The Wedding Game

by Quinn, Meghan

  Terrible thoughts that could be helpful.

  Very helpful.

  Helpful enough to possibly keep us out of last place.

  Before I can stop myself, I log out of Instagram and quickly create a fake account. I connect the account to my work email, ready to cancel it the minute I get what I need, and I create a username. Uh . . .

  Hmm . . .

  Something that doesn’t give me away. Something that won’t connect me to the account at all. Something that keeps me completely anonymous . . .

  Ah ha, I got it.

  Smiling to myself, I type out the username, ChrisEcrafts, and hit enter.

  I’ve been told a few times that I look like Chris Evans, and Chris can be a male or female name, so it’s perfect. Fucking clever, right there. She’ll never guess.

  Once I’m signed in, I go straight to Luna’s profile and follow her. I consider liking a few of her posts, but that might be weird. Is it? Maybe not. A new fan likes things, right? I don’t want to draw too much attention to my fakeness, especially since I don’t have a profile picture.

  Shit, I should have a profile picture, make myself seem more legit.

  I spend the next few moments searching for a picture of a bird, because honestly, that’s the only thing that comes to mind, and people trust birds, right? ChrisE could be an old lady bird lover.

  Hell, ChrisE is an old lady bird lover, and she wears knee-high stockings because she fucking can.

  A photo of a cardinal catches my eye with its vibrant colors and proudly puffed chest. I quickly make that the profile shot, and then I sign in on my phone before downloading and posting a few more pictures of random crafts with comments like “Check out this bunting” and “Crochet hooks on fire, am I right?” I add some flavorful hashtags that make me chuckle. A half hour later, I’m completely absorbed in ChrisEcrafts and knee deep in posting other people’s pics.

  Hell, I can easily see how catfishing is a thing.

  Once I feel confident about my posts, I go back to Luna’s profile and click on the blue message icon.

  When the text box pops up, I start typing, hoping she’ll message me back . . . sooner rather than later.

  Hey Luna,

  Uhh . . .

  I sit back, sip my beer, and think about what I want to say. Cake, ask about the cake. Compliment her profile and thank her for her help.

  *Clears throat, cracks fingers*

  I don’t mean to gush, but I absolutely adore your profile. I came across it a few months ago and finally had the courage to like it.

  Is that weird? I mean, I don’t want to be a flyby fan. She’ll know I just liked the profile.

  I’ve kept coming back to your profile, typing your name in the search bar.

  Huh . . . is that stalker level?

  I think I need to start over.

  *Backspace, backspace, backspace*

  I don’t mean to gush, but I absolutely adore your profile. I came across it a few months ago and finally had the courage to like it.

  I’ve kept coming back to your profile, typing your name in the search bar.

  *Cracks fingers, blows on them*

  Here we go.

  Long time crafter, first time follower.

  Ha, clever.

  I chuckle and roll my shoulders back.

  I came across your profile from one of your delightful hashtags. It was #Procraftinating. Should be doing laundry but can’t put down that decoupage. Am I right?

  I chuckle even more, down the rest of my beer, flex my fingers.

  Anyway, I just saw your story about a cake you’re making and I’m dying to know the recipe. Care to share with a new fan? Tipping my sewing needle at you—your friend, ChrisEcrafts.

  There.

  I hit send and get up from my office chair. I go to the kitchen for another beer. When I pop the cap off, my phone dings.

  Did she . . . did she already message me back?

  In a hurry to get to my phone, I trip over the leg of my dining room table, stumble forward, and crash straight into my couch. By some miracle, I manage to keep the beer held high and avoid any spillage.

  Christ.

  Straightening up, I laugh and thank the good lord himself that no one else saw that. When I reach for my phone, the screen lights up, announcing a new message on Instagram from LunaMoonCrafts.

  And like I’m a damn idiot, my heart skips in my chest.

  “Keep it in your pants,” I mutter, flopping on the couch and taking a pull of beer—as my brain starts to inform my sweat glands that I’m about to cross into dangerous territory.

