The Wedding Game

by Meghan Quinn

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” I pull on the back of my neck. “Hell, I don’t know what I mean. I’m just . . .” I glance around—nothing. I don’t see her. “When do we start?”

  “In five minutes,” Naomi says, giving me a confused look. “Is everything okay?”

  I glance at my watch. She should be here by now. “Uh, I just need to make a quick phone call. Give me a second.”

  I step off the set and find a mostly secluded corner before I pull out my phone and dial my mom’s number for the second time this week. It rings and rings and rings.

  Then finally: “Hello?”

  “Mom?” I ask. Why does her voice sound so distant?

  “Alec?”

  “Uh yeah, where are you?”

  I hear rustling against the phone. “Home.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. “What do you mean you’re home? I thought you were coming to the studio today.”

  “Well, something came up. I can’t come.”

  “What? Why can’t you make it?” I ask, anger starting to take the place of embarrassment, anguish.

  “Rough night.”

  Rough night . . . what does a “rough night” mean, exactly? Back when I was in high school, I found a bunch of prescription medications in my mom’s drawer. I asked her once what they were for, and she brushed me off, telling me they were old. But I knew better, especially when Thad told me after I left that he kept seeing Mom take pills and he didn’t know what for. So I can only imagine what this rough night might have entailed.

  “You told me you’d be here today, so why would you have a rough night if you knew you were supposed to be somewhere the next morning . . . early?”

  “Spare me the lecture, Alec.”

  “I’m not lecturing you, Mom. I’m trying to understand what could be more important than coming to see your two children.” I press my fingers to my brow, attempting to comprehend what would push her to fall back to her coping habits. What triggered her?

  “You wouldn’t understand.” It’s that response that pushes me over the edge, those words. When I was young, after Thad was asleep and Dad was gone, I would go to my mom’s room and try to comfort her, try to talk to her, but with those three words, she’d turn away and shut me out of her life.

  “You’re right, I don’t understand.” I angrily thread my hand through my hair. “I don’t understand how you could commit, and then not even show up. Did you think it was going to be okay to just be a no-show? Do you realize how hard it was for me to make that call this week, to reach out to you, to try to mend what we’ve lost?”

  “I can tell you’re getting upset. Maybe we should just try another day when you’ve calmed down.”

  “When I’m—” I breathe out a heavy breath. “Yeah, let’s try another day.” I hang up before she can reply and stuff my phone in my pocket. “Unbelievable,” I mutter, combing my fingers through my hair as I pace back and forth.

  “One minute!” a PA calls out.

  Great.

  Taking a deep breath, I try to ease the tension in my shoulders, break up the tightness in my throat, and will back the angry tears that threaten to fall.

  I thought she was going to show up. I thought this was going to be a chance for me to clear things up, but once again she’s let me down. I don’t matter enough to her to try. Never have.

  Probably never will.

  When I get back to our workstation, Thad gives me a once-over. “Uh, your face is red.”

  “Can you stop fucking observing me?” I yell. The whole cast and crew swivels around to stare. I can feel Luna’s eyes on me. I can sense her questioning, but I don’t turn around to face her. I can’t, not when I’m this upset.

  “Dude, settle down. Everyone is looking.”

  “Great, let them fucking stare.” I snatch my drawing from the workbench and crumple it up. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  Thad sighs next to me. “And for a second there, I thought you’d turned over a new leaf. Same old Alec.”

  Before I can reply, Diane calls out “Quiet on set!” and points to Mary, standing in front of the table of mystery supplies.

  Just fucking great.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  LUNA

  “That wasn’t a fun day,” Cohen says, sighing as he opens the door to O’Leary’s, his favorite Irish pub, in the Village. Declan follows behind me, and the hostess leads us to a round booth in the back, which gives us enough room to spread out.

  “Brutal,” Declan says, picking up the menu. “And the tension was high, wasn’t it?”

  “It was,” Cohen says while I stare down at my phone, willing it to beep with a text, with anything.

