“Exactly.”
Dex stops on the sidewalk, like he’s even too scared to stand in the parking lot. “It doesn’t look too intimidating from out here.”
“You sure about that? What if I dared you to go inside?”
“You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Wouldn’t I? Isn’t a big step toward getting over your fear, facing it?”
He purses his lips. “Maybe we should go inside and check it out.”
“What?” I expected him to turn and walk the other way. “Why?”
“Because if Jessica wants to get married, I should see if I can walk in there without breaking out in hives.”
“Again, you’ve been to weddings before,” I point out. “Even if you don’t remember Porter’s wedding, you’ve been to all the other guys’.”
“But I went to those with the mindset of open bar and an excuse to get hammered. I’ve never sat at any of their weddings and thought, hmm, I can see me doing this one day.”
“That’s because you’ve never wanted to get married.” I somehow keep my voice patient.
“Well, maybe it’s time I change that view.”
“Just for her?”
Dex slumps. “Even if she does text back and tells me it’s over, don’t you think the next one will be the same? I might not want to tie the knot, but I don’t want to be alone forever. Women want to get married. End of story.”
“Lucky I’m gay, then.”
Dex’s brown eyes narrow, and I roll mine.
“Not all women want to get married. Phoebe doesn’t.” For the exact same reason you don’t. I hold off pointing that out.
“Yes, but I don’t want to be with my sister. Thanks. I might be fucked-up when it comes to this marriage stuff, but I’m not that fucked-up.”
“Good to know.”
He grabs the hem of my sleeve. “Let’s go in there and look around.”
“Fine,” I relent and trail after him, because I know there’s no way this will make him change his mind about marriage. If anything, a seedy wedding chapel will only cement the tackiness of the whole stupid ritual.
Dex isn’t the only one who’s anti-marriage. I never plan to take that leap myself. I doubt anyone would ever be happy marrying someone who’s in love with someone else. But even before all the stupid feelings that are unrequited and stupid, I’m one of those gay guys who didn’t fight for marriage equality. The way I see it, hetero couples are screwing it up on their own. They didn’t need to bring us into it.
I mean, of course it’s great that those of us who do want to get married are now able to, but it’s never been for me.
Dex continues to drag me until we get to a reception area, but before we can speak, the woman behind the desk smiles. “Here for the Johnson-Pike wedding?”
I say, “No,” at the same time Dex says, “Yes.”
Her gaze darts between us with her brow furrowed. “It’s, uh, just through those doors.” She points.
“Thank you so much.” Dex heads straight for them.
I glance between him and the woman and then swear under my breath as I scramble after him. “I thought we were checking the place out, not crashing a wedding.”
“We’ll sneak in the back,” he reassures me. “It’ll be fine.”
It’s not fine. The receptionist neglected to tell us the wedding is already underway, and when we open the doors, the ten or so people inside turn and stare at us. Including the two standing at the altar. The man is in a camo-patterned suit, and the woman is in a tight, white dress that barely covers her ass. Her veil is longer, reaching the floor.
The room is small and decorated with tacky fake flowers and zigzag-patterned carpet that no doubt hides vomit stains from wasted brides and grooms.
I can’t believe I’m giving up a game of golf for this.
“Carry on.” Dex waves everyone off.
“Tripp and Dex Mitchell?” the groom says.
The back of my neck heats.
“Surprise,” Dex declares. “Your wonderful soon-to-be wife invited us knowing you’re a huge fan.”
I hang my head in my hand.
“This is so cool!” the groom says.
When I glance up, the bride’s mouth is hanging open.
“Umm, sure,” she says. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know if they could make it.”
“The game last night was brutally close,” the groom says.
“We’re just going to sit down now and be quiet. Pretend we’re not here. We shouldn’t be stealing thunder from the happy couple. Right, Dex?”
“Right.” He leans in closer. “Is that a thing?”
“Yes, it’s a thing.” I push him to the empty bench seat at the back and slide in after him.
The whole time we sit there watching these random people get married, I try to imagine Dex and Jessica up there, but I can’t see it. Then again, I can’t imagine Dex and me up there either.
Dex isn’t the marrying kind. End of story. It’s no secret his parents’ divorce was messy and every divorce his mom went through after that. It’s obvious both he and Phoebe were affected by it. They’re not against commitment, just promising to love and obey until they die.
Beside me, Dex’s knee bounces.
Yeah, he’s definitely not the marrying kind.
When the bride and groom are told they can kiss, their guests break out into applause, but Dex turns to me.
“I have an idea.”
“Uh-oh.”
I don’t know what I’m expecting him to say—that we blow off golf and party with these lovely white trashy people, that he’s realized he could never marry Jessica; hell, it could even be that he’s quitting hockey to become a minister, for all I know—but what does come out of his mouth is so out of left field, I can’t be sure I hear it correctly.
“We should get married.”
Three
DEX
Tripp doesn’t immediately respond, and I worry I’ve broken him. He’s just … staring. A lot. I wriggle my fingers in front of his face.
“Did you hear me?”
“Did I?” He finally unfreezes and rubs his jaw. “I thought I heard something about marriage, but that can’t be right.”
I lower my voice so we don’t interrupt the people up front. “Come on, it’s the perfect idea.”
“Perfect?”
“Yes. Remember how pathetic I was at scoring from the left side of the net? How did I get over that? We practiced. This will be just like that.”
His whole face contorts. “This is … nothing like that.”
I try my best for the puppy dog eyes that have never failed me before. He immediately covers them.
“Nuh-uh. Not the face.”
“What face?”
“You know what face.” Slowly, he removes his hand, revealing his expression that I think is supposed to be exasperated but doesn’t hide his urge to smile. “Dex, are you following what’s happening here?”
“Yes.” Dumbass Dexter might be an accurate nickname from the media that I don’t let get to me, but while I might be a bit clueless, I can follow a perfectly reasonable conversation. “I’m asking you to help me like you did then.”
“No. You’re asking me to marry you.”