The Wedding Game

by Meghan Quinn

Unfortunately, all the asses I’ve been kissing for the past few years want nothing to do with me. Can’t possibly see why. I’m charming—slightly dramatic, perhaps—but I can make the best margarita when pressed to, and I’ll even shake my maracas when handing it over. And when I say maracas, I mean my burly balls. Ahem, my nutsac. An absolute delight of a gentleman. That’s me.

I don’t get out much, I definitely don’t date much, and I sure as hell can’t remember the last time I saw a naked man, but that’s okay, because I’m thirty, not really flirty, but I’m glittery and thriving.

“This could be your chance, Cohen. You could get the wedding you always dreamed of. Remember? You told me you don’t want a court—” “Luna,” Cohen firmly says. “No.” “You don’t want what?” Declan asks, turning in his chair. Uh-oh . . . Did Declan not know? Crap. I shrink into my seat, trying to become one with my stool. Getting caught between my brother and Declan is never good. It never ends well, and I usually earn a good lecture afterward. From the way Cohen’s staring daggers at me, I should probably pencil in a ten p.m. bedtime lecture now. “Nothing,” Cohen says through clenched teeth. Maybe I should make it for nine thirty. “You don’t want a courthouse wedding?” Declan asks, and Cohen looks over at me again, his eyebrows almost touching in the middle of his forehead. Gulp. Nine. Yup, it’s going to be a nine o’clock tongue-lashing.

“Luna, think about what you’re doing. Cohen is going to be—” “I bet they’ll buy me one of those giant cannolis they always talk about. The pistachio one. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.” “They’ll murder you.” “Murder me with praise.” I search for The Wedding Game application and then click on the first link I see. When the application comes up for New York City, excitement blooms in the pit of my stomach. This is going to be great. Amazing. They are going to wonder what they ever did without me. Cohen is so lucky to have me as a sister. The Wedding Game is ours to win. *Evil laugh* *Lightning flying from fingers* *Veins popping hideously from neck* *Computer dying; forgot to plug it in*

Feeling the storm that’s building and circling in the hallway, I desperately look up at Declan and say, “I love you so much and think you’re perfect for my brother. Thank you for loving him, and if I don’t make it out of here alive, just know that you are wickedly intelligent, so you should use it to your advantage. Fuck with him. Get him out of his comfort zone. Move things around. Play with his mind. It will keep him alive.” I glance behind me and whisper, “I smudge the 6B.”

The thing with Cohen is he’s not a yeller. When he’s mad, he doesn’t lash out irrationally and stomp around, flinging his arms about, making a true show of his anger. No, he’s the scary type of angry. The kind that bottles it up and slowly, ever so slowly, lets it out, like the steam trying to fit through the tiny spout of a kettle. His chest puffs—which I think comes from him consuming the anger—his eyes turn pure black and widen, like some freaky character in The Witcher, and there’s this tiny vein that runs parallel to his left eyebrow that all of a sudden makes itself known and starts throbbing with impending death. Throb. Throb. Throb. It’s horrifying when the vein comes to life. It adds a certain petrifying vibe to the entire experience.

I can hear the knife-wielding reet reet noise sounding off in his head as his eyes connect with mine. And just as I suspected, his eyes are black, his nostrils flared so wide that for a brief second, I wonder if I could stick a marble up them—only brief, since terror is taking over, after all—and heavenly lord, hold my breasts, because there it is . . . The Vein. Throbbing, pulsating, sending out a message in Morse code that he’s coming for me. “Luna,” Cohen says, his voice so menacing that I can feel my toenails shrivel up in my shoes.

“You didn’t seem too thrilled about the courthouse wedding.” He takes Cohen’s hand. “Did you really dream of a bigger wedding?” “Don’t lie to him,” I whisper, and Cohen shoots me a death glare. I hold up my hands and try to become one with the kitchen cabinets.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” “He doesn’t like confrontation,” I say, leaning forward. “Luna,” Cohen snaps, and once again, I melt into the background.

I’ve come up with at least five excuses that could get me out of this, all very viable. Client just called, arbitration has been moved to a Saturday. Got to go. Forgot to pay my taxi driver, and the meter’s still running. Ate some funky shrimp last night, need a bathroom, stat. *Cough* *Cough* Picked up malaria at the bar last night, don’t think I’ll make it.

