by Paul Rudnick
An usher escorted Edgar and me to a pew in the front row on the bride’s side, putting us on full display. During the few times I’d brought Callum to family gatherings he’d caused a minor stir, since he was so good-looking in such an obviously gentile manner, and because certain family members recognized him from his commercials and would shout “SUBARU!” or “LYRICA!” as if these words were his first name.
But this was different. This was a whole other category of mob rule. As we passed each pew, one person would spot Edgar and execute a double take, as if their eyeballs were on springs. This person would violently nudge whoever was sitting next to them, unleashing a viral nudge moving from aunt to cousin to nephew, accompanied by fervid whispers of, “Is that who I think it is?” “Or does it just look like him?” “No, it’s really him!” “What’s he doing here?” “Why is he with Carter?” “Take a picture! Take a picture!” and inevitably, “Is he Jewish?”
As the entire congregation leaned toward us like a flying wedge, I hustled Edgar into our pew, inserting myself between him and my mom. At that exact second, the string quartet segued from “My Heart Will Go On,” a song that I’d tried to discourage my sister from using, since it’s essentially a dirge, into a percolating medley mixing “Uptown Funk” with “Rockin’ Robin” and “Crazy In Love” as a formally dressed bridesmaid and groomsman somersaulted down the center aisle and golden glitter rained down. The other paired bridesmaids and groomsmen followed, performing exuberant, fist-pumping, boogying, leapfrogging choreography and tossing more glitter in my sister’s signature colors, magenta and powder blue. I loved all this, because I think any event should reflect the spirit of the participants, and my sister Abby wanted, as she’d told me, “a cross between a flash mob, the finale of a reality show singing competition and Mardi Gras on Mars.”
I glanced at Edgar to see if he was appalled, but his shoulders were bouncing happily to “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease, for which the quartet had added an electric guitarist and a horn section. Then, as a syncopated “Wedding March” began, Abby appeared, on my father’s arm. Abby has devoted her life to the following items: her family; her career as a pediatric surgeon; her circle of friends, who’d voted on a collective shade of spray tan; her search for love, which had arrived at Dane Lefkowitz, a jock-ish, affable attorney and golfer; but above all else, her wedding gown. At the age of two, Abby had swaddled a Raggedy Ann doll in toilet paper and married it to our dachshund, in a bowtie and yarmulke.
Abby was no amateur bridezilla, slicing pages out of magazines in dental offices and curating a Pinterest board of lacy options. She’d submitted a thousand-signature petition to her Girl Scout troop to have Gown Research ranked as a merit badge. At sixteen she’d asked for a custom-crafted dress form to be installed in her bedroom to wear muslin mock-ups. As an intern she’d cheered up desperately ill children by asking them to vote on front-running options, as a welcome distraction.
While I wasn’t Abby’s wedding planner, since birth (I’m two years younger) I’d willingly served as her designated gown consultant. I’m not saying that having my G.I. Joe tell Barbie, “I hate leg-of-mutton sleeves—you look like a linebacker” had made me gay, I’m just saying the research hasn’t been done. Abby and I would watch rom-coms together and howl at the stars to wear a decent corset. We’d both use shower curtains as practice trains. It got so that, when we’d attend actual weddings together, only a fraction of a glance would convey “The strapless yanking-it-up mistake,” “Flesh-colored mesh inserts never flatter anyone” or “Your veil shouldn’t make you look like a piece of patio furniture being weatherproofed over a long winter.”
Abby had one other all-consuming addiction: celebrities. She had alerts on her phone for hundreds of models, pop stars, Bachelorettes, Real Housewives and the occasional female criminal, especially if she’d killed more than one husband. We can gossip for hours about famous people we’ll never meet because, as Abby once explained, “They’re more interesting than us, they can afford to make themselves more attractive than us, they have sex with other famous people, but we don’t have to really worry about them. I spend all day making sure kids with terrible diseases get every chance they can, so when I get home I like to think about Kim Kardashian’s new line of shapewear.”
Whenever my job took me anywhere near a star, Abby would pummel me: “Was Sandra Bullock genuinely nice, or I-want-everybody-to-like-me nice? Has she had her eyes done? How tall? After that last marriage can she ever trust any guy ever again?”
