by T. J. Klune
“Who told you that you needed to do that?”
“Down, girl,” he said. “Put the nails away. This is something I thought of all on my own.”
“You’re perfect just the way you are.”
“I know,” he said.
“Do you?”
“Mostly. But if I want to do this, then why can’t I?”
I shrugged. “Just as long as you’re doing it for the right reasons, baby doll. You do you.”
“So, look,” he said. “Here’s the thing.”
“No one has ever had anything good to say when starting a sentence here’s the thing,” I told him.
“You don’t know that,” he said. “Gandhi could have been all, like, ‘Here’s the thing: love everyone and junk.’”
“Right.” I wondered if I could just steal the ring from his hand without him noticing because he didn’t deserve to wear something so precious if he was saying what I think he was saying. “Because Gandhi sounds just like an errant fruitcake making up excuses.”
“God,” Paul said, “the sentences that come out of your mouth should shock me more than they do. I don’t know what that says about me.”
“Deflecting,” I said. “Out with it.”
“March,” he said.
“March,” I repeated flatly. “As in this coming March. Paul. It’s October. Are you out of your mind? Why, picking out the flower arrangements alone could take up to six months to get right! No, I’m sorry, but that is simply unacceptable. Tell Vince the wedding is off. You two can’t be trusted to handle it correctly and therefore it shouldn’t happen at all.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “Not going to happen. I’m sort of invested in the whole marriage thing now that I know it’s real. Had you asked me about this last week, I would have laughed and made fun of whoever was getting married. Now that it’s me, it’s sacred and I will not stand for any backtalk. Also, don’t move to Texas. You don’t look good with big hair.”
“That is a slanderous lie and you know it. I look good with any kind of hair.”
“Cher circa 1987.”
“Oh,” I said, grimacing. “Yeah. I forgot about that. That was a mistake that I will never be able to unsee.”
“It hurt us all,” Paul agreed.
“No marriage.”
“Yes marriage. So much marriage.”
“Speaking of,” I said. “How in the hell did neither of us know about this? I love him, you know I do, but you’re obviously giving Vince too much leeway. It’s time to tighten the leash a little bit. Who knows what other surprises could be waiting for you.”
“Like. Sexy surprises?”
I nodded. “Or like surprise fisting. No one likes surprise fisting, Paul.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me.”
The waitress walked over to our table.
“You’ve been fisted?” Paul asked me, sounding disgusted and impressed.
The waitress immediately turned around and walked the other direction.
“Almost.”
“How does one almost get fisted?”
“There were four fingers with the promise of a thumb,” I said.
“The promise of a thumb,” Paul repeated through a mouthful of arugula and raspberry vinaigrette.
“The promise of a thumb,” I agreed. “It was a promise that was never fully realized as I came to the conclusion that I was not one for sitting on an arm.”
“I saw a fisting video once,” Paul said. “The guy looked like he enjoyed it, but I couldn’t help but think what it would be like to walk around with your arm smelling like butt.”
“That’s what enemas are for,” I said, mixing another sugar into my tea. “You get clean and fresh on the inside before so there’s no arm-butt smell.”
“And I suppose you can’t eat before getting fisted,” Paul said. “Digestion and all that. I assume there’s no after-Thanksgiving fisting.”
“That has the potential to be messy.” I frowned. “How did we get to talking about fisting after Thanksgiving?”
Paul shrugged. “How do we get anywhere about anything we talk about?”
“That’s scary and terrifying and also mostly true,” I said. “This is all Vince’s fault. Damn him and his sneak proposals that make me have feelings. I hate having feelings.”
“Sure,” he said. “But what does that say about you that you didn’t know?”
“I’m a failure as a best friend and overall nosy person,” I admitted. “I didn’t even see this coming. I’ve failed you, baby doll. Maybe you’d be better off finding another fabulous drag queen to be friends with.”
Paul shook his head. “No one’s more fabulous than you.”
“That was a test,” I told him seriously. “And you just passed. Congratulations. There is absolutely no one more fabulous than I.”
“Deflecting,” he mocked. “We’re getting married. In March.”
“March,” I said, trying it out on my tongue. “A March wedding. A wedding. In March. Helena Handbasket cordially invites you to the March wedding of Paul and Vince.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I let it out slowly. It didn’t feel quite right, but I could work with it. If I had to. I opened my eyes. “Okay,” I said. “I can deal with this.”
“Good,” he said. “And I love you. Remember that when I tell you this next part. And can you put down the fork?”
“There’s more?”
“Uh. Yes?”
“Am I going to get stabby?” I asked, because it’d been a good long while since I’d felt stabby. Two days, at least.
“Possibly.”
I put down the fork, but I kept it close. Nobody told me I couldn’t get stabby and got away with it. “Continue,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I love you.”
“You said that already,” I reminded him.
“So. I want you to be my best man.”
“Bless your heart,” I said sweetly. I dropped my voice. “Now get to the stabby part.”
