The Wedding Game

by Quinn, Meghan

  “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Are you?” Thad asks, tears gone now. “Because this project was also supposed to bring us closer together, make us a family again, but any chance you get, you flee. Your heart isn’t in this competition. It’s like you’re here to check a box, to say you did your brotherly duty. But what happens after the show, Alec?” Naomi walks up behind him and places her hand on his back. “What happens when the cameras turn off and we no longer have to mandatorily see each other on the weekend? Do we go back to seeing each other once every six months?”

  “Come on, Thad.”

  “Come on, what, Alec? It’s the truth. Ever since you left for college, it’s like you’ve forgotten I even exist.”

  I glance around, at the PAs listening in on our conversation. “Now is not the time.”

  “It’s never the time.” He turns on his heel and stalks off toward the green room, leaving me alone with Naomi.

  Silence fills the air between us, and I can feel her disappointed gaze settle on me.

  “He loves you so much, Alec. Do you realize that?”

  “I love him too,” I say, pushing my hand through my hair, feeling the need to go for a run, hit the gym, expel this pent-up energy inside me.

  “No, I don’t think you understand. He idolizes you.” With a finger on my cheek, she turns my head to meet her gaze. “Idolizes. On our very first date, he told me about his brother, the top-notch attorney. He told me about how you always looked out for him, how you were always there for him. On our third date, he told me about your childhood, how your parents fought constantly, but you always made their fights into something fun and took him as far away from them as possible. On our tenth date, he showed me pictures of you two at his high school graduation, how you gave him a notebook and told him to use it for his dreams in life. To write them down and figure out how to accomplish them. Do you know the first dream he wrote down?”

  Hell, I don’t think I want to know.

  She takes my silence as permission to continue. “Be a protector, like his brother, Alec.”

  Fuck.

  “Do you know what his second dream was?”

  I scratch behind my ear as my heart hammers and my head fills with visions of fourteen-year-old Thad saying goodbye to me as I moved out, his shaggy brown hair rumpled, his eyes rimmed with red, silently begging me not to leave him alone. That was the first moment I ever let my brother down, when I walked away from him so I could finally be free of the anger suffocating our house.

  “No,” I answer, unable to look Naomi in the eyes now.

  “To find unconditional love, the kind you gave him.”

  Fucking hell.

  “And do you know what the third thing was?”

  Have future wife torture older brother to point of a mental breakdown?

  I shake my head, knowing that what she says next will probably be the final nail in the coffin.

  “To have a loving marriage and never follow in his parents’ footsteps.” She pauses, letting that sink in. “This might be a joke to you. You might not believe in love or the sanctity of marriage, but Thad does, and at what point in your life did you stop caring about what he found important? From the stories he’s told me about his hero, his older brother, it seemed like never.” Naomi gives me a slow once-over and shakes her head. “But honestly, I’m unimpressed. You’re nothing like the Alec Thad talked about. I’m sad that my future husband holds you in such high regard and probably always will. Maybe take a second to think about that, instead of counting down the seconds until you’re done with this show.”

  Without another word, she heads off toward the green room after Thad, leaving my heart in a lurch and putting a period on the brutal verbal smackdown she just delivered.

  Naomi could give me a run for my money in the courtroom.

  “Dude, week five is where it all falls apart—don’t you know that?” Lucas asks as he brings his beer up to his lips.

  “No. I never watched the goddamn show.” Not wanting to face the outside world, I had Lucas come over to my apartment for beer and wings. I provided the beer; he brought the wings. By the time he showed up, I was already four bottles in and cracking my fifth, which has made me, let’s say . . . a little loopy.

  “The producers put bouquets and boutonnieres in week five on purpose, because at this point, you’ve either felt the pressure of consistently losing and you need a win, or you’ve been on top and a failure would be devastating. The challenge is brutal, not being able to see, being timed, and having to communicate by describing what to do.” He chuckles. “Fuck, I can’t wait to see this air.”

