“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I snapped. “They are sitting at the fucking family table where I assigned them and I swear to Brigit herself that if they try to sit at Caleb’s and my table, I will shove them out of their chairs. This is our wedding day, and they are not going to ruin it with their bitching!”
Then, two weeks before the wedding, in the prime of Pride Month, tragedy struck in Orlando. Like most gay couples that year, Caleb and I wanted to get married on the anniversary of gay marriage being legalized, especially since it was two days before Caleb’s birthday and the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. The whole month of June was going to act as our bachelor party as we went from one Pride celebration to another. On June 12th, our hearts were broken. We woke up to the terrible news of the massacre and spent the rest of the day embracing, telling each other everything we loved about our relationship in case something like this happened in our neighborhood and we never got the chance again. Orlando was on the other side of the country, but when we heard they caught someone trying to do the same thing in California, it reminded us that, though our love was legal, it was far from safe.
My Groom’thulu side came out again when Aunt Marie had the audacity to post Our love and prayers go out to the families of all the Orlando shooting victims! on Facebook. I was emotionally fragile enough. That broke me.
I launched into a tirade response starting with, Are those the same prayers you sent to God asking him to “cure” my homosexuality? The same prayers that sinners would get what they deserve? From there I ranted for four or five long paragraphs about her fucking hypocrisy and how convenient it was that she was pro-gun and pro-discrimination up until everyone else wasn’t, then she bought the first ticket for the “hopes and prayers” bandwagon. If you’re only going to care about the LGBT+ community when sticking to your old opinions makes you the villain, then you can forget about coming to my wedding. We don’t want your toxic prayers there.
Caleb made me delete that comment less than a minute after I posted it. “Ethan, that’s a bad idea and you know it,” he said. “You can at least revise it and post it as your own thing, but don’t give her a reason to argue. Obviously she doesn’t follow most reasonable logic, so you’ll be yelling in circles for days.”
I wiped the tears from my face. “Maybe we shouldn’t have this wedding at all. We should get our marriage license, celebrate at home with a few friends, and call it a day.”
“What? After you’ve spent all this time planning and preparing?”
“Well, what’s the point if some bigot with an assault rifle and a homemade bomb can waltz in and destroy everything? What if Brent shows up with a shotgun and—”
“Whoa, wait, Brent? I thought you said he declined your invitation?”
I scowled. “Of course he did.” My cousin hadn’t invited me to his wedding, and even though he had landed me in the hospital I made an effort to be polite, mostly at my mom’s behest. “But that doesn’t stop impulsive murderers. That guy was such a violent homophobic powder-keg that when he saw two men kissing in public it snapped something inside him and he decided the best way to deal with it was to shoot over a hundred people. I’ve been planning the gayest Pagan-est wedding the West Coast has ever seen. If some whackjob NRA Christian decided that was too much, he could—He could—” I wanted to barf. Caleb took me in his arms and rubbed my back soothingly. “I just want it to be over,” I whimpered. “I want this hate and violence to be fucking over.”
Caleb held me close. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”
It took me a few days to get back to my old self. By then I had new fuel for my fire. This would be the gayest Pagan-est wedding the West Coast had ever seen. I would put up both middle fingers and tell all those homophobes and psychopaths that there was no stopping us. I became Groom’thulu once more. Nothing would stop me from making this day perfect.
* * * *
The day before the wedding, they arrived. My siblings were welcome to stay at our apartment, and our parents would have been, too, if we had had the room. However, Caleb’s parents, my parents, and my aunts all got rooms at a local hotel. That meant wherever Caleb’s and my parents went, my aunts tagged along. My Uncle Tim stuck by Aunt Marie, but was nowhere near as chatty. After an affable introduction to Caleb’s parents, Marie dragged on for what seemed like half an hour about her new car and the nice salesman who sold it to her. Her favorite feature was the digital radio that let her “filter out all that junk music they play on regular radio.”
“Speaking of music,” Caleb’s father interjected, “is your friend still going to DJ the reception?”
