Scott&Scott
In the tradition
of Romentics Gay Romance Novels,
here's a
not-so-straight path to happily ever after.
Billy wasn't
technically in the wedding party.
That would have been far too urban and rock-and-roll for a country club
with this much country in it.
Besides, mauve satin was a bit passe in an 80s junior-high semi-formal
kind of way--and it just wasn't on Billy's color chart. So Marie's fat sister had the honor of
squeezing into the frock like fresh-packed blood sausage. No matter how ugly it got, nothing was
going to keep Billy from his faghag's rehearsal dinner.
He gazed over his empty glass at the groom's side of the table. It was all whitewashed platitudes and potbellies. With one exception. Right next to Ken/Kenneth, Marie's handsome and nice-enough fiance, the one-in-ten rule had applied itself to the clench-jawed, nouveau-riche best man.
His sideburns looked stenciled on. His eyebrows were infuriatingly flawless and unplucked. A perfect line of freshly shaven beard shadow traced its way beneath his cheekbones like someone had snapped a blue chalk line from dimple to ear.
Billy felt comparatively dumpy and squat. "Squat" was, in his mind, a bastardized hybrid of "squashed" and "short" and "fat." So he compensated like any modern, insecure gay man in the gym. Marie insisted he was "beefy" or "built" or, her favorite which inspired her pet name for him, "buff."
"Buffy!" Marie whined as only a bride-to-be has the right to without losing serious princess points or an eye, "Where's my cock-tail?" She wasn't impressed with the frothy spumante her future in-laws had bought at the bulk store for the endless toasts. So Billy discovered his true role at this wedding: barmaid of honor.
Halfway to the back bar where they hid the real booze, Billy heard a dry, pompous "Excuse me."
He turned skeptically with appropriately bitchy raised eyebrow and found himself suddenly face to face with the annoyingly blue-eyed, chiseled-cheeked, gay best man. But certainly not the best gay man, Billy thought.
"Waiter," the man drawled with superior civility, "would you be so kind as to procure a couple neat bourbons for the groom and myself?"
Billy didn't let his eyebrow dip a millimeter. He just smiled back--closed-lipped, no teeth--and walked away. Only then did his self-control fail. Waiter, my ass! Perhaps instead of noting Billy's gaiety, Mr. High-and Mighty-Homo-Best-Man could have noticed that Billy was sitting right across the table, that he was sitting closer to the bride than the bridesmaids, that he was no tight-assed socialite but by no fucking means was he their servant! What enraged Billy most was that the best man hadn't noticed him at all while Billy had sat contemplating his perfect grooming half the evening.
Billy conveniently forgot to return for the rest of the toasts, forgot the bourbons, and promptly set out--cosmo in hand--to forget the entire night.
***
At the next day's long, traditional ceremony, Billy didn't even take
communion, although he desperately needed a glass of wine.
Regardless, the wedding was beautiful. Even the fat-assed girls in God-awful mauve matched the flowers and emphasized Marie's glamour--like her plain-spoken frankness highlighted how drop-dead gorgeous she was. She turned heads and talked trash; she was a fabulous fag hag.
"Buffy, thank God you got me so friggin' plastered last night," Marie gushed immediately before 'Here Comes the Bride.' "Otherwise, I would be an absolute wreck today."
Billy adjusted her veil and slapped her ass. "Go get 'em, girl."
Marie looked as perfectly glowing as she did on the soberest of mornings. And Ken/Kenneth wasn't all that bad either. He would provide Marie with a privileged life and a flawless pool of genes. Besides, she loved him like any fool woman would.
Billy tried desperately not to notice the handsome best man, standing erect, hands clasped behind his back like all the other straight little penguins. He produced the rings at the exact right moment. He smiled admiringly at the couple's kiss. He didn't glance Billy's way once.
***
"Sorry for last night, sir. The manager insisted it was a champagne-only toast. I hope this makes up for it."
