The Wedding Game

by Quinn, Meghan

  Item for item, I stack my basket, practically giddy from my brilliant idea. Not only am I going to show up on Saturday with my game face on and perfect ingredients in tow, but I’m also going to make one hell of a cake. A cake that’s going to blow Thad’s mind—show him how serious I am—and shock the judges, the contestants, the entire crew. They’ll see that I’m not just a lawyer but a master baker too.

  The Ace of Cakes guy with the goatee will want my number.

  Buddy Valastro, Mr. Cake Boss himself, is going to wonder where I’ve been all his life.

  Paul Hollywood will fly to America personally to give me the coveted Hollywood Handshake without even taste testing, just on appearance alone.

  I’m going to be so damn prepared by Saturday that—

  SMACK.

  I run straight into Luna and stumble backward, my basket colliding with hers, and careen right into a display of macadamia nuts, knocking them to the ground and creating a giant commotion in the middle of the vanilla extracts.

  “Shit,” I say under my breath as the nuts continue to fall. “Shh,” I whisper to the falling cans, trying to capture them before they tumble to the concrete floor. “You’re going to—”

  “Didn’t see you there. Sorry about that.”

  Luna.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Lowering my voice to a deep tone I don’t think I’ve ever tapped into before, I say, “Uh, no problem.”

  “Why are the nuts even here with the extracts? Poor planning, if you ask me,” she says, bending down to help with the display.

  “Yeah, fine. I got it.” I keep my head down and my back to her as much as possible. Please don’t recognize my back, please don’t recognize my back.

  Why can’t she be the evil wench who’s been barking at me for the last few weeks, rather than the nice girl in the store helping me pick up my nuts?

  The store’s nuts, not my nuts. She’s not picking up my nuts. My nuts are secure in their briefs, not on display.

  The store’s nuts.

  “Store’s nuts,” I whisper for God knows what reason.

  “What’s that?”

  Fuck. Get it together, man.

  “Nothing, I got this. You can keep shopping.”

  “Well, we both made the mess. Here, let me help you.” She moves to grab the cans from my arms, but I twist away, slamming right into the shelf of extracts. Boxes teeter and totter on the edge, and I watch, horrified, as they domino down to the ground.

  Fucking hell.

  Glass crunches and brown liquid flows over the floor like blood, representing the death of my stealth-like abilities.

  “Oh goodness. Uh, let me go get—”

  “Everything okay?” a clerk asks, joining us in the extract aisle.

  “Think we need a cleanup in the extracts,” Luna says, a note of barely suppressed laughter in her voice. “If you can find me a mop, I don’t mind cleaning it up.”

  “That’s okay, we’ll get someone on it. Just don’t touch anything. We’ll clean it up.”

  “Thank you,” Luna says so kindly that I actually wonder if she’s the same person I’ve been spending my weekends with. She turns back toward me. “If you let me help you, we might be able to put the display back.”

  “Uhh, they don’t want us touching anything. I’ll, uhh, I want these nuts. They’re mine,” I declare, clutching at least five cans to my chest.

  “Oh . . . okay.” Luna sounds a little unsure, but then she slowly backs away. Thank God.

  She glances back down at her list, then reaches up, grabs some almond extract, and puts it in her basket. Without even thinking, I revert back to my original plan, copying the grab and putting a bottle of extract in my basket.

  She pauses, turns, and looks at my cart.

  Fuck.

  Then she looks at hers.

  Back and forth until she glances back at me, still clutching my nuts in one hand. I keep my head tilted down and my body stiff as her gaze sears through me.

  She takes a step forward. Sweat breaks out on the nape of my neck.

  Another step. Unease flips in my stomach.

  One more step. She’s so close that I actually stop breathing. Maybe, just maybe, if I don’t make a move, I’ll disappear.

  But it doesn’t work. Before I can even consider turning to flee, she tears the hat off my head and removes my glasses.

  “Alec.” She practically spits out my name.

  “Chris, actually. My name is Chris,” I say, still using the preposterous fake voice, only to realize that that probably wasn’t a smart move, given my fake IG handle.

