Isn't It Bro-Mantic?

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  Isn’t It Bromantic?

  Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition February 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-606-0

  More from Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  Johnny Smith Novels

  The Bro-Magnet

  Isn’t It Bro-Mantic?

  Jane Taylor Novels

  The Thin Pink Line

  Crossing the Line

  My Wedding Day

  I stand at the end of the aisle, trying to look calm.

  Did I pick the right tux?

  Of course I did.

  I’ve been Best Man nine times before today, so you could say I’m something of an expert. I know all about the perils of a white-and-purple color scheme. I know the utter ridiculousness of going with turquoise and beige—who thinks these things up? Worse, who actually goes for it? Me, I went with your basic black and white. It was good fifty years ago, it’ll be good fifty years from now, and hey, Frank Sinatra rocked this tux.

  Naturally, when shopping for my tux I consulted Maury of Maury the Magnificent! Your Place for Tuxedos and All Your Formal Wear! After all, he’d helped me out once before when I needed a tux for the opera, even if it turned out that no one else was wearing a tux because the opera turned out to be in a barn.

  “So you’re getting married!” Maury said. “Well, well, well.”

  Since all the tuxes Maury sells are named for famous people, we reviewed my options together.

  “How about this?” I suggested.

  The tux in question was all black, including the shirt, which was shiny. OK, it was the first thing I saw.

  “The Martin Scorcese?” Maury shook his head. “That one’s only good if you’re going to the Oscars and you also happen to be Martin Scorcese.”

  I was tempted to ask him why he kept it in stock, since I doubted anyone in Danbury went to the Oscars and I was sure no one in town was named Martin Scorcese. But it’s been my experience that when you are relying on someone else to help you out, it’s preferable not to insult them or question their competence before they have.

  “What about this then?” I asked.

  This time I’d selected something that looked like your basic tux.

  “The Jean Dujardin?” Maury shook his head again. “I reserve that for my French customers.”

  Since when did Danbury have a big French population?

  “Besides,” Maury continued, “it’s like with that Italian guy, that Robert Benigno. It’s just a flash in the American pan. Give it another year and people will be saying, ‘Jean Du-who?’”

  We went through some more tuxes and I learned that, at least according to Maury, I don’t have what it takes to pull off The Johnny Depp.

  “What’s that still doing there?” Maury wondered aloud.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “The Joaquin Phoenix. Huh. It’s got to go back to the shop.”

  “Hey, what’s up with this one?” I said. “How come there’s no shirt?”

  “Oh, that’s The Taylor Lautner,” Maury said. “It’s really more of a novelty item.”

  There are novelty items in tux stores? Who knew?

  So, yeah, anyway, I ended up with The Frank Sinatra tux. Corny as it may sound, I want my love with Helen to be timeless so I went with the most timeless of tuxes, named after the most timeless of singers.

  That’s why I’m not really worrying about what I’m wearing. What I’m really worried about, as the clock inches toward four P.M.—3:56, 3:57, 3:58—is this: Will she show?

  Because I’m thinking, maybe if I was her, I’m cutting out and hitting Atlantic City instead?

  “Don’t worry,” the voice at my side says. “She’ll be here, Johnny.”

  I look down at my Best Man, Big John, sitting in his wheelchair in his black-and-white Frank Sinatra tux.

  “There’s no way she’s not showing up for this,” Big John says, briefly grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze.

  Wait a second. If he’s reassuring me because he’s worried I might be worried, then does that mean that secretly he’s worried too?

  That can’t be good.

  Have you noticed, this is my wedding day?

  And then the bell in the church tower chimes and some music starts and I’m thinking, What’s that called again? What music did we settle on? And then I remember, oh, right, it’s called Pachelbel’s Canon. And then there she is, at the top of the aisle, Helen, with her auburn hair and her china skin and her blue-green eyes. She’s wearing a long, slim white satin dress and some veil thing she told me was called a Juliet cap that has this sparkly circle thing on top and a veil coming down the back, like what Jackie O wore when she got married for the first time; Helen, her hand in the crook of her father’s arm, and I think, it’s the only thought in my head:

  I have never seen anything more insanely beautiful in my entire life.

  Helen and me, we debated back and forth for months: Small wedding v. big wedding? Because we figured, both of us already being in our thirties, maybe we shouldn’t go for the big show? Maybe we should go small, conservative, casual, tasteful. But then we thought: screw that! Neither of us has ever been married before, neither of us plans on ever doing this again, we are each other’s one and only, so let’s make this the greatest day of our lives until now.

  This is how I ended up with the Frank Sinatra tux – the best, most classic, most expensive tux the market can bear. This is how we ended up with attendants – I can’t even believe I’m even thinking that word: attendants? What kind of world am I living in now?

