Two Wedding Crashers (Dating By Numbers, #2)

by Meghan Quinn

Getting into it now, Victoria adds, “Yes, she can be a librarian who falls in love with a traveling salesman who comes into town on a whim selling musical instruments.” “Should I name him Professor Hill?” I deadpan. Nodding her head vigorously, Zoey says, “Oh great name. Hot. Professor Hill, do me on those books. Come on my pages, Professor Hill. I want to be fucked on words, right on these inked-up pages. I can see it so vividly.” Zoey’s eyes look wild as she licks her lips. “Zoey.” I interrupt her fantasies to lay down the bad news. “Victoria just described the plot for The Music Man.” “Wha—” Zoey throws her arms in the air out of pure frustration. “Victoria, for Christ’s sake, that’s the third time tonight. For the love of God, use your imagination.” Victoria shrugs and takes a shot, only her second. “I write non-fiction, so sue me.” “First it’s Gone With the Wind, then it was Casablanca, now The Music Man.” Zoey points her finger at Victoria. “I’m disappointed in you.”

“If you tell me I should set up a Tinder account, I’m going to punch you.” “I would never suggest that.” “You did last week when you said I was becoming a hermit.” “Well, for fuck’s sake, Rylee. It’s summer and you’re wearing scarves inside your house with socks on your hands. A little Tinder action wouldn’t kill you.”

“I’m only going if Victoria goes,” I blurt. “Why are you dragging me into this?” “Two seconds ago you were just salivating over the idea of being at Ernest Hemingway’s house.”

“Almost there, buddy. I can smell the jet skis.” “I can taste the pineapple rings you’ll be eating off my nipples.” Justine wavers forward, drinking the rest of her wine straight from the bottle. “Vacation, here we come.” I guess this is what vacationing with parents gone wild is like: pineapples and nipples. And we’re not even off the plane yet. “I’m going to eat those pineapple rings so hard.” Lips pressed together, I mutter, “Excited to share a wall with you two.”

“I made reservations for us at Martinis on Duvall Street. We have about twenty minutes before we need to leave.” She eyes my neck. “Make sure to wash up and don’t be late. Meet by the beach café in twenty.” It takes all my energy not to wallop her in the boob for that comment. No, I planned on going to dinner with puke on my neck.

Rolling my eyes, I say, “I’m not a psycho killer.” “Prove it.” Okay, like that’s easy. How does one prove they’re not a psycho killer?

Relenting with a sigh, she says, “I am, and if you ask if I write porn I’m going to kick you square in the balls. Like toenail to taint.” Fuck, she’s funny. “Turn down the sauce there, lady. I wasn’t about to ask you about porn. Jeeze.” I look around and then lean in. “So . . . do you write porn?”

A sharp laugh escapes Beck as he lies down on the hammock and sends our swing into more of a frenzied movement. “I’m just going to assume, given our luck of baby puke, naked encounters—” “I knew you saw boobs.” “I didn’t see . . . ah hell, what’s the point? I totally saw your tits and fuck, woman, they’re hot.”

“Oh what a beautiful memory. You found yourself a good one,” the clerk says as she rings up Pearl, my sea turtle. Yes, I’m calling her Pearl. My initial instinct was to call her Turtle Titty Tata, but Pearl has the elegance and class she deserves.

“Oh dear.” The poor older lady looks shocked. Rylee sighs heavily and then pats my abs. “He might be a pretty thing to look at, but he’s having a hard time getting an erection. Hence all the pies. Kind of eating my sorrows. Married a bit of a dud, rather than a stud. But hey, that’s okay. That’s why they make dildos.” Rylee takes the bag from the incredibly stunned woman and links her hand with mine. “Come on, sweetie, maybe the sugar rush will help your peenie get happy.” Peenie?

paper and hit her between the eyes. She huffs as I say, “It’s my straw wrapper. Can you please undo the calamity that is your mammary, take a seat, and finish your turn?” Eyes on fire, a fierce pinch to her brow, she puts a hand on the table and leans into me. “What did you just say to me?” Nervously laughing, I play with my water glass and say, “I, uh, asked you to calm your tits, you know, adjust your bust before it combusts.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re the one cheating and you tell ME to calm my TITS? Is that right, Beck? Is that what I’m hearing?” Wow, talk about sore loser. Note to self: don’t play games with Rylee unless I can purposely lose.

