Three Stupid Weddings

by Ann Gallagher

  “But have you eaten?”

  We exchanged glances, and I had a feeling we were each waiting for the other to say “yeah, we should eat.” And truth be told, I was starving. I hadn’t eaten lunch. In fact, I hadn’t eaten much of anything unless seventy-three cups of black coffee counted.

  Another sign for the freeway went by. The ramp was coming up fast. “Why don’t we get out of Seattle first? We could stop in North Bend or something.”

  “Works for me.”

  He didn’t push the issue, and I was grateful for that. I knew I needed to eat, and that waiting another hour or so until we got to North Bend was just an excuse to put off the mealtime tradition of arguing with my internal demons, and I was pretty sure Dom knew that too. If I tried to push it—wait until we were over the pass, or maybe as far as Ritzville, or hell, all the way into Spokane—he’d say something, but for the moment, he backed off.

  And Christ, he was really onto something with suggesting I needed a therapist to unfuck whatever Max had done to my brain when it came to food.

  As I nosed onto the freeway and joined Seattle’s monstrous traffic, I said, “Hey, so remember that therapist you recommended?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I called her this week.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Well…” I swallowed. “She said it’s definitely a good idea for me to come see her. Her schedule’s pretty packed, but she squeezed me in next week.”

  “Good. Good. I’m glad you clicked with her. I mean, so far.”

  “Me too.” I tapped my thumbs on the wheel and stole a glance at him. “She thinks you might be onto something, too. The whole eating disorder thing.”

  “Does… Does she think she can help?”

  “Oh yeah, definitely. She said not to expect any miracle cures, and it’ll take time, but she can help.”

  Dom was nodding as I spoke. “My coworker said it’s a slow process, but she told me just knowing there was a process made a big difference for her.”

  I relaxed a bit, pressing back against the seat and easing my grip on the wheel. “Yeah, I can see that. I’ve felt better just knowing I won’t have to live like this forever.”

  “Does she think this happened because of Max? Or was there something there already?”

  “Don’t know yet. She mentioned in passing it could have been some latent thing that’s been with me all along, and dating someone like Max basically poured gasoline on it.”

  Dom made an unhappy noise that might have been “motherfucker.” Then, “I’m glad you found someone who can help.”

  “Me too.” I glanced at him and smiled. “So, thanks tor giving me that nudge and her phone number.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  We drove in comfortable silence for a moment. Then, stealing another glance at him, I quietly said, “If traffic doesn’t get any worse, we’ll be across Lake Washington soon. Why don’t we stop and grab some food on the other side?”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He took out his phone. “I’ll see if there’s anything good near the freeway.”

  ~*~

  “When I get married,” I muttered to Dom as we surveyed my cousin’s reception, “my wedding is going to be fun, goddammit.”

  “Right?” He scanned the country club’s banquet hall. “Is it just me, or is this wedding for the photos, not the memories?”

  That about summed it up. Everything was flawless. Everything. Hopefully it would stay that way, or I was pretty sure my cousin would have a coronary. Before the ceremony, she’d been damn near apoplectic because there were some golfers in the background of the place she’d wanted to have her photos taken. She’d demanded that the country club have them either leave the course or move to another area. The photographer had assured her they could be more easily removed from the images than from the green, but her irritation had still been visible in the tight smiles while she’d posed with her family and bridesmaids.

  Then a fire truck had gone by with its lights and sirens on, and she’d learned there was a firehouse two blocks away. Suddenly she’d been convinced another emergency vehicle would go by during the ceremony and ruin the video. I’d only caught part of the conversation on my way in to sit down with the other guests, but the videographer had been giving her nearly the same patient explanation as the photographer: It can be fixed later. Promise.

  Halfway through the ceremony, I’d started wondering if this was less Bridezilla making an appearance, and more that my cousin desperately needed help with some untreated anxiety. Or maybe it was both, given the way she’d flipped out and ordered a guest to change clothes because the poor woman’s cream-colored dress looked a little too white in the bright sunlight. I wasn’t sure how that had been resolved; I hadn’t seen the woman during the ceremony, and she didn’t seem to be here at the reception.