“Yes, and he’s very excited for it,” I said. Aunt Marie gave me the stink-eye for taking the conversation away from her, but I was Groom’thulu. She had had her turn to talk. I pointedly look at anyone but her and Aunt Dorothy and explained what still had to be done before the next day to set up the seven shrines we had planned.
Uncle Tim was a bit more polite than his wife, but he asked, with all the pretentious audacity of an upper-middle class white man, “There will be a place for Christians to worship, I presume?” I could hear the unspoken, You know, for the people who aren’t godless heathens. My stomach churned. Caleb gripped my leg to hold me back. Ever the empath, he knew what I would do before I thought about it, and he had the benefit of viewing my emotions without my impulses.
“Yes, we have an altar for Jesus and Mother Mary, too,” Caleb said. “Pagans are an all-inclusive bunch.”
Caleb’s mother smiled. “They’re all more or less the same,” she said. “I’m sure if a follower of Jesus had to pray at a Celtic altar, God wouldn’t ignore him simply because he’s in the wrong place.”
Aunt Marie had a pinched look like she was about to argue that idea, so I quickly added, “Well, we won’t really know until either the Second Coming or the day we die, whichever comes first. So long as we are good people, I’m sure any benevolent deity would appreciate that.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Caleb’s mother said. “Now that man who killed those poor people in Florida, there’s a godless man if ever I saw one.”
“Wasn’t he a Muslim in the closet?” Aunt Dorothy asked.
“He was American,” my sister Eliza said. I had had an eye on her this whole time, slowly watching her tolerance wear thin. I wondered what would be the last straw. Frankly, if she hadn’t started this rant, I would have. “He was an American with a gun and a lot of hatred. If he were a practicing Muslim, it was Ramadan, so he wouldn’t have been allowed to drink or curse or do anything impure, y’know, like coating his hands in the blood of a hundred innocent people.”
Aunt Marie huffed. “Well, I think—”
“No,” I exclaimed, slamming my palm on the table. “No, we are not fucking talking about that today. I’m sorry for swearing, but it is the day before Caleb’s and my wedding. We are celebrating our love and our freedom to love. We are not going to argue the ethics of religion or murder or anything else. You want to talk about seating arrangement? The music? The flowers? Whether or not I should have bought something that would project a rainbow over the ceremony? Go ahead. You want to talk about that—that psycho and why he did what he did, you go somewhere else because I will not. Hear. Another. Fucking. Word.”
Caleb scooted his chair over so he could wrap both his arms around me. My body shook with sobs. For once, Marie and Dorothy had nothing to say. If I hadn’t been so depressed I would have been satisfied with the guilt on their faces. As it was, I only felt sick.
Ryan, trying to be the jokester big brother, looked to his girlfriend, Tammy, and said, “See? This is why he’s Groom’thulu.” He waggled his fingers in front of his face like tentacles. I smiled for half a second. Ryan slumped his shoulders. “Eeth’s right. Why are we talking about a massacre on a day like today? It’s gorgeous out, it’s gonna be gorgeous tomorrow, we have a nice dinner here, and so far there haven’t been any rom-com level wedding disasters. As my kid brother’s Best Man, I am hereby banning th
e discussion of Orlando from all conversations until after Ethan and Caleb are safely on their way to their honeymoon.”
Caleb’s mother made the gesture of sealing her lips and throwing away key, folding her hands neatly in her lap afterward. My mom wiped away a tear on her otherwise solemn face. Eliza’s husband, Greg, gave her a hug. Everyone else sat quietly.
I leaned over to whisper in Caleb’s ear. “Are you sure it’s too late to call it off?”
Caleb kissed me and pressed his forehead to mine. “I’m marrying you with an audience and that’s final,” he said quietly. “We already established it’s my birthday present. We can go home now, though, if you want.”
Abandoning my guests would be rude, but the mood was soured and I was on the verge of tears. I nodded. Pushing myself up, I said, “Sorry, but I’m tired and I have a lot to do tomorrow. Thank you all for coming. You—you can keep eating if you want.” I pulled a few tens out of my pocket and placed them on the table. “That should cover our part of the meal and some tip. See you all later.”