With a smile and a wink, the cute waiter from the rehearsal dinner handed Grant a giant tumbler of bourbon right before the reception. He had sandy hair and golden eyes and a chiseled body to die for. But before Grant could even thank him, he turned his muscled ass and pranced away.
Honestly, Grant had forgotten all about his unfilled drink order. He'd just been trying to calm his nerves and distract himself with a little goodhearted flirting. This best-man thing was skyrocketing his stress level faster than a crashing stock market.
As he sipped the warm, brown liquid, couples continued to file into the reception hall, finding their place cards among cheese trays and white linen. Weddings were so goddamned straight! He took another sip and thanked God for gay waiters everywhere.
By the time Ken and Marie made their grand entrance through potted palms, lit candles and a roar of applause, they appeared to be floating. Or swimming. Or something. At least to Grant.
The adorable waiter had magically reappeared. And this time his pour was even more generous. Grant, however, was more concerned with being generous with this muscle boy.
"Thank you so much," Grant said, attempting to charm and tip and brush his hand against him all at once. "I don't know what I'd do without out you. I have to give a sshpeech."
"Trust me, you deserve it."
When Ken sat down, Grant smirked at him lopsidedly. The groom looked ecstatic. His job was done. His hammered best man, however, was just getting started.
Grant had intended to say something nostalgic and meaningful about their grad school days and mutual funds. He had intended to come across as the dryly witty financial planner. Convey a deep message about commitment--investing for the long haul, or something like that.
However, since his memory was being siphoned through a golden barrel of bourbon, when he stood, the words flowed a little differently than planned.
"Everyone thinks finance guys like me and Ken are completely anal." Thankfully the band's drummer did not hit a bud-dum-ching here.
"I mean, they think we plan things completely. But sometimes you just have to take a rishk, wing it. As this toast should prove.
"Now Ken's one of the best risk-takers I know. I mean, what man this cute befriends the only gay guy in class? Contrary to popular belief, Ken and I never dated. Of course, Marie may never have spoken to him if she knew that. Some might also consider it risky to propose to a woman whose pick-up line was, 'Do you and your boyfriend come here often?'
"But Ken's instincts have served him well making a life and a living. And you know what they say about the best men. They're all taken or gay. Ken and I prove both of those theories. And we prove it pays to make risky choices. So, Ken and Marie, here's to all your risky investments. Many happy returns!"
Grant took a sip and a seat as the crystal tinkled and laughter tittered. He didn't need the champagne, but he swigged it back. What the hell had he just said? Did he just call his best friend cute in front of family? Did he just call the bride a risky investment? Did he just degrade marriage and make fag jokes in front of grandparents? Yes. Yes. Yes.
Oh, no, no, no, Grant thought. This was possibly the stupidest thing he had ever done. In public. At a major life event. Noticeably intoxicated.
As the dishes were cleared and Grant covered his face in shame, there was a sudden drum roll and Marie appeared at the center of the dance floor. She looked beautiful and innocent until she hiked up her dress and prepared to toss the bouquet.
A gaggle of
desperate woman swarmed around her.
Marie turned her back and bent over to put some speed on her
projectile. Then she faked left
and tossed it high and deep to the right.
The bouquet landed gently, as if they'd practiced--and Grant was sure
they had--into the waiting hands of the "waiter."
Everyone applauded and music swelled, creating a stomping crowd that made it horribly difficult for Grant to storm across the room. He wasn't sure if he was going to confront the bitter little queen or just head for the exit. But the bride herself grabbed him before he could decide.
"Loved the toast, Grant," Marie said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Very un-Grant-like. You surprised us all. It was actually funny." Then she pulled her dance partner from the floor. "Have you met my best friend Billy?"
Billy had danced so hard that sweat clung to his forehead, and he clenched the bouquet in his teeth like the world's gayest tango dancer. Despite the flamboyant trappings, Grant could tell he was smiling.
