The Wedding Game

by Quinn, Meghan

  “That’s what I said. And I’d be helping them put together everything, so they would win. I just know it. I can feel it. And the prize is a penthouse in Manhattan. They could finally be close.”

  “And let me guess—Cohen wants nothing to do with it,” Farrah says.

  “You could not be more right.” I wad up my napkin and toss it on the counter. “I hate how . . . uptight he is sometimes. Loosen up, man. This could be a fun opportunity, but it was an immediate no.”

  “I can’t believe you even expected him to think about it. This is Cohen. He hates the spotlight. He’s not the type of guy who wants to parade his life around on a reality show.”

  “He could be. I’ve seen him loosen up.”

  “When he’s drunk,” Farrah counters. “Which is rare. Face it, Luna, there’s no chance you could ever get him to fill out that application.”

  “Maybe Declan?” I ask, knowing the answer already.

  “Declan is almost too honorable.” Farrah shakes her head. “Cohen said no, then no it is.”

  I hate that she’s right.

  “God, why do they have to be so annoyingly perfect?” I rest my head on the edge of the table and flail my arms above me. “Don’t they understand how amazing this could be? A free wedding—a beautiful, free wedding. I could make it their dream. They don’t have to settle. And when they win, because we know they would win, they could live so much closer to us, which would mean more goulash.” I lift my head just enough that Farrah can see me wiggle my eyebrows.

  “I’m not the one who needs convincing.” She takes another big bite of biscuit.

  “He wants more,” I say quietly, looking away.

  “What do you mean?” Farrah asks.

  Gnawing on the side of my lip, I take a deep breath and push at my biscuit again. “As you know, Cohen doesn’t flaunt his love. He keeps it quiet because he doesn’t want to make other people uncomfortable.” I roll my eyes. “Ridiculous, I know. But before Declan came along, when gay marriage was just legalized in New York State, Cohen and I were watching it all unfold live on CNN, holding hands the whole time. When the law passed, Cohen let out this heavy exhale, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. I can still hear it in my head, how utterly relieved he was. Relieved over a basic human right.”

  “I remember all the rainbow flags we texted each other that day.” Farrah smiles thoughtfully.

  “Once I’d stopped humping the air in victory, Cohen pulled me back down on the couch and told me he was done suppressing his love, and when he met the right guy, he wanted to make it a day to remember. It didn’t have to be costly or fancy, but he wanted a celebration, a moment to bask in the love he knew he would share with someone one day.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I want him to have that day. This show could be it for them, but he shot it down before even giving it any thought.”

  Farrah pops the rest of her biscuit in her mouth and says, “You know, if it was my brother, I would just fill out the application without him knowing. What’s that saying? ‘Act now, beg for forgiveness later’? That’s what I would do.”

  Fill out the application myself?

  Why didn’t I think about that?

  As if her suggestion has given me life again, I stand up from the counter and raise my fist, declaring, “I shall fill out the application myself.”

  Farrah freezes, fork midway to her mouth. “Wait, I didn’t mean for you to do that.”

  “It’s so simple. I’ll just fill it out, and then when they’re accepted, they can’t be mad because, hello, free wedding.”

  “Luna, I was just talking—I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “I have all those pictures from their engagement,” I say, mentally flipping through the many, many candid photos I took of Cohen proposing on the Brooklyn Bridge, which was where they first met during a gay men’s running club that neither of them participate in anymore. “I could use one of those for the application picture. We know they’re handsome as ever in all of them.”

  “This is a bad idea.”

  “I can fill it out right now. I know their information.”

  “Luna!” Farrah calls out as I walk like a deranged but happy zombie toward the coffee table, where my computer innocently sits.

  “Imagine the relief in their faces when I tell them they’ve been selected and they didn’t have to do anything.”

  “I think they would kill you, and I’m not paying this rent by myself.”

  In a daze, I type in my password. “They’ll for sure buy me something pretty. Oh, maybe that new set of watercolor markers I’ve had my eye on.”