  Whether Cousin Wendy had anxiety or was simply a Bridezilla, Dom was right—this was definitely a wedding for the photos, not for the memories. While everything was picture perfect, no one really seemed to be enjoying themselves. As people found their assigned places at the tables—of course every seat was marked with a hand-calligraphed place card—there were a lot of uneasy grimaces and whispers behind hands. Everyone seemed tense and nervous.

  “Just don’t say anything to her, all right?” one groomsman hissed to another as they hurried past us with some rags and a bottle of Windex.

  A moment later, I caught sight of them again, this time through a window as they jogged up to the rented Rolls Royce. I thought they might be getting ready to take their lives into their own hands by putting some silly sign or something on the car, but no—along with the very nervous-looking chauffeur, they went to work frantically scrubbing a very impressive streak of bird shit off the passenger side of the windshield.

  Shaking my head, I looked away, and Dom and I joined the crowd in search of our seats.

  We found our place cards near the back, three tables away from my parents and seated with some people I’d never met. We’d have to strain to see all the festivities—the wedding party’s grand entrance, the first dances, the bouquet and garter tosses, and whatever else—but hopefully we’d at least be able to hear what was going on. The buffet was also close by, as were the restrooms and an exit to the parking lot, plus we weren’t right on top of the soon-to-be-crowded dancefloor or the deejay’s booth. There were worse places to sit.

  Not long after we’d sat down, the deejay turned on the microphone, and the wedding party started coming in. He introduced each bridesmaid-groomsman pair, and they’d come in to take their seats and the head table.

  “And your newly married couple, Mrs. Wendy Nelson and Mr. Jonathon Crawford.”

  The bride and groom came in, smiling broadly as everyone applauded. For a fleeting moment, I thought she might have finally relaxed and decided to enjoy her day instead of turning it into her own worst nightmare, but right then a nearby waiter fumbled with a pitcher of water. He didn’t drop it, but there was a brief and fairly quiet commotion. It probably didn’t even register on the wedding video, but I suspected the glare my cousin shot the unfortunate waiter was now recorded for posterity. Probably not much the videographer could do about it, either.

  I grimaced and reached for my drink. “I definitely want a fun wedding,” I whispered to Dom. “Making sure everything is perfect seems way too stressful.”

  “Seriously.” He leaned closer to me and dropped his voice some more. “Half the stories people tell about their weddings are things that went wrong and they all laugh about it later. But I don’t think she’s going to laugh about anything.”

  “Doubt it.” I felt bad for my cousin. Her wedding was important to her, of course, and who didn’t want things to be as perfect as possible? But she had to be miserable right now. I couldn’t imagine she’d look back on today and smile about how awesome it was. It wasn’t even my wedding, and I was stressed out on her behalf.

  Once the wedding party was situated, dinner kicked off.
We made our way through the buffet line, and a waiter came by to pour sparkling cider—no alcohol at this wedding—for the upcoming toast. While we started eating, I noticed the seats beside me were empty, and when I craned my neck to read the cards, I realized they’d been reserved for Kelley and Lydia. I’d heard through the grapevine that they’d both picked up some kind of bug on their honeymoon and had bowed out of this wedding at the last second. Damn. At least I knew them.

  The deejay pulled everyone’s attention toward the front again, and he handed off the microphone to the maid of honor for her toast. She started telling some story or another about her friendship with Wendy. Something told me there wouldn’t be any racy or scandalous jokes in any of the toasts at this particular wedding, and I mean, what fun is that?

  While the speech droned on, I looked at the other people sitting at our table. I was pretty sure I’d met the woman sitting directly across from me, but I couldn’t place her name. Probably a twenty-seventh cousin four times removed or whatever. Beside her was a woman with short blonde hair and a rainbow tattoo peeking out from under the short sleeve of her dress.