***
Billy was determined to be the best best man ever. He'd pretended to be annoyed when his brother Chris had made him promise no strippers. But he'd breathed a mental sigh of relief. Immediately, he'd concocted a fabulously scandalous alternative.
First, he'd blown up all his condoms that had reached their expiration date, creating vulgar, lubricated balloons. Then he plied Chris and his buddies with potent cocktails that knocked them on their butch, light beer-drinking asses. Finally, he'd taken them out. No one suspected a thing until the doorman at Georgette's took their money with long, red nails, furry knuckles and a gruff, "Howdy, boys."
Now things were going swimmingly. The guys were terrified, but they were having a good time. Currently, Chris was receiving a lap dance from an Asian drag queen in a bikini who was lip-synching "Going to the Chapel." Billy handed Chris some ones.
The only thing that wasn't going perfectly was the waitress. "She" was having trouble fighting through the crowd to reach their stage-side table. So Billy slid past his brother and prepared to charm a few drinks out of the old queen at the bar. He rearranged his tank top, tugging the neckline lower to reveal the cleft of his pecs. He'd show these old girls some cleavage.
But when he looked up, he didn't find the admiring blue-shadowed eyes of the bar wench. He found himself staring straight into the slightly surprised smirk of Mr. Annoyingly Tall Dark and Handsome.
"Billy, isn't it?" Grant raised a perfect eyebrow. He wasn't going to let Billy get away with giving a titty show to the bartender. Not after the stunt Billy had pulled with the bourbon. "If you need it, I could ask the performers if there is a spare bustier backstage."
"No thanks. I prefer pushups to push-up bras."
What the hell was Grant, of all people, doing here? Billy thought. Even with the loosened tie, his goddamn dapper appearance clashed with the glorious seediness of Georgette's. His eyes were too blue. The part of his dark hair was too crisp. The self-satisfied look of having caught Billy readjusting himself was just too perfect. Billy was certain it was all part of the cosmic plan to piss him off. If Grant liked his boys in blouses, it absolutely infuriated Billy that Grant might have ever flirted with him.
"It's been stimulating," Billy snipped, "but I'm trying to get to the bar."
"Retrieving more drinks?" Grant asked without stepping aside. "It seems to be a talent of yours."
"Yeah. Someone could almost be stupid enough to mistake me for a waiter."
They had both let the smirks fall from their faces. The beat to "I will Survive" throbbed through their temples as they stared at each other in the dark little club.
"The wait staff here may wear camisoles like yours," Grant said, "but aside from that illusion, they're a lot more honest." The bitchy words sounded foreign coming from his pretty mouth.
Bitch, however, was Billy's first language.
"You sure seem tight with the girls. I didn't realize you were one of them," Billy clutched his throat dramatically, inadvertently flexing his bicep. "Wait, don't tell me. Were you the middle-aged Britney Spears?"
Actually middle-aged Britney had been brilliant, and Billy had sung right along. But Grant hadn't actually had time to unglue the graying blonde pigtails, unhook the sagging bra straps and peel off the support hose from under the Catholic schoolgirl skirt.
Grant didn't flinch. "I wouldn't dream of upstaging you, Billy," Grant said calmly. "You have more than enough drama to make you queen any day."
Billy clenched his teeth. "Britney, dear, I think you still have a little lipstick right..." he paused as he picked a random spot on Grant's annoyingly chiseled face, just too close to a dimple for comfort, and rubbed the phantom smudge, "...here."
But as they touched, it was hard to tell who had won this round of bitch match. Grant didn't budge, but he made a scrunched-nosed face like a disgruntled little boy. And Billy's rub was not as mean-spirited as he'd intended.
There was something unexpected about the way a man's fingers, slightly calloused from the gym, could feel touching the sharp, even whiskers that had emerged during the day. Like a blue spark of static electricity in the dark. Like the first time they had allowed themselves to touch another man in a way that was more than a handshake.