thought you didn’t lie.” “When did I lie?” he asks, genuinely confused. “Uh, pretty sure we’re not married, and we’re not on our honeymoon.” He chuckles. “Eh, that’s more of a joke than anything. I mean, it’s a given at this point that we’re married. We’ve been through so much together already. Puke apocalypse, a funeral, nakedness, the Yahtzee chronicles, and of course the adoption of Pearl Turtle Titty Tata.” “Hey.” I point my finger at him. “That turtle is entirely yours. I took no part in giving that thing a home. Pearl is all on you.” He presses his hand against his heart. “You know, it really hurts when you don’t love our child. We birthed her together, and for you to just pass her off, as if . . . as if she’s some monstrosity, that doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Oh it was so silly. You see, I’m a huge fanatic about badminton. Grew up playing my entire life, almost went to the Olympics for it.” Oh Christ, she’s really going for it. “Really?” Gregory asks. “Wow, you must be really good.” Oh, this guy is not a smart man.

How we have so many different stories to tell strangers is frankly impressive. I think we should get an award. Leaning in close, her left eye twitching, she says, “I just finished talking to my aunt who told me about this couple who sucks on elephant nipples while hiking Everest with their plastic boobs. When I asked my aunt who they were talking about, she pointed to you two.” I can’t help it. I fucking laugh and hard, as does Rylee. “Stop it, this isn’t funny. Someone truly believes you two met Tiffany and Del at a swingers club that you bought outright with a bunch of wrapped-up pennies. What the hell?”

“Dude, when were you airlifted off fucking Everest?” Chris asks, coming up from behind me. Justine steps up next to him. “And when in the hell did you find the time to build a one-hundred-acre chicken sanctuary?” Oh, I forgot about the chicken sanctuary.

“Good morning, Ruth. How are you this morning?” “Oh good. Brig Knightly was jogging around shirtless this morning. Made a couple of passes by the coffee house. Quite the sight.” She wiggles her eyebrows, causing me to giggle. Ah yes, Brig. There’s not much one can say about Brig other than “hummina, hummina, hummina.” *insert drool*

Excited because well, baby animals, I say, “Hell yeah, I want to meet them.” Chuckling, she opens the small door to the back of the facility where all the behind-the-scenes work takes place. “Come on, I think it’s feeding time. I might be able to get you to hold a bottle.” She doesn’t have to twist my fucking arm.

pocket my phone and then wave my hand at Sierra. “Now what are you going to do about her?” “What?” Justine shouts. “You’re kidding. Ugh,” she grunts. What is happening right now? “Beck, but you promised,” she shouts again. And then says, “Chris! Beck can’t stay for dinner. He came by to say he has to work extra hours at the zoo tonight.” “What?” Chris asks, standing from his seat and excusing himself. When he reaches the entryway, he looks me square in the eyes and says, “Run, man. Run the fuck out of here. The girl has been collecting clipped toenails since she was twelve. Get the fuck out of here right now.” Justine gives an embarrassed smile with a shrug. “She has boobs?” she says as more of a question. “Boobs can’t eclipse everything, Justine, especially a clipped toenail collection.”

“As long as we’re on the same page. So, tell me, are you naked right now?” “What? No. What is with you?” I laugh. “I’m at the coffee house.” “Ah, hanging out in the sex chair, huh? Getting it on with your keyboard? Diddling those keys to climax?”

I’m about to answer when Zoey tosses a mechanical pencil and hits me in the boob. “Are you talking to Beck?” “What? No.” I lie. “Yes, you are.” Zoey motions at my face. “You’re all red, and you’re rubbing your legs together. You’re talking to Beck.” “No, I’m not.” Clearly my lie isn’t very convincing, because Zoey is pushing all her things to the side and snagging my phone from my grasp before I can stop her.

It’s always about the look. Lizzie Bennett taught me that years ago. It’s always about the look.

“If you want me to go, I’m wearing makeup. That’s final. I’ll be waiting for you in half an hour.” I walk away as Victoria calls out, “Hair instructions are in the bag; try to stay as close to the design as possible.” Shouting now, she adds, “We want to look authentic.” Mumbling to myself, I say, “Oh yeah, I’m going to be authentic. Real fucking authentic.”