I turn to find three women standing side by side: two girls in their late twenties, one blonde with deep-blue eyes, one brunette with deep-brown eyes, and an older woman who looks just like the taller blonde. Oh hell. A lesbian couple. We’re toast.

“I’m not apologizing.” “You really should apologize. We don’t want bad blood with the other contestants.” He nudges me again. “I’m not fucking apologizing.” Nudge. Nudge. “Go on.” “Stop pushing me.” Nudge. “Don’t be scared.” Nudge. “She’s a little thing—she won’t bite.” “The little things are usually what bite.” Thad glances over my shoulder. “She doesn’t look like she has sharp teeth. She won’t break skin. Now go.” Nudge. “Stop, Thad. I’m not—” “Hey, Luna,” Thad calls out, pushing me to the other side of the aisle, where I stumble against Team Rossi’s workbench. “Alec wants to apologize.” Repair your relationship with your brother. It will be great. It will bring you closer together. Family is everything. Do it for the baby . . . the baby you want a relationship with. Bullshit . . . it’s all bullshit. My feelings for my brother are shifting from annoyed to hateful. “He’s very sensitive. Likes his hair stroked for reassurance,” Thad adds with a smile. Scratch that, I’m not starting to have hateful feelings. I have them. Hateful, hateful feelings.

“You’re reaching.” What a wench. She’s a goddamn wench. “You’re obnoxious,” I shoot back, reverting to an admittedly juvenile comeback. But . . . she joins me. “You’re pompous.” “You’re repugnant.” Her mouth falls open for a second before she says, “You’re terribly unpleasant.” “You’re . . . you’re short.” Good one, Alec. “You have horrendous taste in shoes.” “There’s nothing—” I take a deep breath. “There is nothing wrong with my shoes. But there is something wrong with your personality.” I give her a once-over too. “And taste in clothing. 1990 called—they want their bedazzler back.” Luna gives me a look that could tear any man in half. “I suggest you walk away,” she practically spits at me. “Already on it. Hope your glue gun burns your finger off.” Before she can respond, I stride back to our workstation, where Thad has his hands clasped, waiting impatiently for my return. “How did it go?” “Swimmingly,” I mutter. Thad grips my shoulder. “I knew you could do it. See? A little apology goes a long way.”

“Luciana and Amanda,” Farrah says dreamily. “Short or long hair?” “What? Long—blonde and brunette. Does it matter?” “Long-haired lesbians—oh, I see you, Wedding Game, trying to get the male demographic involved.” She shakes her head. “Perverts.” “Are you even listening? Get over the lesbians. A middle-aged woman sat on my stomach today.” “I heard you. I thought the lesbians were more important than your demise. It’s not very often you get to see lesbians in the wild, especially on television.”

“He stopped me on set and demanded I bring him coffee.” “He didn’t,” Farrah gasps. “He did.” I chew on a cookie, narrowing it down to just a ring that I easily pop in my mouth. “Yelled at me, actually, for not refilling the carafe, blamed me for having to get to set early, and sure, he said ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ but he didn’t mean it. You can’t say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ with malice dripping off the tip of your tongue.” “God, I hate when malice drips,” Farrah says sarcastically. “Dripping malice is hot garbage.” “Total hot garbage.”

Farrah’s eyes widen. “And then he said 1990 wanted their bedazzler back.” With my cookie-heavy fingers, I drag them carefully over my beautiful sequin shirt. Farrah sits up, brows sharpening in pure anger. “He did not.” I nod. “He so did.” Looking away, she whispers, “The motherfucker.”

“How am I supposed to help Cohen and Declan win when I’m faced with a theme board that would have been more aptly named ‘A Night in 1980s Miami’?” “Oh, I like that title. I totally would have picked it, based on the title.” “Farrah.” “Oh right, yeah. Boo, Team Baxter. Kick them in the crotch, right in the dingles.”

“She wasn’t being abhorrent. That was the leftover booze talking. It has to seep out of you like the devil, slowly bringing you back to life. Anything you overheard is clearly just Satan himself exiting the body.”