  “Glad you think it’s so fucking funny.”

  “It really is.” He picks up a wing and bites into it. “But from the way your eyes are glassed over, I’m going to assume it’s not the challenge that ate you alive today.”

  “Nope,” I say, slouching in my chair. “It was my soon-to-be sister-in-law.”

  “Ahh, Naomi, right?” I nod. “Did she yell at you for not making a bouquet that’s worthy of her hands?”

  I shake my head. “No, she told me what a shitty brother I am and how Thad idolizes me, but she doesn’t get it. Direct quote: she’s ‘unimpressed’ with me.”

  “Ouch, really?”

  “Yup.” I take a long pull from my beer, and I mean long, letting the cold liquid soothe my throat.

  “Is she right?”

  I sigh and stare down at the brown bottle in my hand, as if I’ve never seen a beer bottle before. Is she right? Well, do I want to admit to being a shitty person?

  I chug the rest of my beer and set down drink number five on the coffee table before I reach for drink number six.

  I pop the top off. “She’s unfortunately very accurate about how I treat my brother.”

  Lucas nods. “Which says something about your current level of alcohol consumption.”

  I tip the bottle toward him. “Truth.”

  “So you’re feeling like shit.”

  “Pretty . . . much.” I down half the bottle, staring up at the modern light fixture that hangs over my living room. There’s nothing personal about it, just plain black with lights attached to it. Sleek lines, no character . . . probably a direct reflection of the person I’ve become. “Have you changed?” I ask Lucas, suddenly.

  “Changed? In what regard?”

  “Since you became a lawyer. Do you feel like your character has changed?”

  “Not really. I’d say I’m the same—maybe bigger balls than when I was in college, even though back then I was a know-it-all punk. At least I have facts to back up my statements now. Why? Do you feel like you’ve changed?”

  “I know I have.” I press my palm to my eye. “I wasn’t always this . . . emotionless, unattached. But the minute I exited that apartment and left Thad behind, I felt so free, like I could finally breathe. And I clung to that feeling. I’d carried the burden of my parents for so long that the minute I didn’t have to carry it anymore, I ran.”

  “Leaving Thad behind.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Brutal, man. And now you’re feeling the consequence of running.”

  “Not only feeling it, living it.” I shake my head. “He wants this so bad. Really fucking bad, but we’re so far behind, easily the underdogs, with no chance of coming back. And with every loss, I can see Thad’s spirit fall further and further. Today was . . . fuck, it was rough, seeing him like that—not just emotional, but truly beside himself. I know he’s more sensitive than other men, but he was in tears today. Not dramatic tears, but tears that basically said he was giving up on a dream.”

  “Hell, man.” Lucas takes a sip of his beer. “I wasn’t expecting to get all the feels tonight.”

  “Tell me about it. I have no idea what to fucking do.”

  Lucas passes me the tray of wings, but I push them away. He pushes them toward me again. “Eat, dude. You need food in your stomach.”

  He’s right. I put down the beer a
nd place a few wings on my plate.

  “Now, did you bring me over here to help you, or to just listen?”

  I pause for a moment, chewing on a wing. “At first listen, but now I feel like I need some advice.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say.”

  “I’ve already been dragged through the mud—might as well put the cherry on top of the cake.”

  He chuckles and clinks the neck of his beer bottle against mine. “Then let me ask you this: Do you miss your brother?”

  “What?” I ask, feeling a little too drunk to be having this conversation now.

  “The boy you grew up with, the friend you could rely on. Do you miss him?”

  “I mean . . . yeah.” I set my wing down and stare at it. “But I don’t think I know the man he’s become, and that . . . fuck, that’s shameful.”

  “Do you want to know him?”

  I’ve spent my adult years avoiding my family, ignoring invitations to birthdays, casual hangouts, even holidays. I’ve sent texts here and there, but the majority of the correspondence from them has gone unanswered. I kept telling myself I would catch the next call or the next text. I would answer later, until I just never answered. I never called back.