As for royals, of course we’d scrutinised and ranked them, but Abby was intimidated: “They’re the purest form of celebrity, because they’re born into it. They don’t have to pretend to be anything except famous. They’re the only reality stars who don’t end up doing laxative ads and reunion specials. If Queen Catherine ever looked at me I’d turn into a little pile of incredibly overeducated dirt.”
When Abby made her bridal entrance, the congregation swiveled from staring at Edgar to adoring Abby. She was preceded by four flower girls, who were tossing magenta and powder blue rose petals. Abby was beyond gorgeous, glowing with the assurance that after decades of cross-referencing every available ensemble, she’d made the indisputably right choice. Her gown was elaborate but classic, sleeveless but high-necked, a cascade of white satin subtly worked with shivers of gold scrollwork and the tiniest pearls. As Abby had triumphantly concluded during her final fitting: “Yes. Audrey Hepburn if she liked dessert.”
Seeing Abby look so beautiful and so happy was thrilling; we were a lifelong team, and I knew how much this day meant to her. It was a fulfillment, and a celebration of her love for Dane. Sometimes weddings can drown in preparations and overspending and unreachable expectations, but Abby was equal to her event. She was sharing her happiness and having a blast, which made me start to cry, and I worried that I’d embarrass Edgar. But instead his hand found mine as he murmured, “She’s stunning. What a lovely moment.” I couldn’t be sure, but I think Edgar’s voice cracked just a bit; was he also susceptible to all of this wonderfully over-the-top romantic theater?
Abby’s eyes swept the room, aware of a buzz not entirely centered on her. She laser-focused on Edgar. She looked at me. What had I done? I hadn’t told Abby that I’d even met Edgar, because I hadn’t wanted to add to her prenuptial stress or turn the spotlight anywhere near me. I was also superstitious; Abby and I were ultraserious about dating and kissing and the prospect of love, so once I told Abby about a guy, his name would be inscribed in our mythology, and she, of course, would sit me down with an exhaustive checklist (“Okay, so tell me about his neck”) until she knew everything. I trusted Abby’s opinion, so I didn’t want Edgar to appear on her radar until there was a reality to analyze. And on a practical note, I knew that Edgar’s schedule could be variable, so I didn’t want to promise Abby that Edgar was coming to her wedding and then have something interfere and disappoint her.
Beyond all this, on a wickedly selfish level, a tiny part of me thought of Edgar as the ultimate wedding gift, as a special guest star with the potential to stun and delight Abby. But had I been wrongheaded? Was bringing Edgar going to mess with Abby’s agenda and her vision of synagogue splendor? I’d rather die than hurt Abby in any way, and now I was petrified that I’d ruined her bliss for the sake of my royal arm candy.
Abby stared at me and at Edgar as her eyes grew wide and her breathing intensified. I could feel her neurons recalculating the moment, assembling data and churning toward a decision. She opened her mouth to say something, couldn’t, then mustered her full resources and declared:
“OH MY FUCKING GOD. I LOVE IT!!!”
She swooped toward us and kissed me and then Edgar as if we were her human good luck charms. Edgar blushed, smiled and, with what I can only call amazing grace, nodded Abby toward the altar, where Dane, her befuddled groom, awaited. Abby sailed toward her husband-to-be as the rabbi was explaining to him, “He’s Princ
e Edgar of England,” and then, helpfully, so Dane wouldn’t feel jealous, “Gay.”
CHAPTER 11
The reception was held in a ballroom, one of many, at the nearby Grande Park Chateau Reception Arena and Conference Center, a rambling catering hall designed in an architectural style best described as “Neoclassical Jersey Mob Boss,” which meant columns, fiberglass statuary and floral arrangements sent to colonize Earth.
Edgar and I were seated at the bridesmaids’ table, at the take-no-prisoners demand of six thirtyish women wearing not-terrible magenta and powder blue gowns, by which I mean they didn’t resemble 1950s Chevrolets, along with rhinestone headbands bisecting their foreheads, as if they were all recovering from some glamorous, matching surgery. They’d been devoted to Abby since preschool, and were now marketing analysts, dermatologists and CEOs of companies that bedazzled sports bras. Like Abby, they were sharply perceptive, rowdy and not in any way shy.