No one tried to stop me. There was an awkward silence behind me as Caleb put his arm around my shoulder and walked me back to the car. I sent up a silent prayer to Brigit, my goddess and protector.
Please, give tomorrow enough joy that I don’t have to feel this sorrow anymore.
* * * *
I went to bed with five unread messages and two missed calls, and I knew by the time I woke up I’d probably have half a dozen more. I had read the first texts Ryan and Eliza sent after I left the restaurant, but they both said more or less the same thing. They were sorry. Everyone was sorry. They weren’t going to let anything bad happen to me or Caleb. They loved me. It was nothing I didn’t already know, but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear at the time. I got ready for bed as soon as we got home so I could hole up in our bedroom and not have to talk to anyone but Caleb.
Demonstrating once again why he was the perfect fiancé, Caleb let me have my silence, then said exactly what I did need to hear. He held me as we went to sleep and said, “Your Uncle Jack would be proud.”
That made me cry, but not in the way I had earlier. Jack had been my mother’s brother and my biggest supporter when I came out. He was going to have a picture to represent him on the ancestors’ altar along with other photos of people we wished could be at the wedding, but who had already passed on. Jack was front and center, though. I knew he would be thrilled to attend my wedding, and I cried because he couldn’t. The tears felt like sweet relief after being held back from all the times I had wanted to cry that week but couldn’t.
“He would want you to get married with all the pomp and circumstance you could ever want,” Caleb went on. “What better way to show your pride than to get up in front of everyone, including people who see gay people as Others or sinners, and show them why gay used to mean joyous and happy and free.”
“I love you so, so much right now,” I said, clinging to him so I’d never have to let him go.
“And I love you now, yesterday, tomorrow, and forever.” Caleb kissed me and we cuddled until I finally fell asleep.
I woke up ten minutes before my alarm was set to go off the next morning, one arm still draped across Caleb’s chest. He was waking up, too. It was surreal to think we would be husbands by the end of the day.
“At least I’m not insisting that we don’t see each other before the wedding,” I said.
Caleb laughed. “I think that was so guys in arranged marriages wouldn’t back out of the wedding if they found out how ugly their wives were, and vice versa. We don’t have that problem. Well, I don’t, anyway. There’s still time for you to back out if you really want.”
I grinned. “And miss this opportunity? Doesn’t matter that I was loopy on pain killers and a minor concussion when I proposed, I wanted to marry you then and I’m gonna marry you now.” I scooted closer to nuzzle my cheek against his shoulder. He cupped my chin in his hands and tilted my face so he could look me in the eyes. I grinned and pulled away when he leaned in. “But,” I said, “you have to wait until the ceremony to kiss me.”
Caleb crossed his arms and rolled onto his back. “As you say, Groom’thulu.” His cheek twitched the way it did when he was covering a smile. “Dibs on the first shower, though.”
I let him have it. Ryan sent me another text, but this one was to ask if I was awake yet. My siblings and their significant others were set up in our living room. Ryan and Tammy got the pull-out couch, while Eliza and Greg came with their camping gear and all but set up a tent on the floor. I half expected to walk out and see them cooking beans over a fire next to their sleeping bags.
Instead, I walked out to a surprise breakfast. My stomach was in such knots I had planned to only eat some toast, but Greg was flipping strawberry pancakes, Tammy was arranging a fruit platter, Ryan was setting the table, and Eliza was searching through our pantry.
“I thought I smelled food,” I said.
“Hey! Ethan!” Eliza abandoned her search to come hug me. “Where do you keep pitchers?”
“We loaned ours out a couple months ago and never saw it again. We just use the bottle or carton or this old pickle jar for serving drinks.” I nudged some plastic containers aside in the cupboard to get it. “Don’t worry, it’s clean. It’s been about four months since it actually held pickles.”
“That’ll work!”