  Next to Dom was a person who I thought might be non-binary. They had short hair like mine, and like Dom and me, they’d draped their suit jacket over the back of the chair, revealing a plain blue dress shirt and tie underneath. Beside them was a man in a similar suit, minus the tie. Both wore wedding bands made of braided gold.

  And just like that, the truth slapped me upside the face—everyone assigned to this table was queer.

  Narrowing my eyes, I scanned the room. My parents and siblings had been seated together near the front. Two tables over, Kelley’s family.

  The photographer was surreptitiously wandering through the crowd and snapping photos, clearly trying to get some wide shots of the guests at their tables during the toast. The guests at the front few tables.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I whispered.

  Dom turned. “Hmm?”

  I shook my head. No point in saying anything now, or we’d wind up interrupting the reception.

  I waited until the toasts and all that shit were over, and people were happily making their second trips through the buffet line, and then I leaned closer to Dom. “I think my cousin stuck us all at the queer table.”

  The person beside Dom looked at me, scowling. Then they passed a sweeping glance over the table, followed by one around the room, and back to the table. Slowly, their spine stiffened. Their lips parted, and they leaned toward their husband and whispered something. Dom and the husband went through the same motions—our table, the room, our table again.

  “I think you’re right,” Dom said. “The queer table in the back corner.”

  “What the fuck?” the woman with the rainbow tattoo said. “Is she for real?”

  I frowned. “It’s either that or she somehow managed to select all of us at random and this is a huge coincidence. My money’s on her being for real.”

  “Well, that’s shitty.” The woman gave her partner a look that was equal parts shock and disgust.

  “Yeah, it is,” Dom said.

  Everyone at the table exchanged increasingly uncomfortable glances.

  “This explains a lot, actually,” the woman with the tattoo said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She glared at the head table before facing me again. “Before the ceremony, Wendy’s sister told us the family didn’t like the idea of us dancing together.”

  Dom’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack,” the other woman said. “She’s probably going to come talk to you all too; she said something about trying to get to you before the reception started.”

  Beside me, Dom shifted. “So is this coming from Wendy? Or ‘the family’?”

  “No way in hell her parents are putting up with this,” I grumbled. “Fuck. I didn’t know she was such a damn homophobe.”

  “Surprise,” the second woman muttered.

  “Ugh,” Dom said.

  “I suddenly feel the urge,” I muttered into my glass, “to get out on that dancefloor and twerk like no man has ever twerked before.” Cutting my eyes toward Dom, I grinned as wickedly as I could. “Think the groom’s grandpa would be onboard?”

  Dom smothered a laugh. “Oh God. Revenge twerking? Really?”

  “Why not?” I drained my cider in a single swallow. “If my cousin is going to shove me in a corner so she doesn’t have to see me here with a man, then I think she deserves to watch me twerking with her grandfather-in-law. Where is he, anyway?”

  The others at the table chuckled, but none of us were really feeling much in the way of humor.

  I turned to Dom. “So I guess the question is, do I confront her and make a scene? Or do we just quietly leave?”

  Dom pursed his lips, staring up at the head table while he seemed to mull it over.

  “I say we say something,” one of the women said. “I’m not putting up with this shit.”

  “I…” Dom hesitated, glancing around the table. “You know, I think if we say anything now, all she’s going to hear is that we’re making a scene at her wedding. There’s no way in hell she’ll listen to us tonight.”

  “So what do you think we should do?” The person beside him bristled. “Just suck it up?”

  “Not at all.” Dom put his napkin on the table beside his barely touched plate. “I think we should just leave.”

  The person studied him, then nodded and put their napkin on the table as well. “There’s a restaurant about ten minutes from here that has amazing pizza and beer, and I know for a fact they’re queer-friendly.”

  Dom met my eyes and raised his eyebrows, an unspoken it’s up to you in his expression.