  But the sweat that starts to tickle the back of my neck can’t stop me from opening up her message and reading it.

  Hey ChrisEcrafts,

  Thank you so much for your message and the follow. I love when I get to bring a new friend into my little world of crafts.

  Huh, cute and nice. Unlike anything I’ve seen from her.

  #Procraftinating all day, every day. I have a mountain of laundry that needs to be done, can’t tell you the last time I cleaned my shower, and my roommate is one half-full mug of tea on the coffee table away from kicking me out of the apartment. But it’s all worth it when I hold up a finished product.

  Damn, she really is nice, relatable. Not sure many people fess up to keeping their place less than suitable for company.

  And of course you can have the recipe. I’ll link it below. Maybe we can practice together. I’m making mine tomorrow. Send me a pic when you make yours and we can compare and contrast. Happy baking and keep crafting. Lots of love—Luna.

  Right below is the recipe for the cake. I feel a bit bad that she’s given it up so easily, but then again, sometimes you have to catfish a little to get what you want, right?

  Okay, okay, what I did wasn’t entirely kosher, but I’m telling you, between Thad’s dramatics and Naomi’s vomiting, baking the cake on our own a few days before the wedding is not an option.

  A desperate man must resort to desperate things.

  I click on the recipe and take a screenshot before messaging her back.

  My inner girl comes out.

  OMG, you’re the best. Thank you so much. I can’t wait to try it. I’ll send you pictures but there’s no doubt in my mind yours will be so much better than mine.

  Send.

  She must be perusing Instagram because she starts typing back immediately.

  LunaMoonCrafts: A secret between crafters . . . *whispers* cakes are my kryptonite. I always seem to mess them up somehow, whether it’s forgetting to add the sugar, leaving it on the windowsill for an NYC rat to eat, or dropping my tea on it while dancing to a Bruno Mars song that I couldn’t help but shake my booty to. So, I’m a little nervous about this cake.

  Hell, now all I can envision is her shaking her “booty.” And I know it’s a pretty cute ass because I may have looked at it a time or two. You know, researching the competition.

  ChrisEcrafts: I’m not much of a baker either. Been known to burn anything I put in an oven, even when I set a timer.

  LunaMoonCrafts: That’s really impressive, even with a timer? Burning with a timer takes true talent.

  ChrisEcrafts: My talents extend beyond just a kitty cat needlepoint.

  No idea what I’m talking about, but it feels right.

  LunaMoonCrafts: Are you a needlepointer too? I was sent a kit from a company a week ago, and I’d never heard of them so I was excited to try it. You’ll never guess what it was. I didn’t post it on my IG for obvious reasons.

  ChrisEcrafts: From the way you describe it, I’m going to say maybe it was inappropriate?

  LunaMoonCrafts: It was a penis. Not just one penis, but a basket of penises with lettering that said “Eat a basket of dicks.”

  Beer dribbles out of my mouth as I try to keep it from projecting all over my apartment. I swallow hard and then cough out a laugh. Hell, I would have loved to see Luna’s face when she opened that package. She’s still typing, so I wait before responding. />
  LunaMoonCrafts: I mean, I like a good penis, but I was not expecting that from a needlepoint company.

  Beer shoots out of my nose this time, and I set the bottle down. Drinking while messaging Luna might not be the best idea. I wipe at my nose and chuckle. Damn, she’s funny when she’s relaxed—and not hating me.

  ChrisEcrafts: I have to know, did you make the kit?

  LunaMoonCrafts: Hell yeah! It’s in our entryway, hanging proudly. No better way to welcome people into the apartment than by telling them to eat a basket of dicks.

  I laugh out loud and wish that I had the same greeting in my apartment. Or anything personal. It’s an insane asylum in here. But what am I going to hang? Pictures of my family? Yeah, don’t need to be reminded of that.