“Darren is going to be Vince’s.”
“Close, but not quite a stabby offense,” I said. “I figured that would probably happen.”
He winced. “Ah. We… want. A. Hmm. Small wedding?”
I blinked. “I’m sorry. You want a what?”
“Small wedding,” he said. “You know. Not that big of a deal. So. Like. Um. No flowers. No churches. No engagement dinners or anything like that. Not a lot of guests. We can have a quiet civil ceremony and then some kind of party afterward. And that’s it.”
“That’s it,” I repeated.
He shoved his mouth full of radicchio. “Hrmph.”
“Paul,” I said, running my fingers along the tines of the fork. “Do you remember the promise we made to each other when we were fifteen?”
He swallowed thickly and nodded.
“Can you remind me of what that promise was?”
“Um,” he said. “We promised that when we got married, we would be each other’s best man, and that we would have destination weddings. Yours was going to be to Nick Carter from the Backstreet Boys in Jamaica.”
“And why is that?” I asked.
He sighed and looked aggrieved. “Are you really going to make me say it?”
“Say it,” I hissed at him.
“Because Nick Carter was Jamaican you crazy.”
“Nick Carter was Jamaican me crazy,” I agreed. “And you? Was Nick Carter Jamaican you crazy, Paul?”
“No.”
“And why is that? Who was Jamaican you crazy?”
Paul sighed. “I was going to marry Uncle Jesse from Full House in Costa Rica, because I wanted to pretend we were Dr. Grant and Dr. Sattler from Jurassic Park and I was going to be Dr. Sattler because I could pull off being a blonde and their sexual tension was ridiculous.”
“Only you would watch Jurassic Park for the sexual tension,” I said.
“They were smoldering,” Paul insisted. “And every time they were about to bone,
there were raptors or T.rexes getting in the way. Fucking dinosaur cockblockers.”
“The moral of the story, then,” I said, “is that we promised to have big weddings in faraway places.”
“While marrying a boy band twink and a fictional character from Full House while sexually role-playing a movie about dinosaurs,” Paul said, dry as dust. “I think our priorities have changed.”
“The sentiment remains the same!”
“But we grew up,” he said. “The things we wanted at fifteen aren’t the things we want in our thirties.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You told me you and Vince already role-played Jurassic Park.”
“Well, yeah,” he said, sounding exasperated. “We couldn’t not. You should see him when he tries to talk about dinosaur bones. It’s adorable and so completely scientifically inaccurate. And then I told him he could dig through my badlands and unearth my fossil and it just went downhill from there. Or uphill, I guess, depending upon how you look at it. I certainly felt like I should have been on display in a museum by the time we were done, given that I was stiff and covered in sediment.”
“Ugh,” I said. “I blew him in my dreams and then he sucked on your nipples after committing incest. I am still not okay with talking about sex stuff with either of you.”
“Hey, man. Your dreams, not mine. Should we even talk about the fact that you had a sex dream that included me?”
“I didn’t have sex with you.”
“Proximity, though. They say dreams are just manifests of our desires.”
I gagged. “I desire absolutely nothing that I dreamed about.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Paul.”
“How’s Brian?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” I snapped.
“No, really. You looked like you were in love. Like, a forever kind of love.”
I tried to stab him with my fork, but he moved far too quickly. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll let you have your small wedding. Two conditions.”
“Oh boy.”
“First, I get to officiate the wedding.”
“That’s not a thing that’ll happen,” he said easily. “In fact, you can speak for up to a minute as my best man and that’s it. No embarrassing stories. No anecdotes. You tell everyone how much you love me, how awesome Vince is for making me happy, and you’re done.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I’ll go online and get ordained and then I’ll write something pretty about feelings and unicorns and stickers or whatever else love means these days. It will probably take at least an hour. I will use flowery language that will make everyone within a four-block radius cringe in glee.”
“My wedding is already ruined,” he groaned.
“Second,” I said, ignoring his protestations, “there will be a bachelor party and you do not get a say otherwise.”
“Nana already beat you on that one this morning.” He dug his phone out of his pocket. He clicked through the screen before handing me a text conversation.
There better be some dong
Nana JFC WTH?
I don’t know what any of that means. Speak normal, Paul
Jesus Fucking Christ What The Hell
Oh. Rude.
Dong?!?!?!?
Yes, Paul. Dong. There had better be dong.
WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. I’M AT WORK
Stop yelling at me
Nana. What. Are. You. Talking. About.
Dong, Paul. At your bachelor party
Oh my god
Because there needs to be one
Oh my god
And I will be going to it
You texted me in the middle of the day about PENIS.
Yes. Yes, I did. JFC WTH =D
Nana
Yes, dear?
Are you asking me if there will be strippers
Not asking. Telling. There’s a difference Paul.
THERE WILL BE NO STRIPPERS
I found this link: www.tightbuns&bigguns.com
I’m not clicking that
Click it, Paul. You know you want to. Click it. Just a little
How is this happening right now?