Staring me down through the reflection in the mirror, she says, “Are you making fun of me in your texts?” “What? No!” Ughh, I sigh and say, “I was tricking Beck, telling him I had a hot date, and then you came in and spoiled that. Now he’s saying he hopes I get lucky with you tonight since you’re my date and I said”—I take a second to catch my breath—“I bet you’ll be a better lover than him.” I cringe in time for Victoria to smack me on the arm. “Ew, don’t talk about me pleasuring you. What is wrong with you?” The question for the ages.

“Can I see what you worked on today?” I cringe. “Yeah, you don’t want to see that.” “I do.” She nods vigorously. “Please, will you show me?” Side note, ladies. Boobs wiggle when you nod and/or giggle. Yeah. Don’t ever stop. How the hell am I supposed to say no to that?

When the couple reaches Beck, the balding groom grabs Beck by the back of the neck and says, “Thank you for being here, Pastor Rick.” “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Beck replies before placing a rough kiss on the groom’s head. Leaning past his newfound friend, Beck says, “Edith, you give our boy Erwin here a run for his money tonight, you hear me?” She points her finger at Beck. “You know I will.” Waving at me, she says, “Bye, Marni. Good luck with stripper school; we know you’ll do great.” Yeah, can you guess who came up with my backstory, once again. “Thank you and congratulations,” I add. Turning away from us, arm in arm, Edith and Erwin walk off into “the sunset” in assless chaps, their wrinkly old butts swaying back and forth to the music. Jesus Christ.

I can handle Zoey. “You have some explaining to do, mother fucker.” Or at least I think I can handle her. I go to answer her when Justine puts up her hand and says, “Zoey, it’s Justine.” “Justine? Oh I’m sorry. I thought this was Beck. You’re not a dickhead. How are you? Did you try that brownie recipe I emailed you?” Brownie recipe? They email? The fuck?

It’s so bad that the romantic comedy I’m trying to write has turned into everyone being killed off in the first chapter. There is nothing funny about your heroine dying from food poisoning. There is simply no more book to write when your main character goes tongue out immediately.

“She doesn’t get coffee.” I stand from my chair and wave my finger at an out-of-breath Zoey. “No coffee shall be served to her until she sits down and looks me square in the eyes and tells me why she’s been omitting information to me.” Ruth backs away slowly from the counter, hands up. “Sorry, looks like the coffee warden has spoken.”

Griffin smirks to himself, cutting fudge flavor after fudge flavor. “You know, Griffin, what’s with you men? Huh? What makes that little brain of yours tick?” He hands me the first five flavors and I shove them in my mouth, not even caring about the tastes mixing. Despite my mouthful, I say, “Why are you so annoying?” Griffin raises an eyebrow at me. “Well, not you in particular, but men. I mean if I say it’s over, it should be over, right?” “Uh . . .” “And if I want to stop communication”—I shove three more pieces in my mouth—“I should have the right to stop. What’s with this”—two more pieces—“alpha-male pursuit, huh?” I pick up a green piece of fudge and hold it up. “What’s this flavor?” “Key lime pie.” “Oh fuck that.” Inappropriately—because I’m so mature—I toss it back at him. “I want nothing to do with Key lime anything.” I point my finger at Griffin. “Do you hear me? No Key lime.” “Uh, yeah, no Key lime. My mistake.” Poor Griffin, he was right. No one else could handle me at this crazed moment.

“You’re smart.” I tap my head and then stick another piece of fudge in my mouth, the sugar starting to singe every single taste bud. “You date women. You’re all about the boobs. Women aren’t complicated at all. Very straightforward. We are an easy breed to understand.” Griffin freezes mid-cut, his eyes cast toward me, a get real look passing over his features. “You’re kidding, right?” “Don’t test me right now, Griffin Knightly. Just give me the fudge.” Shaking his head, he gives me the last five samples and I don’t even bother to look at them. I palm the sugary confection and shove them in my mouth. Tourists around me back away, some point, some stare from behind merchandise shelves, and I couldn’t care less. Stare all you want. This is what a crazed person looks like. Soak it all up. Take pictures. Hell, come pose with me, post on Instagram with the hashtag: PortSnowFudgeDemon.