  “Luna, think about what you’re doing. Cohen is going to be—”

  “I bet they’ll buy me one of those giant cannolis they always talk about. The pistachio one. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.”

  “They’ll murder you.”

  “Murder me with praise.” I search for The Wedding Game application and then click on the first link I see. When the application comes up for New York City, excitement blooms in the pit of my stomach. This is going to be great.

  Amazing.

  They are going to wonder what they ever did without me.

  Cohen is so lucky to have me as a sister.

  The Wedding Game is ours to win.

  *Evil laugh*

  *Lightning flying from fingers*

  *Veins popping hideously from neck*

  *Computer dying; forgot to plug it in*

  I’ve never really understood the point of hyperventilating into a paper bag. What does a bag really do? You’re just breathing in the same air, over and over again, while the bag puffs in and out. I’m sure if I did some internet searching, it would tell me something about CO2 levels or some crap like that, which is why I’m currently grateful for the paper bag I’m holding up to my mouth as I stand outside Cohen and Declan’s apartment.

  Courtesy of the bagels I bought for our Sunday brunch, I hold half a dozen everything bagels in one hand, sans bag, while I lean against the wall of the hallway leading to their apartment, breathing garlic and sesame seeds into my mouth, over and over again.

  I can still see the email in my head, practically imprinted on my brain.

  Congratulations, Cohen and Declan! You’ve been chosen to compete on The Wedding Game.

  Have you ever seen Whitney Houston perform on stage? She gave it her all, and you could tell because tiny beads of sweat were always above her finely lined and painted lips. When I was young, I’d watch recordings of her performances and wonder why people sweat on their upper lip. It had never happened to me before.

  That is, until today.

  The instant I opened the email, a sheen of sweat coated my upper lip. It was the oddest sensation: nerves, excitement, and impending doom all hit me at once, like an atomic bomb, bursting over my face.

  I don’t know why I was so surprised. They were a shoo-in, but the reality of the show has set me into a tailspin of dread. Hence the hyperventilating just outside their apartment.

  I considered just not telling Cohen and Declan about the application and replying to the email with a kind, “No thank you.” No harm, no foul, right?

  But then I kept thinking about how they could win. How this could change their lives for the better. And because of that thought, I sent back a reply accepting the spot on The Wedding Game with the plan of begging for forgiveness today.

  I glance at their door, at the pristinely polished brass 6B, and wonder if this is the last time I’ll get the chance to run my finger over it and leave a smudge that will drive Cohen crazy when he comes home tomorrow. Will this be the last time I get to imagine him using the sleeve of his flannel to furiously buff out the smudge? Will I ever get another text from him simply stating: I know it was you? Will I never again be able to send him my favorite GIF of Star Wars stormtroopers humping the air?

  I really didn’t think this thing through.

  Before I can think of a way to get myself out of this, the door
to their apartment whips open and Cohen steps out, bag of trash in his hand.

  He startles when he sees me, but then his brow furrows in confusion.

  I don’t blame him—his sister is balancing six bagels on top of each other and leaning against his apartment wall, all while breathing in and out of a paper bag.

  I chuckle awkwardly but keep the bag over my mouth, and my voice booms weirdly against the paper. “Hey, Cohen.” I wiggle my fingers at him. “Love the smell of bagels, don’t you?”

  His eyes narrow. “What did you do?”

  He’s annoyingly observant—not that I’m being very coy.

  “Nothing at all,” I say. Standing up straight and still balancing the bagels, I walk past him. “Just submitted an application for you for The Wedding Game.” I step over the threshold of his apartment. “And they picked you, so you’re going to be on TV, and wow, I need to set these bagels down.”

  “You what?” Cohen booms, but before I can answer, I slip away and walk straight to their kitchen, where Declan is finishing up one of the most miraculous fruit salads I’ve ever seen.

  “Hey, Luna.” He glances at the bagels in my hand and chuckles. “You’re always bringing the party tricks. Let me help you.”