  “What the hell are you—?” She sucks in a sharp breath. “Are you copying me? Are you—” Her hand flies to her forehead, and her eyes widen. “Oh my God, are you ChrisEcrafts? Chris Evans crafts?”

  Pretty sure I can’t be beamed up by Scotty at this point, so instead, I act . . . ignorant. “Luna, is that you? Wow, wasn’t expecting to see you here. Yeah, just picking up my weekly allotment of macadamia nuts. Can’t get enough of these guys.” I toss the cans into my basket and grip the handle. “What a coincidence seeing you here! Well, I’ll let you get back to whatever you’re doing, and I’ll be on my way.”

  I move to push away, but she grips my cart and holds me in place. For such a small lady, she’s pretty damn strong. Through clenched teeth, she asks, “Are you ChrisEcrafts?”

  “What? Psshh, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I’m just trying to get my ingredients, lady.” I have one thing left on my list; I decide to push my luck. “Just wondering, if you were to get a certain kind of powdered sugar, what would you get?”

  She tosses her hands in the air. “Unbelievable. You’re copying me.”

  “You know, that’s a pretty heavy accusation to make without any evidence.”

  She shoves the nuts to the side and points from my cart to hers.

  “Your point?” I ask.

  “Hand me your list.”

  “No, that’s private.” I back away.

  But she does some crazy spin move I feel like I’ve only seen on the football field, and before I can figure out what the hell she’s doing, my list is out of my back pocket and in her hand. Her eyes fly over the paper. I try to grab it back, but she’s too quick for me.

  When she’s done reading it, her eyes bore a hole in me. “You’re copying me.”

  “You don’t have proof.”

  She points to the paper. “Right here it says, with an asterisk next to it, Don’t stray from the list, get what Luna gets.”

  Huh, I forgot I wrote that.

  “I had a few drinks last night. I can’t be held accountable for what I write.”

  She holds her hand out. “Give me your phone.”

  “Yeah, not going to happen.” And before she can pull another spin move on me, I back up to the shelf behind me, careful not to knock anything over this time. “None of that tricky spinning shit.”

  “Let me see your phone.”

  “No.”

  “Alec, let me see it.”

  “Luna . . . no.”

  “Because I’m right—you’re ChrisEcrafts.”

  “Or you’re insane and—”

  “Fine,” she says, pulling her phone from her bag and quickly typing away on it.

  “What are you doing? Calling the police? Just so you know, I know people at the precinct. I’m a friend of the men and women in blue, and I’ve done nothing—”

  Bling.

  Smirking, Luna lifts her phone, showing me the message she just sent ChrisEcrafts. The message that just sounded off on my phone.

  Fuck.

  “Coincidence.”

  She rolls her eyes and starts lighting up my phone with blings as she sends message after message.

  “Okay, fine. Stop.” I push her hands down. “It’s me.”

  “I knew it,” she says, as if she just solved New York’s most infamous crime. “I freaking knew it. Last night when I saw the name come across, it seemed to
o coincidental. But then you sounded so girly in the message that it threw me for a loop.” Ha, maybe I still have a little bit of stealth left in me. “But I was right,” she continues. “You’re trying to steal my ideas. Wow, Alec, I knew you were desperate, but not desperate enough to troll me on—” She pauses, as if she remembers something. “Oh my God, your profile . . . were you catfishing me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” I roll my eyes. “I am not a catfisher.”

  Deny, deny, deny.

  “So you’re telling me all those things you posted, you created?”

  “You looked through my profile?” I ask with a smile. “I’m flattered.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You seriously have a screw loose. I can’t believe you would stoop this low. Well, actually, I probably should believe it, given your losing record. It’s pathetic, Alec, really pathetic.”

  As I stare at her contemptuous face, I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse. It is pathetic. It’s pathetic that I’m creating a fake profile to stalk a competitor on a wedding show, all so I can feel like I’m repairing my relationship with my brother.

  It’s pathetic that I’ve taken so long to realize our relationship even needs repairing.