  I sensed it the minute I glanced over at Alec. Something was wrong. His shoulders were kissing his ears, his brow was creased, and he was snapping, truly snapping, at Thad. They usually bicker like a pair of old hens, but there was anger in his voice this time, the type of anger I can only attribute to his mother not showing up.

  Trust me, I was looking all over the place, waiting for her to come to set, to hug her boys, to tell them how proud she was of them working together. High hopes, I know. But when Alec disappeared and came back right before we started filming, absolutely livid, I knew she wasn’t coming. And it probably wasn’t for a good reason either.

  “You were distracted,” Cohen says, nudging my foot under the table.

  “Was I?” I ask, sweat breaking out on my back. “I thought I was all there. I mean, it was pretty impossible to beat what Team Hernandez put together—those teepee sticks with flowers were adorable.”

  Yup, Team Hernandez took first, we took second, and, unfortunately, Team Baxter took a very brutal last place with their dilapidated centerpieces and constant arguing. The tension was really high between all of them. When we were done filming, Alec and Thad exchanged a few more terse words, and then Alec took off, his face flaming with anger. I sent him a text, asking if he was okay, but I haven’t heard anything back yet—hence all my surreptitious checking.

  “I don’t care that we got second place,” Cohen says, “but it just seems like something’s worrying you. You keep checking your phone and chewing on the corner of your mouth.”

  Crap, crap, crap.

  “Just lots of work and stuff.” I hate that I just told my brother a lie, but after today, I’m so glad Alec and I are keeping things under wraps. If I told Cohen, he’d keep it quiet, but he would tell Declan, and I can’t be completely sure Declan wouldn’t let the truth slip by accident. And after seeing Thad and Alec today, I’m guessing that relationship is on the rocks again. The news that Alec and I are together would probably destroy it completely.

  And that makes me sad.

  Declan sets his menu down. “Next week is the last week—decorations and final picks. Then it’s all over. We’ll get to enjoy a great wedding, and then get back to normal life.”

  “And win,” I add.

  Declan shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t care if we win or not.”

  Cohen’s brow furrows. “Don’t you want to live in Manhattan?”

  Declan smiles and cups Cohen’s cheek. Cohen stiffens, but only for a second before he relaxes into Declan’s touch. “I like our life, Cohen. I don’t need more than what we have.”

  “Oh God,” I say, hand to heart. “That’s so—”

  “Give us a moment,” Cohen says.

  “Oh sure, yup.”

  I love the way they speak to each other, with so much care and devotion. I marvel at the way Declan can so easily put Cohen at ease, the way my brother visibly relaxes with Declan, and I realize . . . I want that.

  I want someone who makes me feel both protected and needed, someone who makes me feel loved, and makes me feel . . . the way Declan and Cohen clearly make each other feel.

  I’ve come to a point in my life where I don’t mind being single. I’m not desperate and boy crazy, but I’ve noticed a shift. I’ve established myself as a creator—some of the judges have s
tarted following me on Instagram, mentioning how much they love my work. Even without the recognition, I would be content with where I am in my career, but something’s missing. I can feel it like a hole inside me, but from the minute Alec kissed me, that hole started to fill.

  And ever since that kiss, the hole continues to fill, bit by bit. I’ve never felt this way with another man. As I stare down at the tabletop, I realize something: Alec is a forever type of guy. Not a stepping-stone, not a free trial, not a one-night stand—he’s the real deal.

  And he’s hurting right now.

  Which means . . .

  “You know, I’m not feeling too great, actually.” Another lie—well, half lie. I do feel sick to my stomach from not knowing how Alec is. “I think I’m going to head back to my place, if that’s okay.”

  “Oh sure,” Declan says. “Do you want us to walk you to the train?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “You guys enjoy your dinner.”

  I stand from the booth; Cohen does the same and pulls me into a hug. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” he whispers.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. “Yup, everything’s okay.”