  Feeling the storm that’s building and circling in the hallway, I desperately look up at Declan and say, “I love you so much and think you’re perfect for my brother. Thank you for loving him, and if I don’t make it out of here alive, just know that you are wickedly intelligent, so you should use it to your advantage. Fuck with him. Get him out of his comfort zone. Move things around. Play with his mind. It will keep him alive.” I glance behind me and whisper, “I smudge the 6B.”

  Looking confused, Declan takes the bagels and sets them down. I bring the bag back up to my mouth and breathe in and out, my heart hammering in my chest.

  The thing with Cohen is he’s not a yeller. When he’s mad, he doesn’t lash out irrationally and stomp around, flinging his arms about, making a true show of his anger.

  No, he’s the scary type of angry.

  The kind that bottles it up and slowly, ever so slowly, lets it out, like the steam trying to fit through the tiny spout of a kettle. His chest puffs—which I think comes from him consuming the anger—his eyes turn pure black and widen, like some freaky character in The Witcher, and there’s this tiny vein that runs parallel to his left eyebrow that all of a sudden makes itself known and starts throbbing with impending death.

  Throb.

  Throb.

  Throb.

  It’s horrifying when the vein comes to life. It adds a certain petrifying vibe to the entire experience.

  But it’s the slow and deliberate way he speaks that really cuts to your soul. I almost wish he would make a scene. I wish he would be overtly dramatic, snap his fingers in my face, and then cry while screaming at me. I wish he’d put on more of a show than the stern, thought-out lecture that’s waiting instead.

  Still looking confused, Declan asks, “What’s going on—?”

  Slam.

  Declan and I both startle. Together, me with the bag over my mouth, we spin to see Cohen standing in front of the door, arms tense at his sides, jaw clenched, looking just about ready to murder. I can hear the knife-wielding reet reet noise sounding off in his head as his eyes connect with mine. And just as I suspected, his eyes are black, his nostrils flared so wide that for a brief second, I wonder if I could stick a marble up them—only brief, since terror is taking over, after all—and heavenly lord, hold my breasts, because there it is . . .

  The Vein.

  Throbbing, pulsating, sending out a message in Morse code that he’s coming for me.

  “Luna,” Cohen says, his voice so menacing that I can feel my toenails shrivel up in my shoes.

  I gulp and, without even thinking about it—this is my actual initial reaction—I open the paper bag wide and plop it over my head before casually leaning against the counter. “Only Paper Baggie here. Luna couldn’t make it. But please refrain from relaying information through me. I hate being the middleman.”

  His steps draw closer.

  That Whitney Houston sweat hits me again.

  And before I can take my next breath, the bag is torn off my head, and my six-foot-two lumberjack brother towers over me. “You’re about to die.”

  There’s only one thing I can do at this point as we face off in the kitchen, Declan observing the entire interaction with bagels clutched to his chest . . .

  Ramble.

  It’s my only saving grace.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you were going to get picked—well, that’s a lie, I knew you would get picked but I just thought you were missing out on an amazing opportunity if you didn’t fill out the application, and I know you don’t want me talking about it, but you even said yourself you wish you could have an actual wedding with a party because you worked so hard at finding love and the whole gay rights movement, you know, celebrating love that you weren’t really allowed to celebrate until the law was passed, but now that you can you can have a party to truly show off your beautiful relationship and you were settling, and I didn’t want you to settle so I filled out the application, submitted your pictures, and you two were obviously picked and it’s going to be great. I know it sounds scary right now, being on TV and all and you being shy and reserved, but I promise we will create a beautiful wedding that celebrates your relationship, and then you’ll win and move to Manhattan, which will make everyone’s commute that much easier, and oh my God, you can show off your carpentry skills and maybe get hired by someone who sees you, or maybe Playgirl sees you and thinks, ‘Wow, we would like him to be a centerfold because look at that beefcake, but the shoot would be modest, no penis shots, maybe a side butt, or even butt crack, but we would make sure we show off your physique, not the goods, keep it tasteful,’ and trust me, when the invitations for gay porn start rolling in, that’s where we put our foot down, because my brother will not be subjected to all the freaky crap that’s out there, not when he has a sweet Declan at home, though I’m sure they’ll want him involved because just look at him, what a Greek god, I can see why you fell for him in the first place, real hubba-hubba kinda guy—”

  “Luna.”