“First off,” said Kaitlynn Blatt, a team leader at Amazon, to Edgar, “Are you absolutely one hundred percent sure you’re gay, because you are so incredibly cute.”
“Edgar,” I interrupted, “you don’t have to answer that—”
“Shut up,” Kaitlynn informed me. “We’re not talking to you. We’re talking to him.”
“Thank you so much,” said Edgar, “but I’m afraid I’m a one hundred percenter. Although if I were not, I would hope to be placed at precisely this table, among so many supremely appealing young women.”
“Ooooo,” the bridesmaids whooped in unison, as Kaitlynn told Edgar, “You’re good.”
“Moving on,” said Ginnifer Warston-Brasnow, a hospitality services coordinator for Hilton. “So how long have the two of you been dating? Is it serious? Are you monogamous? Are there rings? Have you been in counseling? How many times have you broken up?”
“Ginnifer,” said Edgar, who I’d noticed was able to remember every stranger’s name instantly, “those are all fascinating and important questions, but let’s just say that Carter and I have only known each other a short while, but we’re having the very best time.”
I joined in the resulting swoon, because this was Edgar’s first public acknowledgment of our relationship, and while “the very best time” was diplomatic, it made my heart soar.
“But someday,” said Shannyn Weiner, who sold huge novelty wineglasses etched with the phrase “Mommy-Size” online, “and I’m not just talking about Carter, but it could be Carter, do you want to get married?”
There was a pause, during which I strove to seem nonchalant or even bored, but the question had transformed me into a seventh yearning bridesmaid, hungry for any crumb of commitment.
‘‘Very much so.’’
When Edgar said this, I not only froze, I pretty much blacked out, because the truth is: I am my sister. Times a billion. Because when we were growing up and I became her bridal assistant, I spent an equal amount of time imagining outfits, honeymoon islands with suites set on pilings in the bluest oceans, and sexual positions for Ken and my G.I. Joe, who for some reason I named Drew. Gay marriage hadn’t yet become legal, but I’d bypassed that fact without hesitation, because I’d believed in true love, which called for a wedding of tasteful yet still Moulin Rouge production number glory, meaning Ken would enter the Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art astride a unicorn to wed Drew in his suit of armor on his motorcycle.
I know that some gay kids are forced to disguise both their true selves and their most dearly held fantasies, but I was lucky: thanks to a supportive family and a stubbornly romantic nature, I’d refused to be anyone but myself. Which, when it comes to grown-up love, can become incredibly dangerous.
My years with Callum had confirmed what I’d been suspecting: love is unstable, unknowable and a trap. Callum had said he’d loved me and we’d talked about marriage and even indulged in daydreams of sharing a seaside cottage years down the road (although since he hated cottages, Callum had opted for a Hamptons glass and steel box). But when Callum had lied and cheated on me and we’d fought, I hadn’t been surprised because I wasn’t enough—handsome enough, smart enough, sexy enough or seductively mysterious enough—to justify another human being’s love. I was too weird, too aware of surfaces, too anxious about everything and, finally, too frightened. I was a bad bet, hopelessly damaged goods, nothing special or not special enough. I was me, and that would always be the unfixable glitch. I was an associate event architect, never an event. I was the person who could assist other peoples’ happiness, I could frame their joy and celebrate their great good fortune, but not my own.
So when Edgar expressed such an enthusiastic interest in marriage and the bridesmaids hugged themselves and relied on me for agreement, and to ratify their own most heartfelt dreams, I did what I always do. I looked around for my mother.
“Your Highness,” she said, her hands on my shoulders and directing the royal title to me. My mom had been waiting her whole life to use this particular joke; she loves a good punch line almost as much as she loves me. On some level she considers me her finest punch line.
“So are you going to introduce me, or are you too ashamed?” she asked.
“I pick too ashamed.”
“Shut up. Prince Edgar, hello, I’m Sarah Ogden, Carter’s mom. Has he mentioned that he has one?”