She holds up her hands, and I start boxing into them as we leap around the apartment. “Quick on your feet, quick on your feet.” Farrah swings her hand at me, and I duck. “Focus, hone your attention.” “Focused.” “Tell me, who’s going to kill it today?” “I am.” I bob back and forth and then give Farrah a one-two punch to her hands. “Who’s going to do anything necessary, even sit on someone’s face if you need to, in order to win today’s challenge?” “I am. Show no mercy. My ass is coming for your face.” Farrah pauses, winces. “I’m not sure I like that.” “Just go with it.” “Okay, Luna’s ass is coming for your face.” She shrugs. “Next week let’s work on your trash talk.” “Might be necessary.”

“Don’t worry about anyone else. Just focus on what you’re trying to accomplish. And if Alec Baxter starts talking to you, what do you do?” “Start barking like a rabid dog.” “Exactly. That shit freaks people out.”

“I would like it to be known, after we won our first challenge, right out of the gate, I still spoke with you. It wasn’t beneath me to have a conversation with you.” Conversation or argument? “Fine, you don’t want to talk? That’s your choice. But just so you know, I actually was going to pay you a compliment.” “Ha!” I exclaim before I can stop myself. “That’s why you started off by insinuating I was paying the judges.” After the words have fallen past my lips, I remember what Farrah told me to do. “I mean . . . woof.” “Woof?” Alec’s brow furrows. I clutch the folder to my chest and face him now. Trying to look as snarly as possible, I go at him. “Woof, woof, woof.” I use my best baritone impression of a Saint Bernard. “Bark, ra-ra-ra-ra-roof. Bark. Woof.” “Uhhhh . . .” He scratches the top of his head. “Woof.” I take a step forward. “Woof.” One more step. “Woof.” He stumbles backward. “Are you barking at me out of choice, or are you experiencing some kind of psychosis and need me to call someone?” “Bark. Woof. Woof.” “Psychosis for sure.” I move past him and am starting to walk away when he calls out, “Hey, as long as you don’t lift a leg and pee on me, you can keep barking all you want.”

Team Baxter, who for some odd reason has put Naomi in charge of supplies, Alec in charge of overseeing everything, and Thad in charge of creating. You can imagine how well that’s been going. Thad has yelped at least three times and, I think, cried, because at one point, Alec yelled, “Are you wiping your snot on my back?” To which Thad replied, “You created the snot with your sarcasm, so deal with it!”

I glance over at Alec. He looks a little crazed. He must have run his hand through his hair after they yelled cut, because it’s wild. “I have snot on my back, my knees are aching from not being able to move for twenty minutes, and I’m pretty sure Thad’s plotting my death right now.” His gaze falls on me. “If you’re going to bark, just don’t respond.” So I don’t.

“Do you have a hat and sunglasses?” “What the fuck are you up to, Baxter? And if it’s illegal, I want nothing to do with it.” “Just . . . stalking someone. Don’t worry about it. I need a disguise, though.” “Stalking? What happened to the private investigator? Going into fieldwork now?” Lucas stands and goes to the small closet in his office. “No, not for work.” He pauses and raises a brow at me. “Does this have to do with Luna and the show?” “Maybe,” I say, feeling my face flame. “Christ, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He flings a gray felt fedora with a black stripe around the base, and then a pair of sunglasses. I manage to catch them both. “If you’re arrested, I’m not an accomplice.”

Like a bull out of his block, I toss the cookies away, take off down the flour aisle, and grab the blue flour, which is actually bread flour . . . interesting. See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. The secrets. The fucking secrets. Pleased already with my idea of ditching work to stalk Luna, I pull out my list and check off flour. *Evil laugh*

Why can’t she be the evil wench who’s been barking at me for the last few weeks, rather than the nice girl in the store helping me pick up my nuts? The store’s nuts, not my nuts. She’s not picking up my nuts. My nuts are secure in their briefs, not on display. The store’s nuts. “Store’s nuts,” I whisper for God knows what reason. “What’s that?” Fuck. Get it together, man.

When she’s done reading it, her eyes bore a hole in me. “You’re copying me.” “You don’t have proof.” She points to the paper. “Right here it says, with an asterisk next to it, Don’t stray from the list, get what Luna gets.” Huh, I forgot I wrote that.