A distinctly straight-boy catcall erupted from the general direction of Chris' party and broke the background of drag classics and applause. It also managed to break the spell and the moment and the inexplicable eye lock that had frozen the space between Billy and Grant.
Billy decided against drinks. Protecting his brother's honor was going to take all his sober attention. It was the only thing that made him take his finger from Grant's face and walk away without a word. The only thing, he repeated to himself as he felt Grant's eyes on his back and Grant's touch burned into his skin.
***
The kids were gone from Camp Greenleaf. It was silent. That's what struck Grant most as he looked out over the lawns and cabins and the orange stripe of sunset rolling across the lake like a rippling ribbon. There were no hyperactive pre-pubescent screams and splashing water and tennis balls, basket balls, soccer balls popping like corn on the hot pavement, the pitter-pattering of little feet all over--everything that made Grant feel uncomfortable, like the snobby gay brother he feared Jenny had told everyone about.
But today's contrast was breathtaking. In the distance, the soft sound of car doors and adult greetings floated into the evening. Potted mums marked the lanes and the casual beauty of the occasion.
His sister Jenny had worked summers at Camp Greenleaf since her teens. She'd found friends and inspiration and love. Tonight, Grant was sharing a piece of that feeling. He could understand a part of her passion. And he could help her celebrate it on her most important night, in her most important place.
He watched the sun dipping into the lake and took a deep breath before turning to join the others. The cool smell of mature green at the end of summer was soothing. But the relief of knowing he would not have to play best man at Jenny and Chris' wedding was as expansive as the scene.
Grant slid beside his parents onto a wooden garden bench carved with children's initials. The harp was playing. Overripe grapes hung on the arbor. He even had to agree with Jenny that the white lights in the trees resembled starlight in the near-dusk.
As Jenny and Chris walked forward, holding hands in a simple suit and white cotton dress, Grant thought how perfectly the moment represented them. How unassuming and rebelliously beautiful it was. How important the handful of people gathered in their important place must be. Not a wasted candle or flower or seat on the guest list.
And then Billy stepped forward, sliding into best-man position with all the smooth charm of a muscled little weasel in a vest.
***
Chris and Jenny spoke their vows back and forth like secrets whispered between pillows. Even Billy was touched as he watched his lanky little brother slide the simple band onto a tomboy finger.
Applause and kisses and confetti moved fluidly across gardens as the sun sank and the mood lighting changed on cue. The back lawn sloped all the way to the lake. It was just waiting for stars and feet to transform it into a dance floor. Billy was waiting to launch the evening with a witty toast and secure his place in history as the best best man.
But then, from out of nowhere, the last person on earth Billy expected to see sprang from the small crowd. Grant grabbed the bride by the shoulders and smiled his perfect grin. He kissed her on the cheek politely, but then he embraced her hard. He held her close for several seconds before releasing her slowly and smiling a grin much less perfect and much more true. Gently, he reached up and wiped a strand of hair from her freckled cheek.
"Close your mouth, Buffy," Marie said. "She's his sister."
Jen or Jenny but never Jennifer. She was a girl with a pixie cut and freckles who didn't even wear makeup to her own wedding. A girl who would always be a girl and deserved it more than any botox facelift. Billy loved her. And she was Grant's sister!
"You're telling me now?"
"We just put two and two together on the honeymoon," Marie said, dismissing his horror as if forgetting this detail was part of jet lag. "If you and Grant hadn't hit it off so well at our wedding, Kenneth and I never would have talked about my best friend's sibling and his best friend's sibling and whether they're marrying each other or not."
"So you spent your entire honeymoon talking about gay men, and as soon as you get home you agree to be my date to a wedding?" Billy tried to laugh. "Your marriage is doomed."
"Don't be so dramatic, Buffy. And stop avoiding the issue. He's a sweetheart. He's gorgeous. He's rich. And he's just your type, which is why you hate him so much."