  And it’s pathetic that the only way I know how to fix it is by stalking a competitor.

  She starts to walk away.

  “I am reaching,” I blurt out, honestly, bringing our conversation full circle. She pauses and looks over her shoulder. “I’m reaching because my relationship with Thad is practically extinct. I barely know him, I barely know his wife, and if I don’t fix the broken communication between us, I know I won’t have a relationship with my soon-to-be niece or nephew.” Since she hasn’t left, I keep talking, one hand gripping the back of my neck. “This is important to him, and I’m failing him. He came to me because I’m his hero, the guy he’s depended on to protect him his entire life, and weekend after weekend, I’ve failed him.” Gripping even tighter, I look Luna dead in the eyes. “I don’t want to fail him anymore.”

  I watch the indecisiveness in her eyes—the war between staying and going. Her body is telling her to flee, with one foot in the right direction, while her mind or maybe her heart—who knows?—is keeping her firmly in place.

  “I know this isn’t your problem and I’m sorry for coming here, for setting up that fake profile. I know it wasn’t right, but like you pointed out, I’m pathetic, and when you’re this desperate, you’ll do pretty much anything.”

  She still doesn’t respond, just continues to stare at me, as if she can’t quite understand what’s going on. Hell, I don’t understand what’s going on either, Luna.

  But as the store’s employees come to clean up the vanilla, the silence between us stretches and awkwardness takes over, until I sigh, grip my basket, and start to walk away.

  I’m about to turn the corner when she calls out, “Wait.”

  I look over my shoulder. “Any type of powdered sugar should be fine,” she says. “Just be sure to sift it so there are no chunks when you whip it into icing.”

  As if she’s shot an arrow at me full of fresh air, I feel my lungs expand in relief. I look over my shoulder and smile. “Thank you.”

  Then I turn the corner, grab some powdered sugar, and wheel my basket to the checkout counter, macadamia nuts and all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LUNA

  The door slams shut and Farrah’s voice rings through the apartment. “God, I swear choosing to live with you was one of the best decisions I ever made, despite the glitter I find on my Q-tips after cleaning my ears.” She sets her bag down. “What is that heavenly smell?”

  “Cake,” I say in a monotone voice, staring off at the basket of dicks needlepoint in the entryway.

  “Oh, Mama likes herself some cake. What kind?” Farrah steps into the kitchen and picks up a fork.

  “Vanilla bean with a berry and buttercream filling.” I don’t mention that I had to make the cake batter twice because I messed up the first round. I blame it on being distracted, not the fact that I never seem to make a cake right the first time. Hence the practicing.

  “Smack my ass, that sounds delish. Where is it?”

  “Cooling.” I’m still staring at the needlepoint when Farrah pokes me in the shoulder with her fork.

  “Hey, what’s with you? Were you shot by a tranquilizer? If you were, tell me where, because I could use some tranquilizer after the kind of day I had.”

  I keep staring, the look in Alec’s eyes burned in my memory.

  Embarrassment.

  Desperation.

  Regret.

  Hope.

  They all collided and reached out to me when he admitted to his and Thad’s less-than-great relationship. I had an inkling that was the case, given the bickering I kept hearing from their workbench, and the way his apathy clashed with Thad’s general drama and intensity.

  But to see the pure sorrow in Alec’s eyes over admitting to it . . . hell, it cut through me. I couldn’t imagine feeling estranged from Cohen—the thought of it just about knocks the wind out of me. My relationship with my brother, and with my whole family, really, is everything. I rely on them for moral support, for good times, for encouragement, and to be my cheerleaders. And it seems like Alec doesn’t have any of that.

  I always wondered what he was hiding behind those green eyes, and now I know what it is: fear of losing his brother.

  The look on his face, his sullen voice, it’s all been on repeat ever since the shop, putting me in this weird funk where I can’t quite feel anything. Instead, I’ve just gone through the motions of baking, not thinking, just dumping. I haven’t paid attention, I haven’t put thought into how I plan on decorating, and I sure as hell haven’t been tracking my progress like I said I would on Instagram. If I really think about it, I’m not even sure how I have two cakes cooling in the fridge. Have you ever driven somewhere but can’t quite remember how you got there? That’s how I feel right now.