I laugh quietly, turn on my bed so I’m lying on my side, and type him back. LunaMoonCrafts: And here you were so convincing that they were your favorite. ChrisEcrafts: Oh yeah . . . they are . . . absolute favorite. Can’t seem to pace myself with these nuts. They’re going down in waves. LunaMoonCrafts: Am I detecting a sense of humor? ChrisEcrafts: Am I actually reading words? Not just barking?

I hurry around the couch, but in my attempt to flee, I trip over his rug and tumble to the ground, whacking against one of his living room chairs with an oof. Why, God . . . why?

“I think I might pee myself—I seriously think I’m going to pee,” Thad says, bouncing next to me. “Oh God, I am going to pee, it looks so good.” “Can you stop talking about pee around the cake? Jesus, Thad.”

“How much tongue is so much tongue?” “Minutes of tongue, and I felt his hard nipple.” Farrah sits up straight. “You felt his hard nipple? Did he feel your hard nipple?” “No, I was the pervert. I was such a pervert. He was respectful, and I was trying to maul his beautiful face off. Oh, and the compliments.” I fling myself back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling as I drape an arm over my forehead. “So many compliments.” I sit up on my elbows, unable to get comfortable. “The kind of compliments that make your lady bits do a jig.” “Your pussy did a jig?” I flutter two fingers at her. “As if it was one of the ten lords a leaping.” “Good Christ, what kind of compliments give you a ten-lords-a-leaping jig?” “Lips, eyes . . . my love for Cohen.” “Oh damn.” Farrah waves her hand in front of her face. “Oh . . . damn. Not the Cohen card.” I slowly nod. “He pulled the Cohen card.”

Farrah sighs again and shakes her head. “I can’t believe you kissed him.” I slouch back on the couch with her. “I can’t believe it either.” Farrah reaches for my hand and squeezes it while rolling her head to the side to look at me. “How was it?” Staring up at the ceiling, I can’t contain my smile. “The most magical and spectacular kiss I’ve ever experienced.” “Toe curling?” “Nipple hardening.” “Oh . . . damn.” I nod. “Oh damn is right.”

“No, tell me it’s not so. You . . . you put the ketchup directly on your fries?” Not even apologetic, I say, “Yup.” Then I snag a fry and put it in my mouth. “Perfect.” “I don’t know.” She leans back. “I don’t think I can stay on this date, not with someone who uses ketchup like that. Let me guess,” she whispers. “You put the toilet paper on like a mullet, not a beard.” “Mullets do have more fun.” “Check!” Luna shouts. “We need a check!”

“Look out, Baxter, this train has a one-way ticket with your name on it.” Farrah pulls the imaginary whistle near her head. “Woo . . . wooooo.” She charges toward him while his back is turned to her. She leaps on top of him, landing in the piggyback position. Unsure of really what to do, I stand there, staring . . . and wondering how far this is going to go. Alec twirls her around in circles as she clings to his shoulders. “Ride it, bitch, ride it!” Farrah calls out, swinging a nonexistent lasso above her head. What in the ever-living hell is happening?

“Hell no, son!” Farrah stands. Both of their chests are heaving from the exertion, but she cocks her arm back and yells “Ka-blammy!” while flinging her fist toward Alec. He reacts by twisting in a full three-sixty, head cocked to the side, and then landing on the ground. “Ah ha! Knocked that motherfucker to the ground. TKO, baby, TKO.” Farrah hops up and down, celebrating . . . well, I don’t even know what she’s celebrating. After a few “raise the roofs” from Farrah, she turns to me and grins. “He’s awesome—let’s keep him.” Jesus . . . Christ.

She chuckles. “Hope you don’t get hard on camera tomorrow when you’re fondling these.” “Hell, I didn’t even think about that. Women have it so easy—they don’t show any signs of being aroused.” “Women have it easy? Did you really just say that?” I pause, considering my words. “I would like you to strike that from the record.” “Consider it expunged.” “Thank you, Madam Counselor.”