I appreciated that no one brought up last night. My parents’ texts remained unread. I needed to get into a wedding mindset. As my Best Man, Ryan helped me make last-minute calls to check up on everything. Caleb’s Best Man and Maid of Honor were both on deck, ready to arrive when we did. The arch-druid of our Northwest Oregon Pagan Society, who was legally ordained to perform weddings of any faith, had everything he needed and was scheduled to be there at eleven-thirty. The weather was going to be hot, as usual, but not humid. If everything held, there would be no problems.
Caleb came out from the shower in a clean set of lounging shorts and a tank-top. I was almost finished my pancake by then, so I scarfed down the remains and dashed to take my own shower. I stood in the hot steam for a moment of calm and meditation. The sound and sensation of water on my back, the lingering smell from Caleb’s shower hanging in the air, the sweetness of strawberries and syrup in my mouth, all reminded me that I was blessed and loved and that we were going to be okay.
I finished grooming myself, put on loose clothing the way Caleb had, and went back out to the kitchen. “There should be enough hot water again in fifteen minutes,” I told them.
“I already called dibs,” Eliza said. “Then Tammy, then Greg, then Ryan.”
Ryan shrugged. “We only have to put on tuxes. You guys and the ladies need more time to get ready than we do.”
He was right. I helped braid Eliza’s and Tammy’s hair after their respective showers. Caleb and I both had plenty of experience assisting in braid crowns at Pagan events, but Tammy was a professional hairdresser. She was impressed with our technique, but showed us how to make the braids tighter and neater without tugging on the scalp too much. Greg told Eliza she looked gorgeous. Ryan came out from his shower to the sight of Tammy already in her dress with her hair up and he simply stood there, agape.
“Alright, alright, you just got clean,” Eliza said. “Don’t start drooling on yourself.”
Thought most of the surprise was absent, Caleb and I had agreed to get dressed separately. We wore formal kilts, even though I was only quarter Scottish, an eighth on both sides of my family, and Caleb was mostly of Russian descent. It was a Celtic-style wedding, however, and we had both agreed kilts would be more Pagan and memorable than the regular tuxedos our Best Men would wear.
That didn’t mean it was easy to slip everything on and head out the door. There was a white formal undershirt, a waistcoat, a doublet, the kilt itself and its heavy sporran, long socks, and thick-soled shoes. I wore a tartan close to the one I would have inherited from my dad’s side of the family, and I had forgone the optional but tradit
ional dagger that would have been worn against my calf. There would be no need for weapons at my wedding.
Tammy came in and tidied my hair after she was done with Caleb. All I needed was my boutonnière made from a sprig of heather wrapped in a rainbow ribbon and I was ready. I looked at myself in our bedroom mirror. With my clean-shaven face I reflected more of my dark Irish heritage than Scottish, but I still looked like some highland lord. My waistcoat was a deep green, going with the gold and green theme of the wedding. It had been tempting to make everything super rainbow, but I figured it would be too garish, so we had balanced out the rainbow decorations with the more simplistic Celtic color scheme.
Eliza wouldn’t let me out until she said so. “I want to capture the moment you first see each other in your wedding outfits!”
“Oh, fine,” I groaned through the door. “Let me know when you’re ready.” I heard Caleb’s similar muffled reply. Truth be told, I was giddy to know what Caleb looked like all dressed up. I had seen him try different tartans on, to see what would look good on him and not clash with my family tartan, but back then his hair had been fluffy from air-drying after his shower and things were a lot more casual. Now I stood waiting with bated breath to get a formal glimpse at my husband-to-be.
I had anticipated beauty, what I got was perfection. My jaw dropped further than Ryan’s had. With his golden yellow waistcoat and his shining blond hair, Caleb looked like something out of a legend, the son of a god standing in a messy Portland apartment. The delighted grin on his face made him even more gorgeous.
“So…still not kissing until we say I do?” he asked.
“Keep your shirt on, cowboy,” I said with a wink. “Er, or whatever the Scottish equivalent is.”
“Viking?” Caleb offered.
“Vikings weren’t Scottish,” Ryan said.
“There were plenty of Vikings in Scotland,” I explained. “So much so that Scotland could qualify as a Nordic country if it ever split from Britain.”
Love Is Proud Page 37