  “Hey, you there?” Farrah snaps her fingers in front of my face, pulling my attention away from the needlepoint.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I shake my head and take a deep breath. “Just an odd day, that’s all.” I stretch my hands above my head. “I think I’m going to go lie down for a second. Probably too much taste testing, you know?”

  “Okay . . . ,” Farrah answers cautiously. “Do you want me to do something with this frosting?”

  I made frosting? I glance over at the bowl of white frosting that’s resting beside a mound of cut-up berries. Good lord, I really did zone out.

  “Uh, just leave it there. I’ll be back out to ice everything, and then we can dig in.”

  “Sure, yeah.” Farrah studies me a little longer. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk about?”

  Oh, there’s so much I would love to talk to her about. But after our last conversation about Alec, I’m pretty sure she would show zero sympathy toward the man.

  “I’m good. Just a little loopy.” I give her a quick peck on the cheek and head toward my room. I quietly shut the door, flop on my bed, and reach for my phone, which has been charging on my nightstand. I unplug it, open up Instagram, and click on my messages, secretly hoping there’s one from ChrisEcrafts.

  But I’m let down.

  I don’t know what I was expecting—another apology? An update on the cake he was going to make? Maybe a jab or an insult like we used to exchange? But nothing is somehow even worse.

  I nibble on my bottom lip, wondering if I should message him, see how the cake is, but the thought makes my stomach flutter with nerves. So instead, I click on his profile and review the obvious stock images he’s turned into his own. As I look at it more closely, I notice all of them were posted yesterday. If I’d been more suspicious, I would have picked up on that immediately. But how was I supposed to know Alec Baxter was going to make a fake profile to try to weasel some information out of me?

  Weasel information . . . a small smile creeps up my lips.

&
nbsp; The man created a fake profile.

  Chatted with me about procraftinating—which required research.

  Was astute enough with social media—despite his snobby attitude—to watch my IG stories to figure out where I was going to be.

  Dressed up in some weird hat and sunglasses.

  Followed me around the store, making sure to grab everything I grabbed . . .

  I chuckle.

  Fumbled massively with cans and cans of nuts.

  A huge smile cracks over my face.

  Made up a lie about loving macadamia nuts to save face.

  I snort and cover my mouth.

  The more I think about the entire situation, the funnier it becomes.

  So out of the realm of what I would ever expect from the man who seems like he carries wet bread in the crotch of his pants.

  The man with the nuts.

  Alec Baxter of the fancy shoes.

  Mr. Stodgy Bread Pants.

  I snort again, and tears squeeze out of my eyes from the laughter that’s bubbling up inside me. If Farrah knew I was laughing hysterically in here by myself, she would think I’d officially lost my mind.

  Maybe I have, because before I can stop myself, I’m typing a message out to Alec in Instagram.

  LunaMoonCrafts: Enjoying all those nuts?

  Still lying on my bed, I cover my mouth again as I try to hold back more laughter. I don’t have to wait too long to see a response from him.

  ChrisEcrafts: Didn’t realize macadamia nuts are an acquired taste.

  I laugh quietly, turn on my bed so I’m lying on my side, and type him back.

  LunaMoonCrafts: And here you were so convincing that they were your favorite.

  ChrisEcrafts: Oh yeah . . . they are . . . absolute favorite. Can’t seem to pace myself with these nuts. They’re going down in waves.

  LunaMoonCrafts: Am I detecting a sense of humor?

  ChrisEcrafts: Am I actually reading words? Not just barking?

  I laugh out loud, and my eyes float to my door. I wait a few seconds to see if Farrah is going to burst through. She doesn’t. I need to keep it together.

  LunaMoonCrafts: That was weird, wasn’t it?

  ChrisEcrafts: I mean, first time I’ve ever had a girl bark at me, especially with such rabid fangs.