  A thought crosses my mind: a baby picture I could possibly hang soon, one of my niece or nephew. Warmth spreads through my veins as I stare up at the built-in shelves next to my fireplace. I can see frames lining the shelves, me with the baby, Thad and Naomi with the baby, all of us together . . .

  Smiling, I message Luna back.

  ChrisEcrafts: I might need you to send me the company name so I can get one. My apartment needs a little basket of dicks too.

  LunaMoonCrafts: On it. I got you covered, boo. Keep me updated on the cake. I’ll be shopping tomorrow so keep an eye out for my stories. Keep crafting (or procraftinating)—Love, Luna

  Hell, everything about that last message has my stomach turning in anticipation. I need to see her again, to see if I can bring out the sweet, charming person who sent me these messages, to see if she might call me “boo” in person . . .

  Christ.

  I drag my hand down my face and toss my phone to the side. Reminder, Alec: Luna is the competition, she hates you with more passion than she has for her basket of dicks, and the last time you tried to have a conversation with her, she barked at you.

  I lean over to the table, grab my beer, and drain it. Then, impulsively, I pick my phone back up and read over her last message one more time.

  Keep an eye out for my stories . . .

  Why do I feel like I’m going to graduate from catfisher to full-on stalker?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ALEC

  “Do you have a fake mustache?”

  “What?” Lucas says, looking up from his computer. Through the wide picture window behind him, the Manhattan skyline acts as his backdrop. Gloomy skies blanket the city, but I feel invigorated, excited. “A fake mustache? Are you drunk?”

  I step into his office and shut the door. My sleeves are rolled up, my tie is loosened, and I know my hair is crazed. I just spent most of the morning going through a bunch of pictures a private investigator sent me that barely prove infidelity in a case I just took on.

  But everything came to a halt when I picked up my phone and watched Luna’s stories.

  “I know you don’t have a mustache right now, you moron. I can see your face.”

  “Can you? You look insane right now.”

  “Because I don’t have much time. Do you have a mustache or not?”

  Lucas leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “In what universe do you think I would have a fake mustache in my office?”

  “Fuck,” I mutter, hands on my hips. I knew it was a long shot, but I thought I would ask. “Do you have a hat and sunglasses?”

  “What the fuck are you up to, Baxter? And if it’s illegal, I want nothing to do with it.”

  “Just . . . stalking someone. Don’t worry about it. I need a disguise, though.”

  “Stalking? What happened to the private investigator? Going into fieldwork now?” Lucas stands and goes to the small closet in his office.

  “No, not for work.”

  He pauses and raises a brow at me. “Does this have to do with Luna and the show?”

  “Maybe,” I say, feeling my face flame.

  “Christ, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He flings a gray felt fedora with a black stripe around the base, and then a pair of sunglasses. I manage to catch them both. “If you’re arrested, I’m not an accomplice.”

  I stare at the hat, turning it in my hands. “Why the hell do you have this? I’ve never seen you wear it in my life.”

  “There’s a reason you haven’t.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “My mom got it for me the last time she was in New York. She thought it was a very old-school city and wanted me to give it a shot, since it’s what they wore in the old days. It’s been hanging in my closet ever since.”

  Not going to be picky, I plop it on my head and slide the aviators onto my face. “What do you think?” I ask, holding my hands out to the side. “Do I look different?”

  “Sure do.” Lucas holds back a laugh.

  “Is it bad?”

  “I’ll admit, I feel intimidated by your good looks whenever we’re out together, but I really think you should start wearing this ensemble more often. Really levels you down.”

  “Thanks,” I say sarcastically before taking off toward his door. “I’m calling you if I get arrested.”

  “I’m not bailing you out!” he calls after me.

  When I make it outside my office building, I run smack into a line of tourists waiting outside of Papaya Dog, needing their touristy fix. My office building is right next to the Empire State Building, which means I’m constantly fighting through throngs of humans with cameras and wandering eyes. I hurriedly push through the line and make quick work of flagging down a taxi and giving the driver the address of Cakes and Bakes, where I know Luna is headed to right now. Starting in Midtown gives me a head start, and I know I can still beat her, assuming she’s coming from the Upper West Side. I’ll have just enough time to stalk her when she walks through the door of the shop.