I spit the chunk of fudge that was marinating in my mouth straight into a cluster of napkins and glare at Griffin, an innocent bystander to this whole madness. “What on earth is he doing here?” Wide-eyed, probably from seeing this very unflattering side of me, Griffin says, “Uh, I’m going to guess doing some shopping?” Not wanting to turn around, unable to truly face him with fudge drippings, I ask, “What’s he doing?” Griffin turns to look at him when I snap, “Don’t look at him.” Griffin freezes, unsure of what to do. Poor men. They have no clue. “I’m going to need to look at him if you want me to see what he’s doing.” “Make it subtle.” I’m hunched over the counter, back toward Beck, wiping my mouth feverishly, trying to get all the fudge off my face in case he comes up— “Hey, Saucy.” My back straightens, my face blanches, my body stills. My eyes move to Griffin, who’s cringing. From the side of his mouth, Griffin says, “Heads-up. He’s right behind you.” My nostrils flare, causing Griffin to back away slowly. “Thanks . . . pal.”

“I would suggest getting the strawberry shortcake fudge.” He tilts my chin with his finger. “It’s to die for.” Winking, he steps away and heads toward the door. What in the EVER-LOVING HELL IS HAPPENING? Confused, embarrassed, and slightly turned on, I stare at Beck’s retreating back, walking away as if he’s lived here forever. “So, will that be a pound of strawberry shortcake to go?” Griffin asks from behind me. “Not now, Griffin.”

It took about six years to piece myself back together, and since then, I’ve been cautious when meeting women. Very cautious. Rylee is the first woman I’ve spoken to about my background. She’s the first woman to lift me up, to make me want to strive to be more, to be better than I already am. She’s a once-in-a-lifetime person, Zoey. Believe me, I’ve been through the gauntlet. She makes me happy and she gives me hope for a bright future. I want to hold on to that for as long as I live.” “Well . . . damn.” Zoey pats at her eyes. “God, you’re a fucking catch. Not a dickhead after all.”

“What the hell was he doing here? And why on earth is he getting you hot chocolate and a scone?” My mom pats my cheek with a warm smile. “It’s good to see you too, honey. Why don’t you sit down? Would you like me to get you a warm washcloth to wipe that sneer off your face?” Can you guess where I got my sassiness from?

I don’t leave the gallery and go home like my mom told me to, because why not be the girl with a splotchy face, oversized T-shirt, holey pants, and crazed hair who crouches down behind a mail box and watches for the man she loves to walk out of the coffee shop? Who doesn’t want to be that girl? She’s popular. She’s in with the hip crowd. She is by no means desperate or crazy, or nasty to poor Mrs. Braverman, who asked for privacy when putting her mail in the box. “It’s mail for fuck’s sake,” I yelled, taking the mail from her and shoving it down the hole in one giant swoop. “It’s not like I’m looking over your shoulder in the voting booth. Now scram, I’m spying.” Not my finest moment.

Beck wraps his arm around Victoria’s shoulder with the arm that’s carrying the bakery box. She smiles up at him and laughs at something as they casually walk together down the sidewalk toward the gallery. “That harlot,” I seethe, gripping tightly onto the mailbox, watching their every move. Why are they so chummy? My mind mulls this over as they reach the gallery and say their goodbyes. I see Victoria say something like, “See you at home” but that seems . . . “Gah!” I spring from my crouched position just as Victoria gets to my trusty mailbox. “You’re sleeping with him?” I point my finger accusingly, jumping in her face and causing a scene right there on the sidewalk. “Sweet Christ!” Victoria holds her chest and pants heavily. “What in the hell are you doing hiding behind a mailbox? Have you completely lost it?” “I don’t know, maybe.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Maybe I have lost it. Maybe I’m on the verge of a total and complete mental breakdown, because my best friend, my bosom buddy, my very own frolicsome crony is sleeping with my boyfriend. Care to explain the sexual tension you have going on with Beck?”

“No, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t think so low of me to think I could date the man you’re obviously in love with.” I’m going to blow right past the L-word comment and keep moving on. “Then what were you guys talking about? Why are you going to see him at home?” Without blinking an eyelash, Victoria says, “Because he’s been staying with me for the past week, that’s why.” “Judas!” I scream and throw my hands in the air. “Oh for crying out loud.” Victoria shakes her head and starts to walk past me. “You know, Rylee, there are a lot of people who love you, who want nothing more than for you to have everything you deserve.” Facing me, she steps close, inches only separating us. “It would behoove you to treat the people who love you with a little more respect, especially since they’re the ones helping the man who is head over heels in love with you find a way to be the man you want.” And just like that, Victoria metaphorically drops the mic and takes off down the street, making me feel like the biggest asshole in the world. Hmm . . . maybe it’s because I am the biggest asshole in the world. But who uses the word behoove anyway?