She looked over at Grant and forced Billy to follow her gaze. Grant gave his sister a wink that was so genuine it would have made anyone jealous.
"You're a bitch," Billy snapped.
"Which is why you love me so much."
A strategic glass dinged, shattering small talk across the lawn. Billy had specifically instructed his father--right after the kiss, right before the band--but now he wasn't ready. Something about seeing Grant out of the blue, seeing him so out of context and so unexpectedly real had rendered him speechless.
All the guests looked at him. Even the birds seemed to go silent and turn their beady little eyes on him, waiting for the inevitable, smart-ass Billy-speech.
Billy cleared his throat. He shifted from foot to foot. He looked at the expectant grins of his brother and sister-in-law, at the entire crowd, at Grant.
"I was going to tell this story about the time Chris wet himself on the playground," Billy paused for laughter.
"But standing here tonight, I think it's more important to tell you what it's like to be a brother." He stopped again, to hear himself, to let it sink in, to listen to what he really meant. "Because siblings are the most different and the most similar people in the world. No matter how radically unalike you are, there's a connection rooted in your soul. And when I see Chris up here, all gangly and in love, I can feel it.
"Just like I felt his pain when all those kids started laughing at his stained pants on the playground. So I told them I'd pushed him in a puddle. I said if they didn't shut up they were going to take a swim too. Then to thank me, my sweet little brother gave me a big hug and got 'puddle water' all over both of us."
Billy joined the laughter that erupted all at once from two families.
"The point is," he said, "I can feel when he's hurt and I can feel when he's this much in love. He's my brother. And whether he's wetting or wedding, I'm going to be there for him. And he's going to be there to rub it in. Here's to my little brother and his bride."
Grant joined the smashing toast and bubbling laughter. Then suddenly there was that moment of perfect gloaming--when the sun is gone but the light gasps one last time, dusk on fire, God turning the tint button way up until everything is vivid green and purple.
Grant looked on as family men clapped Billy on the shoulder. He listened as the band picked up the music started by cricket violins and frog basses. Songs swelled, and white dresses begin to twirl electric blue as the lanterns were lit.
More than the light had changed. More than music had filled the silence. Grant looked over at Jenny dancing with her new husband, and she smiled back sweetly, wrinkling her nose completely un-bridelike.
Couples took off their shoes and stomped the grass. Every hetero in camp gathered within the lanterned rectangle of lawn. And Grant found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with Billy.
"You know, underneath it all you're a big softy," Grant said without turning his head from the dancers.
"I spend more than enough time in the gym to resent that comment."
***
They had danced, Billy reminded himself. It had almost been a date. They had swayed there on the edge of light, like the white paper lanterns strung above their heads. And as their movements became one, as their shoulders touched, they had turned into each other smoothly. Their arms found waists. Their temples rested next to one another.
"So if you're not a waiter, why do you serve such a mean drink?" Grant had asked lightly into his ear.
"I'm a bartender." Billy wondered if Grant could feel the blush against his cheek the way he felt Grant's stubble scrape slightly with each step. "Not exactly a financial analyst."
"But not exactly a waiter either."
"Exactly."
And Billy had wanted to kiss him. But he didn't. He waited. He waited until after the wild flailing group dance to the Madonna medley. He waited until after the band had packed up. He waited until after the under-forty-somethings had built a bonfire near the lake and several guests with less reason than his had started making out in the firelight.
And now there were crickets and dew and silver clouds hundreds of miles above their heads. Billy tried not to let himself notice these ridiculous, romantic details. But then Grant's long, lean body shivered against him in the secluded clearing between pines. Grant drew a finger that glowed turquoise in this light down the concave ridge of Billy's ribs and through the valley of his stomach. Billy breathed it all in--the sweet silly romance of the summer night, the moment, and Grant. Grant chuckled.
"What's so funny, Mister?"
"What isn't funny about this?" Grant swung a leg over Billy's thick thigh.
