do, and I try to blindly replicate what he says.

  This was the week I was dreading the most—I may be good with my hands, but I’m nothing without my eyes.

  “Is everything centered?”

  “Looks like it,” Cohen says.

  “Looks like it? Cohen, I need a solid yes or no.”

  Cohen shifts against me. “Cool it with the attitude. We practiced this—just repeat what we did this past week.”

  “Repeat? How can I repeat when I don’t know what I’m seeing? Stop being so casual. This needs to be perfect.”

  Knowing we would be creating boutonnieres and bouquets blindly, Cohen and Declan had me over this past week, two nights in a row, to practice. It was rather cute, actually. Cohen had it all planned out: he’d bought the supplies and told me exactly what he and Declan wanted. We practiced, over and over, and going into today, we felt like we knew what we were doing . . . until Helen took the twine I wanted, and the time started ticking down. The pressure of it all is getting to me, and it’s showing.

  “One minute!” Mary calls out.

  “Shit,” I mutter, knowing production will have to bleep that out. “Cohen, is it straight?”

  “Yes. Just tie it.”

  “But I can’t see where I’m tying—you have to tell me where to tie it.”

  “Right there.”

  “Right where?” I yell.

  “Right where your hands are. Christ.”

  Fortunately, we’re not the only ones yelling at each other, which makes bouquets and boutonnieres a great week to watch on TV, though not a great week to actually create in. Luciana and Amanda, the quiet ones, have been at it, yelling back and forth about the silk peonies they picked and how the lace they chose to wrap around the bouquets isn’t secure enough and they should have grabbed floral tape, but they forgot.

  Rookie mistake.

  And then there’s Team Baxter, who for some odd reason has put Naomi in charge of supplies, Alec in charge of overseeing everything, and Thad in charge of creating. You can imagine how well that’s been going.

  Thad has yelped at least three times and, I think, cried, because at one point, Alec yelled, “Are you wiping your snot on my back?” To which Thad replied, “You created the snot with your sarcasm, so deal with it!”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “Hurry, Luna!” Cohen stresses.

  “It’s not that easy,” I reply, upper lip sweating.

  I twist the twine around, form a knot, and hope for the best just as the time runs out. I unlatch myself from Cohen and quickly step around him so I can see what we’ve created.

  Twigs and wheat are askew, the fake baby’s breath—fake because all items made today need to last, plus they’re cheaper—is off center, and the bow I tied is vertical rather than horizontal.

  Christ on a cracker!

  “Cohen, what the . . .”

  “Don’t blame me.” He steps away, hands held up.

  “You were the eyes. You should have told me the wheat was clumped weird.”

  “Looks fine to me.”

  “And cut!” Diane says. “Take a ten-minute break.”

  “It does not look fine.” I push up from the table and walk away, needing some distance from Cohen and the worst challenge ever created.

  As I leave the set, my head down, I bump into someone. I look up and straight into the blue eyes of Mary DIY—and I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. Guess we’re both ready to get off the set, huh?” She gives me a quick once-over but says nothing, so I continue: “Now that I have a moment with you, I thought I would officially introduce myself. I’m Lun—”

  “Harper, where are my sandals? Now!” she yells, bumping my shoulder as she steams past me, robe flapping in the breeze.

  Well . . . that was rude and not exactly what I needed.

  I head toward the food table, scoop up a giant cupful of unwrapped Rolos, and start plopping them in my mouth two at a time.

  I’m standing to the side of craft services, staring at the ground and trying to control my frustration, when I feel someone sidle up beside me. At first, he just leans against the wall as I keep shoving Rolos into my mouth. But after a few short seconds, he finally says, “That was torture.” I glance over at Alec. He looks a little crazed. He must have run his hand through his hair after they yelled cut, because it’s wild. “I have snot on my back, my knees are aching from not being able to move for twenty minutes, and I’m pretty sure Thad’s plotting my death right now.” His gaze falls on me. “If you’re going to bark, just don’t respond.”

  So I don’t.

  I was able to peek over at their creations, and I really didn’t think they were that bad. I wouldn’t be surprised if they actually place today—Team Hernandez’s bouquets looked like they were ready to fall apart from the lack of floral tape.

  When I don’t answer him, he nods and pushes off the wall. “Still trying to be a dog—got it.” He moves to walk away but then stops and turns back to me. “For what it’s worth, trying to describe how to create is a lot harder than you think.”

  As I watch his retreating back, I can’t help the way my eyes fall to his backside, or the way I want to say something back to him. We really haven’t said much to each other since the first week. I’ve caught him looking at me here and there, but that’s about it. No other exchanges.

  And sure, I’ve observed him from afar too. He’s the same infuriatingly confident guy every week. But just now, he seemed a little bit . . . off.

  Is it because I’m not talking to him?

  Is it the challenge itself?

  This is the week when teams start to fall apart, and I can see why. It all looks so fun when you’re watching the show, but when you’re in the thick of it, the stress is so palpable you can actually taste it on your tongue.

  The anger, the yelling, the miscommunications: it’s a real testament to your relationships. Mine was certainly tested with Cohen today.

  And as for Team Baxter, it’s easy to see that their relationships were tested. Then again, they’ve never seemed like they were fully united. More like they’re being held to
gether by cheap tape. Is this their breaking point?

  Team Rossi in the lead. Team Hernandez trailing close behind. And Team Baxter—well, let’s just say they might have lucked out with one win.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ALEC

  Stewing in pure irritation, I ask Thad, “Why are you crying?”

  This last month has been miserable. Not only have I lost my weekends, but I’ve also had to put in extra hours during the week to make sure I can get all my casework done. I have to wake up early on Saturday and Sunday to come to this godforsaken studio, which is basically a torture chamber of crafts and challenges, each and every one of which we lose.

  If this were a show that eliminates contestants, we likely would have been gone after the second week, and for sure after the wedding-attire week.

  “Why am I crying?” Thad asks, wiping under his eye. Naomi went to the bathroom, which is where she spends most of her time when not filming. Morning sickness is rearing its ugly head. We even had to stop filming for a while today after she sprinted off toward the bathroom, hand over her mouth. “Maybe because we’re sucking so hard it’s embarrassing.”

  “What did you expect?” I stare down at the pitiful boutonniere and bouquet we’ve put together. “We have zero experience in any of this shit.”

  “I expected you to try,” Thad shoots back. “If only you’d come over this week, we could have practiced, or at least talked about it. Naomi is no help right now—the pregnancy is really taking hold of her. She’s tired, sick, or buried in the fridge, eating all of our food. I need you to be present, Alec.”

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?” I take a seat on one of the stools at our workbench, really not in the mood for an argument.

  “You’re physically here, but you’re not mentally here. You realize everything we create will be a part of the wedding, don’t you? Naomi is going to have to walk this pathetic bouquet down the aisle.” He tosses the bouquet made of feathers to the side. “She deserves better. I deserve better, more . . . more from you.”