  Now Thad is getting married, to a woman I barely know.

  Thad is a grown-ass man, about to become a dad, and I don’t even know the man he’s become. I don’t know the kind of dad he wants to be.

  I know practically nothing about his life, the boy I raised, the boy who would cry on my shoulder whenever Dad slammed the door and we wouldn’t see him for days.

  All I know is what we used to have. I have no idea what kind of relationship we could have now, and hell, that pains me, especially when I see how close Luna and Cohen are.

  I notice the way she looks up to her brother, the love in her eyes, the same kind of love Thad has for me. The kind of love I don’t deserve.

  But it’s the kind of love I want to deserve.

  And even though the last five weeks have been hell on earth, this is the most excitement I’ve ever had in my cold, sterile adult life.

  “Christ,” I mutter. “I do. I want to know him. I want to know Naomi. I want to know their child. I want to be a part of their lives, but I have no idea how to do it. I’ve been so goddamn neglectful.”

  “Well, what matters to Thad?”

  “The wedding, and giving his family a great life.”

  “Then it’s time to start taking this competition seriously. You have three weeks left before the weddings. There’s still time to change everything. And mind you, if you’ve saved up enough money, the last challenge of the competition before the weddings is what you’re going to spend the rest of your budget on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . . the shitty bouquet and boutonnieres you made can be switched out. Those aren’t final—just what you’re stuck with if you can’t afford anything else. Use your money wisely, bro. This is The Wedding Game. Anything goes.”

  “Really?” I sit up taller.

  “Yeah, dude. You still have a chance at winning.”

  “So . . . I could actually help Thad?”

  “Yup.” Lucas smiles over his beer. “If I were you, I’d start looking up YouTube videos on DIY weddings. Next week is cakes. Know your shit.”

  Know my shit . . . I can do that, right?

  “What the actual fuck?” I say the next morning as I squint at my computer screen, pen in hand and notepad next to me. Thank God we have the day off from filming. A PA called this morning, saying Mary DIY had come down with food poisoning last night and we’re rescheduling for a double shoot next Sunday.

  Which is why I’m hunkered over my computer, nursing more beers—because why not at this point?—and taking notes as I watch DIY wedding cake videos.

  And when I say taking notes, I mean writing swear words over and over in my notebook as I listen to one YouTuber after another talk about different types of flour, letting the cakes cool, decorating with a flat knife, and the difference between each frosting and the look it can give you.

  All I can say is . . . holy fuck.

  I’ve become overwhelmed in the half hour since I started searching simple wedding cakes, thinking, Hey, that is a great place to start.

  Wrong.

  There are a million different types of “simple” wedding cakes.

  “Simple, right?” the current YouTube star says after flipping a cake on top of another with a knife and just her hand, not a crumb out of place.

  “Yeah, okay, lady.” I lean back in my chair, sip my beer, and jot down my first actual sentence in my notepad.

  Flip cake with knife, simple, right?

  This morning, after spending two ruthless hours in the gym, I sat down with my lunch—steak salad with gorgonzola sauce—and watched clip after clip of cake week on The Wedding Game. I was really confused at first, wondering why we were going to make a cake for a wedding that’s not going to happen for a few weeks, but I quickly realized the cakes we’re making would be judged for prizes. First place doesn’t just get to work with a top baker in the winner’s respective city, but they also get a dessert bar at their reception and an unlimited budget for their real wedding cake. The second-place team is given a modest three-tier cake and has the option of a dessert bar if it’s within budget. Third place . . . hell, third place is a death sentence. Third place is given a box of ingredients and a Hail Mary. They need to replicate their cake two days before the wedding, which only adds to the stress leading up to the nuptials.

  For the love of God, we can’t get third place.