  I stick my finger in the air. “To close this out, I’m sorry. Your wedding will be spectacular. Tasteful nude shoot. No porn.” I smile, or at least attempt a smile.

  I stare at my brother, and I just know he’s about to unleash a verbal barrage that will put me very firmly in my place.

  “I think it’s a great opportunity,” Declan says, breaking the most epic of staredowns ever to happen on this side of the Mississippi. I knew I loved Declan, that somewhere, deep inside, we’ve always been soul mates.

  “What?” Cohen asks.

  After setting the bagels on the counter, Declan places his hand on Cohen’s chest and speaks softly, calming the plaid-wearing beast in front of me. “It could be a wonderful opportunity, not just to show off your carpentry skills, like Luna said, but to show off her skills as well—”

  “No, that’s not why—”

  Declan holds his hand up, and I quickly snap my mouth closed.

  “There are a lot of positives here. A wedding that you apparently want, one that I kind of want too. And even better, a free wedding, a chance at a penthouse, an opportunity to grow closer as a couple as we work to create a wedding on a budget, not to mention the exposure for your sister and her many talents. The kind of exposure that could help her get to Mary DIY’s level.”

  “This has nothing to do with me,” I interject, and I truly mean it. “I don’t have to be a part of it. I’m sure we can find another family member to help out. I want this for you guys.”

  “Of course we’d use you,” Cohen says with an irritated sigh as he pinches his brow. “We’d be stupid not to.”

  “Wait.” Hope blooms inside of me. “Does that mean you want to do it? You want to be on the show?”

  “I don’t want to be on
the show,” he says, looking at me again, though this time the menacing, throbbing vein has subsided, leaving just a clenched, exasperated jaw behind.

  “But . . . ,” I add for him.

  Cohen’s gaze bounces between Declan and me. “You really want to do this?”

  Declan shrugs. “You didn’t seem too thrilled about the courthouse wedding.” He takes Cohen’s hand. “Did you really dream of a bigger wedding?”

  “Don’t lie to him,” I whisper, and Cohen shoots me a death glare. I hold up my hands and try to become one with the kitchen cabinets.

  Focusing on Declan, Cohen scratches the back of his neck. “Well, you know that coming out wasn’t easy for me, especially since I don’t fit the stereotypical gay-man type. I’m not this flamboyant, fun, Will & Grace character. I’m just a regular guy who never really felt like he fit anywhere. But now that I finally feel comfortable in my own skin—thanks to you—I want to celebrate our journey with our closest friends and family.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “He doesn’t like confrontation,” I say, leaning forward.

  “Luna,” Cohen snaps, and once again, I melt into the background. “I wanted to make you happy, and because it was the first thing you suggested, I thought that’s what you really wanted.”

  Declan shakes his head. “I only said ‘courthouse’ because we’re trying to save up to move. I want what you want, Cohen.” With a finger, Declan tips up Cohen’s chin. “Let’s do the show.”

  I hold my breath, awaiting Cohen’s response, and I swear he takes extra long, just to make me pass out. Finally, he says, “Okay.”

  I spring forward excitedly and wrap my arms around both of them. “Group hug.”

  Cohen peels my arm away and bends down so we’re eye to eye. “Are you listening to me, Luna? As Declan would say to his students, ‘Do you have your listening ears on?’”

  I give him a crazed smile and nod. “Listening.”

  “Good, because I’m only going to say this once. Never go behind my back again. The only reason I’m not revoking your sister privileges is because Declan is okay with this, but it’s going to take me a while to forgive you. What you did was out of line, deceitful, and out of character. We don’t hide shit from each other, and we don’t go behind each other’s backs. Don’t. Do. It. Again. Got it?”