"I thought you financial guys were all about taking risks?"
"If you think of this as an investment."
"Nothing wrong with a quick trade," Billy said with trademark sarcasm in the back of his throat. But Grant swore he felt those big muscles tighten just a little.
"I'm really a long-haul kind of guy," Grant said.
Billy smiled.
Then a shadow
stepped from the surrounding trees and blocked out the moon.
"Well, Hit me Baby, One More Time!" a voice sang out of the darkness. "Grant, you're the worst date a girl could have!"
It was middle-aged Britney. Billy didn't have to look up and see the remainder of eyebrow pencil sketched across the scrawny man's forehead to realize that. Billy felt even more exposed than his own nudity warranted.
He shrugged Grant off and scrambled for his pants. He wasn't waiting around for these two lovebirds to have a catfight. And he sure as hell wasn't going to play stand-in for some washed up drag act.
"I've had some bad dates," Britney continued, hands on hips, "but sweetheart, this is the closest I've come to sex in quite some time."
"Well, it's all yours now," Billy said as he turned to find his way out of the woods. "If he's already got himself a queen, I'm not going to fight for the tiara."
"I'm flattered, muscle boy. But Britney is a pop princess, not a queen. Not until Madonna kicks anyway."
"Billy, it's not how it looks..."
"Oh, it's exactly how it looks," Billy snapped. "Exactly how it looked from the get-go--an uptight, pompous ass with a fetish for crossdressers. Classic Freud. Your poor mother."
"That's what you think of me?"
"No," Billy answered, "I think worse. I think you're a pitiful, privileged gay man who wishes he wasn't. If you think dating a boy in girl's clothing helps you play straight with your country-club friends, you're sorely mistaken. And if you've mistaken me for a jock in a frock..."
Billy couldn't finish his sentence. He just clutched his shirt to his bare chest and fought his way through the darkness. He didn't want to think about what kind of man/woman he came across as to attract a sleazeball like Grant. He didn't want to think about how stupid he had been to overlook the obvious for a little moonlight.
Billy stumbled into a bright clearing with a fire pit roaring in its center. The entire wedding guest list seemed to be roasting marshmallows within earshot of his latest disaster.
"Buffy!" Marie screamed. "You're a little late for the bachelorette party, but we could always use a good stripper."
Billy looked down at his naked torso and unbuttoned pants, but he was too aggravated to be embarrassed. He just stomped off into more darkness to find a musty bunk in some dark cabin.
"Oh my God," Jenny hollered as the next two men emerged from the wilderness. "Britney? Grant? I can't believe everyone is getting more action than me on my wedding night!"
Grant was too distracted by his thoughts and the act of putting his shirt on to reply. Britney on the other hand, concluded that leading sing-a-longs 'round the fire would be more entertaining than following Grant into his sullen mood.
And Grant didn't mind being left alone. That's how he had started this weekend, and it was how he should have remained throughout it. He didn't know how he'd allowed himself to fall for Billy's charm. Because that's all it was. Billy was a smart-ass jerk who had a few good lines, but he'd do or say anything at anyone's expense as long as he came out on top.
***
"Oops I Did It Again! I Made You Believe We Were More Than Just Friends!"
Billy awoke to a stiff neck from sleeping in a cot built for a six-year-old and a raging headache, not from drinks, but from the tuneless caterwauling outside his cabin.
As Billy dragged himself to the rough-hewn window, he realized why drag queens lip-synched. He saw Britney in all her hungover glory--smeared make-up, borrowed bridesmaid dress and what looked like rag-mop pigtails.
"Oh Baby! It Might Seem Like A Crush! That Doesn't Mean We're Seri-ah-ah-ous!"
"OK! I beg you, stop!" Billy checked that his ears weren't bleeding. "What do you want? Because the last thing I want is a sunrise serenade, Britney."
"Grant is my roommate," Britney said in a voice that was surprisingly deep and serious. "As in separate-rooms roommates."