  Recipe for disaster, right? I know that’s what you’re thinking. Stalking someone in a small shop is never a good idea, but I have to see what she’s getting. And the shop isn’t that small. It’s a supply store for bakers. I checked the website last night and realized exactly why she’s going there: for the best products and tools you’ll need to make a cake. Which is just what I need too, since I don’t even have a cake pan.

  And yes, I might not be entirely incognito, but I’m pretty stealthy. I can hide behind pillars and endcaps. I mean, I haven’t done it before, but it can’t possibly be that hard.

  I pull up Luna’s Instagram profile and click on the lit-up stories. Shit, I hope she’s not there yet.

  There’s a picture of a stray cat on the subway platform. The cat is sitting next to a bowl, and the bowl has a few dollars in it. Her comment is: “I hope she buys a fancy hat for herself. Imagine how perfect this picture would be if she had pearls and a hat. Also, why is this cat so bold?”

  Hell, I’m wondering the same damn thing. Now that I know she lives in my neighborhood, based on our diner run-in, she has to be on the 1 train, heading toward Battery Park, where the shop is. We very well might arrive at the same time. Which means one thing: I need to be on my A game the minute I leave the taxi.

  Phone in hand, I keep refreshing Instagram over and over again, waiting to see where she is. I’m standing in the shop, off to the side of the entrance, wheelie basket in hand, looking like the creeper who wears sunglasses indoors. I scanned the shop—quickly—and didn’t see her. My eye has been on the door ever since. I checked the subways app for delayed trains, and it’s no worse than usual—yes, I’ve taken my stalking to the next level.

  But still, nothing.

  Ready to give up and leave, I stuff my phone in my pocket just as Luna walks through the door. Her hair is in a tight bun on the top of her head, showing off the beautiful curve of her neck. She’s wearing one of those one-piece romper things, in navy blue, paired with simple sandals. She lifts her sunglasses on top of her head and takes in a deep breath before smiling, as if she’s just stepped into her happy place.

  Relaxed—it’s the only way to describe her as she grabs a wheelie bas
ket of her own and pulls out a piece of paper from her purse. She glances at it, looks up at the signs in the store, and then starts heading back toward the flour.

  Stealth, Alec. You can do this.

  Keeping my distance, I move along with her, trying to be as casual as possible. I pick up a few things, all the while keeping my eyes on her. I even put some birthday candles in my wheelie basket. I have no intention of buying them, but it gives off the vibe that, yeah, I’m wearing sunglasses inside, but I’m trying to make a birthday cake, so leave me alone.

  She stops in front of the flour. I park my basket across the aisle from her and pull a box of molasses cookies off the endcap and make a show of taking in the ingredients. In my back pocket, I have a list of my own, knowing exactly which basics I need when I practice making the cake every night this week. But the question here is: Which ingredients is she buying? Which brands? Because you can bake the recipe all you want, but there’s always something special about the actual ingredients you pick up. It’s kind of like getting that special recipe from your grandma, and it says to add some sugar but doesn’t give you the measurement. Well, how much fucking sugar, Grandma?

  This is like that, but with the ingredients themselves, and there are, in reality, a million different flours to choose from. It makes my head feel like it’s about to explode.

  I watch her do an IG story about being in the shop and how excited she is; then she reaches up and grabs a bag of flour with blue color squares on it. She returns to her list and goes around the corner. Like a bull out of his block, I toss the cookies away, take off down the flour aisle, and grab the blue flour, which is actually bread flour . . . interesting. See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. The secrets. The fucking secrets.

  Pleased already with my idea of ditching work to stalk Luna, I pull out my list and check off flour.

  *Evil laugh*

  Smiling to myself, I pocket my list and continue on.

  I spend the next few minutes following Luna around, going undetected thanks to her intense concentration on picking the right ingredients—for the both of us.