  I added my napkin to the show of defiance. A moment later, the six of us were headed for the door. In the sweltering parking lot, we all stopped.

  “Well this wedding was a waste of perfectly good Star Wars socks,” I grumbled.

  One of the women perked up. “Star Wars socks?”

  “Yep!” Dom grinned, tugging up his pant leg. “We were both kind of salty about Wendy making us all dress to the nines, so…” He gestured at one of the Ewok socks I’d bought him.

  I pulled up my own pant leg, showing off my own Star Wars socks. “I mean, it’s not like we can’t wear them again, but we got them just for this wedding, you know?”

  The guy laughed. “That’s awesome. Why didn’t we think of that?” His partner chuckled too, and shrugged.

  “So, anyway,” I said as we covered our socks again. “Maybe we should introduce ourselves? I’m Vic. This is Dom.”

  The non-binary person said, “I’m Taylor, and this is Jack.”

  “Mandi,” said the woman with the rainbow tattoo.

  “Shana,” said her partner.

  We shook hands all around, clarified pronouns with everyone, and exchanged numbers so Taylor could text us the address for the pizza place.

  “How’s their A/C?” Dom tugged at his collar. “Should we go change into something more comfortable?”

  “Nah,” they said. “They keep the place pretty cool. You’ll be fine.”

  “All right,” I said. “See everyone there?”

  “See you there.” Taylor flashed us a quick smile, then headed for their car.

  Dom put a hand on the small of my back. “You want to let your folks know we’re leaving?”

  “Nah. I’ll text her from the restaurant.” I took out my car keys. “I just want to get out of here.”

  “I don’t blame you. Lead the way.”

  Chapter 14

  Dom

  We headed for our respective cars, and by the time we’d gotten into Vic’s, Taylor had texted us the address. The GPS said we were only nine minutes from the restaurant, and we ended up on Mandi’s tail for the whole drive anyway.

  “Think your cousin will be upset that we left?” I asked as we followed Mandi.

  “Don’t know.” Vic shrug
ged. “Don’t really care either. I didn’t come all this way to feel like a social outcast.”

  I grunted in agreement. “I can’t believe that shit. Wasn’t this cousin at your last cousin’s wedding?”

  Vic nodded. “Yeah, and no one in the family has ever been homophobic, so I have no idea where this came from.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m going to guess her explanation will be along the lines of ‘you know I’m not homophobic, but I wanted my album to be traditional, and I didn’t want anything distracting from blah blah blah.’”

  I laughed dryly. “I don’t know your cousin, but from what I’ve seen today, I’m guessing you’re not wrong.”

  “Right?” He sighed.

  A block later, we followed Mandi’s car into a mostly deserted parking lot outside a neon-lit pizza joint. The six of us filed inside, and since it was a seat-yourself kind of place, we found a booth that accommodated all of us and was far enough from the arcade section to be somewhat quiet.

  “I gotta say,” Shana said as we sat down, “these are definitely more comfortable than the chairs at the reception.”

  “So much.” Jack put his arm around Taylor’s shoulders. “Bet you anything the food’s better too.”

  Mandi wrinkled her nose. “As if that takes much.”

  “Could be worse.” I gestured at Vic. “Did any of you go to his sister’s wedding?”

  Mandi and Shana looked puzzled, but Taylor and Jack both groaned. In unison, the four of us said, “That cake.” Then we burst out laughing.

  “So, what happened with the cake?” Shana asked.

  We told her the story, and that reminded Mandi of a wedding she’d attended a few years ago with a seafood buffet that had apparently not been prepared properly. Then Jack told a story about some kid losing a band-aid in one of the chafing dishes, and Vic was about to add another horror story when the waiter—God bless him—appeared beside our table.

  “Hey, there,” he said with what seemed like genuine cheerfulness. “Welcome to Davy’s Pizza.” His gaze flicked around the table. “You all look like you just came from a wedding! Which of you got married?”