  I step back from my brother’s barrel of a chest and give Declan a quick hug as he stands up from the booth as well.

  “Text us,” Declan says, squeezing my hand briefly.

  “I will.” I give them a quick wave, shoulder my bag, and then leave the restaurant, heading straight toward the subway—and Alec’s apartment.

  The hall leading to Alec’s apartment is dreary, matching the overall feeling of the day. It’s dark, almost spooky in a way, as if, if I turned around, I would see a guy standing behind me with a hood over his head holding a shank.

  Open up. Open up.

  I twist my hands in front of me, waiting for the door to unlock, waiting to stare into Alec’s brilliantly green eyes. But he doesn’t open up, and I really start to worry.

  I knock a little harder this time. “Alec, are you in there?”

  I hear something crash on the floor and then a man’s voice, muttering something unintelligible.

  “Alec, it’s Luna. Please open up.”

  Footsteps fall across his floor, and the lock slides open. The door opens a few inches, but no one greets me from the other side. Instead, I just hear retreating footsteps. Cautiously, I push open the door. On the other side of the living room, Alec is taking a seat on the couch and burying his head in his hands. Across from him on the coffee table are an empty tumbler and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I’m hoping that isn’t a new bottle.

  I step into the apartment, take my shoes off, and set my bag down. Not sure what I’m getting into, I approach Alec, who’s in a pair of sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt. His hair is standing on end, and his entire body looks painfully tense.

  I sit down beside him and place my hand on his thigh. His hand lands on top of mine, and he tangles our fingers together.

  Gently, I rub my thumb over the back of his hand. “Alec, what’s going on?”

  He turns to face me just enough so I can see his bloodshot, tear-soaked eyes. The look on his face is enough to break me. I cup his cheek and lean in closer.

  “Alec,” I whisper, just as a tear falls down his cheek. I wipe it away, unsure of what to really do. But I don’t want to press him, so I hold his hand, and I wait.

  I wait as his head slumps forward.

  I wait as he reaches for the tumbler and bottle again—and downs two fingers in one fell swoop.

  I wait as he leans back into the couch and presses his fingers into his brow.

  Unable to handle the wait any longer, I turn toward him and straddle his lap, resting my hands on his chest. His hands fall to my legs, and he blows out a long breath.

  “She doesn’t love me,” he finally says, another tear rolling down his cheek. “Fuck . . .” He covers his eyes with his arm. “Why doesn’t she love me?”

  From what I saw today, I’m going to guess “she” is his mom. And the question just about shatters me. I can’t imagine a life where my mom—either of my parents, for that matter—doesn’t love me, doesn’t want to see me, doesn’t want to try to have a relationship with me.

  And how do I even respond to his question? He’s in such a fragile state that saying the wrong thing might make this even worse.

  So, I try to be a sounding board for him instead.

  “She didn’t come today.” It’s a statement, not a question, but Alec still shakes his head.

  “No. ‘Rough night,’ she said.” The tang of whiskey wafts from his tongue. “Rough fucking night. When she knew she was supposed to come to set today.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, his chest rising and falling more rapidly, the tension in his body mounting. “She fucking knew she was supposed to show up. Does she know how fucking hard it was to make that call? To suck up all the pain I carry around to reach out to her?”

  I rub his chest in response.

  “Same old story with her,” he continues. “Thad looks past it, but I’ve seen her drawer of pills, I’ve seen the ‘medicated cocktails’ that began when she and my dad started fighting. I know exactly how she spends her nights: with pills and vodka.” He moves his hand over his brow. “And here I am, acting just like her, turning to a bottle when things get tough. Fuck . . .” He shifts me off his lap and stands, picking up the bottle of Jack and striding to the kitchen. From the couch, I watch him chuck the bottle into the sink. I jump as the glass cracks and liquor splashes all over the kitchen.

  He lurches away and leans against the dining room wall before sinking down to the floor and hunching forward. He sobs into his hands, his pain so heavy, so potent, that I can practically feel every tear that falls from his eyes.