  But there’s my dad, Big John, who as you already know is my Best Man. There’s Sam, right next to him, wearing a tux. Sam, in case you’re new to this story, is my best friend and she’s also a lesbian. When Helen and I told her we wanted her in the wedding party, she said, “That’s great. And I’ll love you forever, Helen, for making Johnny happy. But I swing for Johnny’s team so I think I’m wearing a tux.”

  On the other side of Sam is Billy Keller, who’s regarded me as his best friend like forever.

  And then there’s Helen’s side.

  Her Matron of Honor is Aunt Alfresca which is downright weird. Ever since Aunt Alfresca married Big John five months ago, back in January, I don’t even know what to call her. Do I still call her Aunt Alfresca? Is she expecting me to call her—I can barely even say the word—Mom? The mind reels.

  And so I move past Aunt Alfresca to Helen’s next in command, another bridesmaid, Carla, Helen’s friend from that prophetic Yankees game way back when.

  That’s an easy one.

  But now we move onto Helen’s next attendant, who is…Alice? Tell me what kind of world does that make sense in?

  Really, though, there’s something about this attendants stuff that has never made sense. But maybe that’s because between Helen and me, all we have in terms of prospects for female attendants is my aunt who’s always been convinced I’m responsible for the death of her sister due to the accident of my birth, a friend of hers who to this day remains
suspicious of me, and a woman who for a long time I thought I was in love with and who never thought I was good enough for her.

  Yeah, that sounds about right.

  But none of that matters right now, because the preacher man is winding down—yakkety-yakkety-yak—and I’m guessing it’s time to make our vows.

  “I met you as John,” Helen says clearly, “but I’ve come to know that you are Johnny. I’ve never known anyone like you. You make me feel—what’s the word?—unselfconscious. You make me feel—what’s the word?—accepted. And I can only hope that, however long we both shall live, I will do the same for you.”

  Without thinking, without thinking that every one of a hundred and fifty people are watching us closely, I reach out and adjust her veil a bit so I can better see her whole face. She’s so pretty and as my fingers make contact with her cheek, her skin is just so soft. In that moment, we are the only people in the entire world.

  But then she looks up at me, expectantly, and I realize: Holy shit—am I on?

  “Her face and name launched a thousand ships,” I start, “but this was never about that. I could quote or paraphrase movie taglines: ‘I’m just a boy, standing before a girl,’ or ‘You had me at hello.’ But the truth is, you had me when you didn’t judge me for what I appear to be on the surface. You didn’t judge me when I took you to that barn opera, which, may I just say, was one of the oddest evenings of my life. You didn’t judge me when I turned out to have a ridiculous cat named Fluffy—that I only got to impress you. No, you never judged me. Instead, you accepted me—the person I was pretending to be and the person I really am. Honestly, Helen, can anyone really be surprised that I love you as I do?”

  I reach out, wipe one glistening tear from her beautiful eye.

  It’s good for a man to know what his job is in this world and this I can do:

  I can wipe the tear, whether happy or sad, from her eye.

  And then we’re doing the vows thing and I love this part. I can do this part. It’s like playing baseball in high school. My team’s down by three, it’s the bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded and I’m at bat. The pitcher’s got great stuff, I’ve seen his stuff, but I know my stuff is better and as the fast ball crosses the plate right in the middle of the strike zone, my bat cracks against it and I know that baby’s sailing right out of the ballpark. This is exactly like that. It’s like I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life.

  That stuff about honoring and cherishing—honoring and cherishing Helen? I can so do that. In sickness and in health—are you kidding me? I can’t wait to be tested. Well, it’s not like I’m hoping for something really bad to happen to her. But, like, if she gets a cold or something? I can and will make her homemade chicken soup. Hey, I own a cookbook! And that thing about “til death do you part”? I think of my old friend Leo, who died last fall of a broken heart after his own wife of a gazillion years, The Little Lady, died. It’s like Leo’s right there in the church with me as I take that final vow, promising that:

  Yes, I will love this one woman as long as we both shall live.

  I’m not exactly a kiss-the-girl-in-front-of-a-hundred-and-fifty-people kind of guy, but when the moment comes, I put my hands on the sides of her face and as I lower my lips to hers and make contact, I will the rest of the room to disappear and I only hope and pray that in that kiss, she feels how very much I love her, how determined I am to keep her this happy forever.

  And then before I know it, we’re riding in a horse-drawn carriage down Deer Hill Avenue with all its stately mansions – stately mansions by Danbury standards – heading toward Tarrywile Mansion for our reception. Did I really just do something that’s going to result in something called a reception?

  And then there’s Helen tilting her head up toward me, and I’m leaning down toward her, and this is so much different than that kiss in the church, that kiss that was just for show, just for other people. Even though it felt wonderful when everyone else cheered and clapped at that kiss, there’s no one here now but us and the carriage driver, and this kiss is so much better than anything I’ve ever imagined in my life.

