TRACK 1: Wedding Pains
“Tyler is getting ordained online as we speak,” I said to Mia as I watched her anxiously thumb through a bridal magazine. She was sitting in the window ledge of our Brooklyn loft, wearing an oversized wool sweater and bright purple leggings. Her hair was knotted up on the top of her head in a messy bun. I was sitting at the breakfast bar across the room, slurping up a bowl of cereal.
“Tyler is going to marry us?”
“Yeah, why not? Who better than my best friend?”
“I can think of a few people, like Martha or Sheil.”
“Tyler will be perfect!”
She stared me down for several seconds and then very subtly shook her head.
I wouldn’t go as far as to say that Mia was getting cold feet about marrying me, but she definitely wasn’t into planning the wedding. We’d decided the day Mia moved to Brooklyn that we wouldn’t waste another minute. We would head down to the courthouse, pick up a witness off the street, get hitched, and call it a day. That was until Jenny caught wind of our little plan, God love her. I say that with the utmost love, respect, and pure sarcasm. Jenny threw a wrench in the whole freakin’ plan. As soon as she’d found out, she’d immediately called Mia’s mom and blabbered everything to her. Jenny was like that. A good friend, but man, once in a while she overstepped the boundaries.
Of course Mia’s mom put a guilt trip on both of us. I can’t tell you how many times I heard her over the speakerphone: “But you’re my only child, Mia, and I’m not invited to your wedding?” Liz could be melodramatic at times, even though she was a pretty grounded human being in general. It wasn’t that we didn’t want her at our wedding, it was that we didn’t feel we needed a wedding to begin with. And it wasn’t Mia who eventually gave in—no, my little firecracker stuck to her guns. I’m the wuss who rolled over.
All Mia’s step-dad had to say to me was, “Gee, Will, I sure hope your future daughters let you walk them down the aisle.” Aw, man, that went straight to my gut. I got gut punched by a hypothetical situation. Who knew if we would even have a daughter, much less one who didn’t want me to walk her down the aisle? Yet that’s all it took; just the mere thought of not being present at my future kid’s wedding was enough for me to call off the instant nuptials.
Mia was mad at me for a week until we had really great make-up sex, and then she got over it. That’s when the bridal magazines starting popping up everywhere. I’m pretty sure that was Jenny’s sneaky little touch, but even with all the wedding propaganda flashing in front of Mia’s face, I could tell she wasn’t buying into it.
Sitting on the ledge and staring out the window, she said, “What does your dream wedding look like, Will?”
I looked up to the ceiling and scratched my chin. I knew I could say something really romantic in that moment, but I loved messing with Mia. “Hmm?” I waited for her to finally turn her head and look at me. “Remember the video for ‘November Rain’? Guns N’ Roses?” I wiggled my eyebrows at her.
She scrunched up her nose and squinted but then burst into a fit of laughter. She laughed so hard she fell off the ledge and cried and then made a hilarious attempt at speaking. “Your dream, bahahaha. Your dream is to marry a six-foot-tall supermodel while you sit at a piano wearing a bandana?” She tried to catch her breath and then her eyes shot open even wider. “You know that dream doesn’t end well? Doesn’t the bride die?” Her voice got really high.
I managed to remain deadpan even though I wanted to laugh and roll around on the ground with her. Instead, I pretended she’d hurt my feelings. “We could probably get Slash to shred on his guitar in the dusty wind outside the church,” I said, looking doe-eyed at her.
Her face went completely blank as she lay on the ground staring up at me. “You are not serious. Since when were you such a butt-rocker? Did you like that hair-band shit?”
“I’m older than you, Mia. That was kind of my time.”
“Please tell me you didn’t have bangs.”
I stalked over to the old upright and began playing “November Rain.” I belted out the lines in my best scratchy-voiced, Axl Rose impression.
Mia crept up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing her cheek to my back. “Please stop, honey, please?”
I plopped down on the piano bench and turned, pulling her onto my lap. I kissed her shoulder and then her neck. She shivered.
“It doesn’t matter to me what our wedding looks like as long as you’re there.”
“Wearing white?”
Between kisses, I said, “You can wear whatever you want. You can wear a trash bag for all I care. I’ll still want to marry you and kiss you like this for the rest of my life.”
She cupped my face. “Wilbur, you are so sexy when you’re not pretending to be an eighties butt-rocker.”
“You know what’s not sexy?”
“What?” she said on a breath between laying kisses on my cheek.
“June pooping on the floor.”
Mia jumped off my lap and darted over to the kitchen, screeching in her highest voice. “No, no, no, Juney.” She caught our little puppy mid-poop and picked her up, held her arms out and screamed, “What do I do?”
There was no way Mia would be able to get June outside without leaving a trail of poop in her wake. “Put her over the toilet!”