  My heart breaking, I give him the one thing I know he needs right now . . . some love. Standing from the couch, I walk over to him and take his hand in mine. When he looks up at me, I nod for him to stand, and I help him up.

  Hand in hand, I walk him back to his bedroom, where I don’t even bother with the lights. Instead, I pull the blankets back on the bed. Then I turn toward him and lift his shirt up and over his head. He stands there, letting me take over as I push down his sweats as well. He steps out of them and leaves them on the floor. I make quick work of my pants, too, and go to his dresser, rummaging around until I find one of his shirts and exchange it for the one I’m wearing.

  Feeling comfortable, I maneuver us both into bed so he’s lying flat on his back and I’m curled into his side, propped up so I can look down at his handsome face. Cupping his cheek, his new beard rough under my palm, I swipe away his tears before placing a gentle kiss on his lips. I linger for a few seconds, waiting for him to kiss me back, and when he does, my heart speeds up in my chest.

  There is nothing sexual about our kiss, no tongue, no neediness.

  It’s pure, comforting connection with another human.

  I pull away, still cupping his face. “You’re important to me, Alec. You matter to me. I cannot speak for your mother, but I truly feel excitement at the prospect of seeing you, let alone getting a call or text from you. I know that doesn’t matter as much, but I wanted you to know I care . . . about you.”

  “It means more than I think you know,” he says, eyes heavy.

  “And you believe me?”

  He nods. “I do.”

  “Good.” I press my mouth against his again, and even though he’s kissing me back with sweet intensity, making me want more, I don’t take it any further. I don’t want our first time together to be when he’s distraught.

  So I slowly pull away and lie down, clinging to him and resting my head on his shoulder. His arm wraps around my waist, and he holds me tightly. And like that, as the sadness and frustration of the day hangs above us, we fall asleep.

  Bzzz.

  Bzzzzz.

  Bzzzzz.

  What’s that noise?

  Alec shifts beside me, his arm still wrapped around my waist.

  “Ah
h, fuck,” he mumbles, his voice sounding like sandpaper dragged along wood. “My head.”

  “What is that?” I ask, pressing my palm to my eye.

  “A phone?” he asks. I’ve heard morning-man voice before, all gravelly and hot, but I must admit: Alec wins the prize for the sexiest, that’s for sure.

  “What time is it?” I ask, lifting my stiff body from Alec’s.

  “Uh . . .” He twists toward his nightstand. “Eight fifty-two.”

  “Eight fifty—oh my God, Alec, we have eight minutes to get to set.” I spring out of bed. “We’re going to be late, both of us.”

  “Shit,” he mumbles, sitting up, very slowly. “Fuck, my head is pounding.”

  I grab my clothes, grateful we have to wear the same thing two days in a row for filming purposes, not grateful that I didn’t get to wash my clothes. I pull up my leggings and snap them on my waist, then throw my shirt on. I run to his bathroom, not even bothering to go pee, and undo my hair before throwing it up into a fresh bun.

  Behind me, I can hear Alec moving, still slowly, but moving at least.

  “Using your toothpaste!” I call out, spreading some on my finger and working it around my mouth. Not very effective, but it’s the best I can do.

  “Mouthwash is under the sink,” he calls out as I hear him open and close the dryer in his bedroom closet. “At least I had the decency to wash my clothes.”

  “Shut up!” I call out, running to my bag and then back to the bathroom. I bring my makeup on set for touch-ups, and I couldn’t be more grateful for that decision as I touch up yesterday’s face. Good lord, I’m going to need a facial scrub after this.

  Lazily, Alec walks into the bathroom, shirtless, with jeans hanging low on his hips and a sexy-as-sin look in his eyes.

  I pause, touching up my eyeliner. “How is it fair that you look like that hungover, while I didn’t drink an ounce and somehow look like the bride of Chucky?”

  He gives me a quick scan and scratches his chest. “I think you look hot.”