  And that’s when it hits me. Oh, my God—is Helen really my…wife?

  My Reception

  We did the whole receiving line thing back on the steps outside at the church, which was good, gave us a chance to greet everybody.

  When people’d come through the line who were newish to me—some of Helen’s business acquaintances, stuff like that—after being introduced to them, I’d turn and say, “This is my dad, Big John, and this is his wife Alfresca, my aunt.” The looks I’d get after that, the double takes like we were some kind of hillbilly inbreeders—I realized then it was never going to get old.

  “Even on your wedding day,” my best friend said, “still playing games with people’s heads. You’re never going to grow up, are you?”

  “Nah, Sam,” I told her, “probably not.”

  Then I turned to the next person in line, Mary Agnes, the woman who married Helen’s oldest brother Frankie last October and at whose wedding I was Best Man for the last time prior to my own wedding.

  “I can’t believe you two did it!” Mary Agnes said, opening her arms wide to embrace both of us at once. “And to think,” she said to me, “this all started with you asking Helen to marry you at my wedding!”

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling embarrassed, “I’ve been meaning to apologize to you about that for a long time now, but I could never find the right time or words.”

  “Apologize?” Mary Agnes said. “What in the world do you have to apologize for?”

  “Well,” I said, “that was kind of a jerky thing I pulled. There I was, I was supposed to be giving the toast at your wedding, it was supposed to be all about you and Frankie, and instead I turned around and made it all about me. I’m sorry. Sometimes I can be such a jerk.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Mary Agnes looked incredulous. “How can you think that I minded? I delayed my own wedding several hours so everyone including me could watch the Mets play in the World Series, which, I might add, was worth it since they won. But can you imagine if they’d lost and then we had to go ahead and have a big party? It’d’ve been more like a funeral. And even with them winning, by the time I walked down the aisle, my dress was all pitted out from all the jumping and shouting I did during the game. After all that, do you honestly think I minded that when the time came for you to toast me and Frankie, you were so overcome by your own love for his sister—whom I love and regard as my own sister, I might add—do you honestly think I minded that you were inspired to ask her to marry you right then and there?”

  And I realized in that moment that however much I may have been…fretting over the inappropriateness of my own jerkiness for months now, Mary Agnes was never the kind of woman to hold a grudge about it or even mind in the first place.

  Right then, I was absolved.

  I turned to the next guest in line.

  “Can you believe the Mets this year?” I said.

  “I know, right?” Frankie said. “Ever since Niese got his nose fixed, he looks better, he breathes better, he even throws better.”

  “I know, right?” I said. “And you know who paid for him to get it done, don’t you?”

  At the same time, we both shouted, “Beltran!”

  And now we’re on the lawn outside of Tarrywile, the whole Wedding Party getting our pictures taken while the guests hit the open bar inside. Helen’s talking to her parents, the photographer’s waiting for them to stop talking so he can take a picture of just Helen with her parents, when I notice the bottom of her gown is all twisted funny, so I lean down and straighten it out, make sure it lays just right on the grass, study my work.

  “I can’t believe you, Johnny,” Sam says.

  “What’d I do now?” I say.

  “Look at you, all straightening out the dress and everything, making sure the gown looks perfect. That was just so…” Sam says, and I wait for her to fill
in the rest of that sentence so the result will be something more along the lines of: “That was so…girly.” But Sam surprises me when she finally says, “…nice.”

  “Thanks,” I say, but my eyes are all on Helen as the photographer finally snaps the pic of her with her parents. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” I ask Sam, even though I already know the answer.

  And Sam, my friend who is almost always acerbic, surprises me a second time by answering in all seriousness:

  “Yeah, Johnny, she really is.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Billy Keller,” the wedding singer announces.

  “Sam and Carla,” the wedding singer announces.

  What? I think. They don’t get last names?

  “Mr. and Mrs. Big John Smith,” the wedding singer announces.

  There’s a louder fanfare now and Helen looks up at me. “We’re up next,” she says. “Are you ready for this?”

  Am I ready for this? I nod fiercely. I was made for this.

  “And the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” the wedding singer announces, “your bride and groom and mine…Mr. and Mrs. Johnny Smith!”

  The room explodes into applause as Helen and I enter and I think to myself, Mrs. Johnny Smith. She gave up a cool last name like Troy to become Mrs. Johnny Smith. How cool is that?

  But there’s no time for me to revel in the coolness of that or in the oddness of the wedding singer referring to us as “your bride and groom and mine,” because suddenly I’m terrified. And the reason I’m terrified is because I know what comes next: the first dance.

  I am not known for my dancing.

  Months ago, I suggested to Helen—scratch that, I begged her to take dancing lessons with me. Drew and Stacy, Billy and Alice—they all took dancing lessons before their weddings and the results, if unexotic, were at least passably not embarrassing.