“Ms. Ogden!” said Edgar, leaping to his feet and shaking my mother’s hand. “What a pleasure. I’ve assumed that from his personality and fine manners, Carter must have an extraordinary mother.”
“He does. And it’s wonderful to meet you . . .”
“Edgar.”
“Edgar. I like that. Look at you two. How did this happen?”
“Mom!”
“What, I’m not allowed to ask a question?”
“I imagine that Carter’s been discreet,” said Edgar. “But we met at the United Nations, and I begged him to allow me to be here today and meet as many Ogdens as possible.”
“Then we need to talk—about so many things. And I have photos.”
“Excuse me, but I’m sitting right here,” I insisted.
“It’s always about Carter, isn’t it?” said my mom, shaking her head.
“Tell me about it,” agreed Edgar as they hugged.
My mother often scolds me about only identifying her as my mother, since she’s a full, multifaceted person with a successful career as a personal shopper at high-end retail throughout New Jersey and online, where her website is called SarahStyle. My mom has fabulous taste, as she’s currently enlightening Edgar, and she’s given me a lifelong interest in books, movies, theater and compassionately judging other people. (“Maybe that woman is wearing those hideously creased white pants because they were a gift from a beloved relative with Alzheimer’s; you never know.”) My friends revere my mom, and her desire to guide every aspect of my life is mostly a blessing and only sometimes a reason I wish she’d never learned how to text. She’s Dr. Frankenstein, if he’d known over five hundred ways to tie a scarf, and I’m her creature.
“So, Edgar, may I sit down, oh look, I’m already sitting, I’ve always been a huge fan of your grandmother’s wardrobe, she really makes bold color her friend, and I hope you’re enjoying my daughter’s wedding, which let’s just say is pure Abby. I’m so proud of both of my children, and you don’t have to tell me if you’re having sex with my son, unless you’d like to.”
As Edgar and my mom leaned their heads together and I overheard the words “IHOP,” “Citi Bike” and “skin care,” I wondered if, just maybe, Edgar having grown up without a mother made him take such an immediate and fierce interest in mine.
“So you bought Carter his first Tom Ford suit from a resale shop but you could tell it was brand-new because of the tag under the lapel—that’s so wise. I’m hopeless about fashion, James brings me to our tailor and makes all the decisions.”
“And he’s doing a marvelous jo
b, but if you’d like a second opinion, I’ll give you my card.”
“I would love that!”
“Carter?” said my dad, who’d extricated himself from a debate over Baltic politics at a nearby table. “Is this indeed His Royal Highness?”
“Edgar,” said my mom, “this is my husband, Peter, and yes, his muted paisley tie and coordinated houndstooth pocket square were my idea.”
“Mr. Ogden, first of all, you look superb, and beyond that, it’s so very good to meet you. Carter tells me you’re a professor at the state university.”
“Indeed,” said my dad, who I love because he’s kind and generous and deeply enjoys using words like “indeed,” “wherewithal” and “everlastingly.” “I teach world civilization, and if you’d like, I can provide some fascinating lore regarding your ancestor, the first King Edgar in 959, and his alliance with the thanes of Mercia and Northumbria—”
“Who helped him introduce Benedictine Rule to the monastic communities.”
“’Tis true!” said my dad, thrilled at discovering a fellow scholar. While I’m not a history buff, my dad and I have sought common ground by occupying our couch in stained sweats, guzzling microwave popcorn and binge-watching the most moronic sitcoms together, just to outrage my mom: “Why are you two laughing like idiots at those people wearing striped polo shirts and polyester windbreakers?”
“CARTER YOU FUCKING TRAITOR I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY BROTHER I GUESS FUCKING NOT,” said Abby, standing six feet away, with her hands on the hips of her gown and her glorious mountain of hair almost reaching out to choke me. Abby has naturally abundant hair and often forces strangers to yank on it to prove she never needs extensions. “We spent our lives figuring out this wedding and what do you do? You bring His Royal Fucking Highness Prince Fucking Edgar as your date! AND YOU DON’T GIVE ME A FUCKING HEADS-UP!”