  I can’t even imagine the kind of nightmare Thad would be if we were making a wedding cake two days before the wedding.

  I hate to admit it, but Luna has been dominating the competition, with Team Hernandez coming in a solid second every time. After the first week, it’s like something lit a fire under her—probably my brilliant insults—good job, Alec—and she’s been crushing all of us. And when I say it’s Luna, I mean it’s Luna. Cohen and Declan are decent supporting characters, but her skills have been on full display this last month.

  I even heard some PAs talking about Luna’s YouTube channel and how—

  Hold on a GD second.

  Luna’s YouTube channel.

  I set my beer down and feverishly type “Luna Rossi” into the search bar.

  The screen fills with videos of her face, her branding of a blue and yellow stitching lighting up the page along with her smile.

  Holy hell, why didn’t I think of this earlier?

  I click on her YouTube channel and quickly scroll through all her videos.

  How to knit your first blanket.

  Hand letter a card from scratch.

  Homemade glitter bombs.

  Nonna Rossi’s almond drop cookies.

  Bedazzling isn’t just for the nineties.

  That last one makes me smile as I think of the shirt she wore on the first day of filming and how insulted she was when I dropped my nineties comment.

  But holy shit, this girl knows so much. No wonder she’s been leading the competition with such ease, especially since she’s up against such an incompetent moron like me.

  Curious, I scroll through her videos, wondering if there’s one on how to master a wedding cake, but the only baking videos I see are for cookies.

  Hmm, does that mean she might not be the master she claims to be?

  Off to the side, under her profile, there’s a link to her Instagram. I don’t think twice before clicking it.

  Instagram is always weird on a computer, but it still allows me to creep on her.

  And of course, her Instagram is one of those accounts where everything is color coordinated and aesthetically pleasing. There are pictures of her claiming to “fail” at a craft, where she’s holding up the failed piece of macramé or pottery or sewing. There are pictures of her laughing, smiling, just enjoying life, and as I stare at them, desire jolts through m
e.

  Desire to smile like that. To laugh, feel joy, have fun.

  Hell, when was the last time I actually had fun?

  I can’t even remember at this point. I’ve had my head down for so damn long, caught up in my job and obsessed with seeking justice . . . for what? For my mom, who’s a pretty shitty mom to begin with?

  For fourteen-year-old Thad with his shaggy hair?

  For the kid I used to be? Who only wanted his parents to hug him, not turn him away?

  Probably all three at this point.

  A lit-up rainbow ring encircles her profile picture, which I click on, revealing her Instagram stories. Watching her stories feels oddly more personal than just scrolling through her Instagram page. It feels wrong, but there’s no way I can turn it off, not when I see her smiling face, a swath of colorful pillows behind her.

  Is that her bed?

  It has to be.

  I turn up my computer so I can hear her.

  “Thank you for all the recipe suggestions. I really appreciate it. You baking warriors are amazing.”

  Recipes? Is she researching for next week too?

  Hell, of course she is. It’s what she probably spends every waking moment doing, especially after I foolishly threw down the gauntlet.

  “I think I’m going to go for a naked cake, topped with berries.” Oh hell, why does that cake remind me of Thad’s birthday five years ago? He had a cake just like it and gushed about how much he loved it. “It really fits with what I have planned. Which means, Hot-Lanta Baking, you win the recipe competition. I’m tagging you here. Send me a DM and I’ll send you a surprise box of goodies.”

  Clever marketing. All right, I can see why she has over five hundred thousand followers.

  “Tomorrow, I’m going to hit up Cakes and Bakes downtown to pick up some ingredients and supplies to practice. Don’t worry—I’ll keep you guys updated on the process. That’s it for tonight. I hope you had a wonderful weekend, and, as always, keep it crafty.” She waves to the camera and the video ends.

  Huh.

  I lean back in my office chair and rock back and forth for a few seconds, my fingers drumming on the desk, a million terrible thoughts coursing through my head.