“Oh God, maybe . . . maybe we don’t talk about this.” “And leave me hanging about what your favorite meat is? That’s not fair.” “Well, it’s not T-bone.” “I think we established that. So what is it?” “Uhh . . . I really like chicken.” “Ehhh, wrong answer,” I say, impersonating a buzzer. “You should have said, ‘Alec, your penis is my favorite meat.’” “Oh my God.” She pushes away from me as I laugh. “What the hell is wrong with you? You graduated from Columbia, for crying out loud. Show some class.”

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.”

“Wonderful. I’ll order some pizza. Thad, why don’t you go wash your face? You have Dorito cheese dust caked all over your mouth.” “And you let me intimidate my brother like this? Christ, Naomi.”

Thad points to Naomi’s substantial bump. “This woman is sharing her body with another living being. She’s letting it suck the life from her. See these dark circles?” Thad motions to Naomi’s eyes. “No concealer can cover them up, and they weren’t there before. And you should see her nipples. Never in my life have I seen—oof.” Thad bends forward, holding his stomach. “Don’t talk about my nipples,” Naomi says as Thad, still bent over, draws a large circle with his finger and mouths, “Huge.”

Helen caught Diane by the wrist, insisting she wanted to revisit the possibility of corruption just one more time, given that two people were dating from opposite teams, which created an “unfair advantage.” Helen needs to get a life.

“For what it’s worth, I thought I chose correctly, because I chose you.”

“Jesus Christ . . .” Lucas falls silent for over a minute, scratches his jaw, and then asks, “Did they happen to catch that all on camera?” “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” “An inhospitable environment growing up, no example of what a loving relationship looks like, saw alcohol and prescription medications used as a coping mechanism, had to grow up faster than a kid should . . . shall I go on?”

I’m not going to say how I got this address, but I will say it was not entirely kosher.

“I’m approaching slowly. The broom is in my hands again. Three feet away. Two . . . lowering the broomstick, annnnnd . . . a gentle poke,” Farrah’s voice whispers as the broom handle nudges me in the side. “Poke, poke, poke.” “You don’t have to say ‘poke’ while you poke,” I say, voice muffled as I lie flat on the couch, my face buried in a throw pillow. “I can feel it.” “Wasn’t sure.” She continues to poke. “You’ve been lying like that for the past half hour, and before that, you were sitting with your legs spread and your hand down your pants. What do I do with that?”

“This is different.” “In what way? You didn’t tell him about a relationship. Big deal. Do you tell him when you masturbate? Should he know your orgasm schedule? Does he need to know when you get waxed?” “Why do all of your examples have to deal with my vagina?” She opens her mouth to respond and then quickly shuts it. “Huh. Good question.”

“When did you get so annoying?” Cohen asks. “Always have been.” Farrah winks and gestures toward the living room. “Go on, tell her you were being bitchy.” Ignoring her, Cohen comes closer and sits on the couch across from me. Hope springs in my chest at just the sight of him. “Hey,” he says. “Hi.” “Bor-ing!” Farrah shouts, cupping her mouth. “Want to go for a walk?” Declan asks Farrah, taking her hand and pulling her off her stool. “No, I don’t,” she insists as Declan strong-arms her toward the door. “Unhand me. Luna, help, help! He has me in his grasp.”

“Luna, are you seeing someone?” “No,” I say just as Cohen says, “Yes.” “Cohen,” I whisper under my breath, but that doesn’t stop him. “Met him on the show.” “Cohen, stop.” “He’s really handsome,” Declan adds. I whip around, ready to chastise him, when my mom coos and claps her hands. “Is he a PA? Maybe a set designer? Oh, honey”—she turns to my dad—“wouldn’t it just be a dream if it was that Alec from the other team? We said he’d be perfect for Luna. Granted, he’s competition, but oh so dreamy.” My mouth nearly hits the table. Say what? Cohen laughs out loud while Declan clutches his heart. “What?” My mom looks between us. “Is it Alec? Please tell me it’s Alec.” “Oh, that’s great.” Cohen wipes under his eye. “Mom and Dad even picked him out for you.” “Is it Alec?” my dad asks now, looking positively giddy. What is happening right now?

“That beard is totally working for him—brings the whole Chris Evans thing to life. Don’t you think, Luna?” I hate them both.