They have profiles of each of the dancers
Please tell me you didn’t look at them. Nana. Please
I looked at all of them. My favorite is Juan Carlos
This has to be bad dream
He likes salsa music, dogs and has chest hair
Why is that listed on a stripper profile?
Hire him, Paul
I’m going to find a retirement community for you to live in
If you don’t, when I die, I’ll cut you out of my will and then haunt you
I’M NOT HIRING JUAN CARLOS
You’ve been warned. Ghost Nana!
“My god,” I breathed. “When I get old, I want to be her. Did you click on the link?”
“Yeah,” Paul admitted, taking back his phone. “And Juan Carlos looks like Magnum PI. I was terribly confused and slightly aroused. It was very awkward for me.”
“Tom Selleck often causes that feeling in people,” I said. “I’m assuming Vince didn’t come to lunch with us because he’s telling Darren the same things you’ve told me?”
Paul nodded as he sipped his tea. “Don’t think Darren will care as much as you do about the size of the wedding. Though, I expect he’ll be excited for different reasons.”
“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “Because if Darren’s happy, we’re all happy.”
“It seems like it, doesn’t it?”
I put down my fork because I was starting to get stabby again. “You have your devious face on, Paul. Which means you’re planning something.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I just want everyone to get along. I know Darren’s not your favorite person, but you’ll be seeing a lot of him with all the wedding stuff.”
“I thought you said it was going to be a small wedding.”
“It is.”
“Then what wedding stuff could there possibly be?”
Paul grinned at me.
“Paul.”
“Sandy.”
“This had better not be some harebrained matchmaking scheme you and Vince have got cooking. If it is, I swear to god I will not stop in finding ways to make both your lives miserable.”
Paul feigned shock. “Sandy. I would never.”
I stared at him.
He took a bite of his salad.
I tried to stab him again, but he pulled his hand away just in time.
He was slick, that one.
AND MAYBE I should have realized just how slick, but I’d all but forgotten it a week later.
Corey was set up in the living room, doing homework for one of his required psychology classes. I had the ironing board stretched out behind the couch, ironing the wrinkles from one of my costumes for the show the next night. The TV was on some home repair network where two men claiming to be cousins were fixing up houses, but Corey and I agreed that they were probably fucking, even if they were related.
I was considering what to make for dinner when my phone chimed. Corey tossed it to me and I frowned, not recognizing the number. It was a 520 area code, so at least it was from Tucson.
We need to talk.
I read off the number to Corey, but he didn’t recognize it either. “Are you secretly dating someone and they need to break up with you?” he asked.
“Unless it’s so secret that I don’t even know about it, then no.”
“Ignore it.”
Which was probably the best idea.
And I did.
For five minutes.
And then I just couldn’t resist. Because what exactly did we need to talk about?
Are you breaking up with me?
What
You said we needed to talk. That’s code for breaking up
We’re not breaking up
We’re not?
No. We’re not together to break up
What?
I said PITY
What’s a pity?
That we’re not together. It could have been magic
WHAT
This has been fun
It has!?!
Yes. But I think you have the wrong number
What the hell, Sandy?
“Whoever it is knows my name.” I frowned.
“Because of course you texted them back,” Corey muttered. “Your murder is going to be reenacted on 48 Hours. I’ll cry on camera and everything during my interview. I’ll even talk about how special you were.”
“Make sure I’m played by Angelina Jolie in the re-enactment,” I said. “She’s the only one that can pull off my cheekbones.”
“I’ll get right on that,” he said. “Because I’m sure she’d be flattered to be told she has the cheekbones of a drag queen. Any other requests?”
“All of you must mourn me for a year and wear black the entire time.”
“Can’t,” Corey said. “My wardrobe is more spring than death and sadness. You know this because you made me go shopping.”
“Also, don’t serve cheese at my wake. Paul tends to go overboard when there’s cheese and he gets gassy.”
“Plates and plates and plates of cheese.”
“You’re fired from planning my fake funeral.”
“I didn’t even want to do it anyway.”
“Love you.”
“Ha! Look! They’re totally hammering near each other. I don’t care if they’re cousins. I want them to bone. Bone, fake TV construction cousins! Bone. The one on the right is totally a bottom. He’s just quivering for it. Show him your fluttering hole!”
I stared at my phone, biting my bottom lip. Corey had a point. I could be talking to a murderer who would placate me with sweet words before breaking into my house and carving my skin to wear my face. Or, it could be someone awesome. Decisions, decisions.
Really, there was no choice.
Who is this?
Nothing.
Then, a two-word reply that struck fear into my very soul.
It’s Darren
I screamed and threw my phone across the room where it bounced off the wall and landed on the ground.
“Jesus Christ,” Corey gasped as he flailed off the couch. “What the hell!”
I whimpered.
“What happened?” Corey demanded, picking himself up off the floor.
I raised a trembling hand and pointed toward my phone. “It’s… it’s him.”