"How convenient," Billy growled. "You girls can share clothes."
"He rents me a room in his gorgeous house." Britney pulled off the impromptu wig and rubbed his balding temples. "Out of pity for my shitty tips."
"I'm fresh out of ones," Billy said, "but I appreciate the show."
"Look, smart-ass." Britney said, looking a little more menopausal than merely middle-aged this morning. "You obviously don't know Grant. But the two of you looked like you were getting to know each other pretty well defiling that campsite that some poor little girls are going to have to sleep on next summer. So I'm going to give it to you straight. And then I'm going to take off these tiny heels and go home."
Billy crossed his arms over his chest. He was listening. But that was it.
"The only place Grant would be less comfortable than a drag bar is a country club. But he'll do the bar for me and the club for Ken, and God knows what he'd do for you if you gave him the chance," Britney sighed. "And I showed up to return the favor, because he called me for back-up when he saw your muscle-y little ass at the ceremony last night."
Britney scratched herself through her skirt and hobbled away.
***
The main lodge was laid out with bouquets of twine-tied field grass, paper plates and rolls of paper towels. The brunch buffet was Jenny and Chris' way of thanking their guests for sleeping in munchkin-sized quarters. And the punchbowl of bloody marys ladled into pint glasses was their way of thanking everyone for waking before noon.
Grant was just thankful that the long head table of family covered the entire width of the pine-logged dining room with Jenny and Chris at its center, side by side with families stretching out in opposite directions, putting him and Billy as far apart as possible.
Unfortunately, as the reeking crowd of hangovers assembled like a bunch of homeless at a soup kitchen, Grant discovered the seating chart had been oddly arranged. Billy had the best man's place of honor next to Chris. But Grant had been granted an unusually special seat next to the bride. And for some reason, at the "family table," they were boxed in by Marie and Britney.
With his back against a wall of windows, Grant felt more than trapped. He felt tricked. He couldn't tell whether Billy shared his annoyance. He tried not to notice. He tried not to notice Billy's sandy hair that was tousled and rooster-tailed or the missed buttons along his smooth chest or the way his forearm rippled as he drummed his thick fingers against the red-checkered plastic tablecloth.
Grant
just hoped Billy could restrain himself from making yet another scene. Grant didn't need another crazy,
disquieting moment--a moment his organized, buttoned-up life could never
produce. He just hoped that they
could survive breakfast and part ways the way in-laws do after a wedding.
They never had the chance.
"I'd like to propose a toast," Jenny said, raising her pint glass high, "to the greatest brother in the world, at least when he loosens his tie a bit. Or takes off his entire shirt."
"And to my sweet, if overly dramatic, big brother," Chris chimed in, standing next to his radiant bride. "It's time for little brother to rub it in."
"To Buffy!" Marie jumped into the toast. "'Cause you're a stubborn bastard who needs his arm twisted every now and then."
"Oops!" Britney trilled shrilly as he completed the quartet that boxed in Grant and Billy before both their families. "I Think You're in Love! That You're Sent from Abo-o-ove! And You're... Not! That! Innocent!"
"Because even though you're technically brothers-in-law now," Chris added with uncharacteristic vulgarity, "I don't think anyone would consider it incest."
"And because you're two of the most important people in our lives," Jenny amended more tastefully, "who, whether they want to admit it or not, have one hell of a chance at being the most important people in each other's lives, too."
Applause and the clanging of silverware against pint glasses drowned out Billy as he stood and said, "You can't seriously think that I would be stupid enough to fall for someone so completely successful and gorgeous and too smart for his own damn good..."
"Is there only one way to shut you up?" Grant asked as he leaned across the newlyweds. He kissed Billy, and it sounded like a grandmother or two had dinged her bloody mary hard enough to crack it. As Billy kissed him right back the sound rang in their ears like wedding bells signaling a draw in the title match for the best best man ever.