“That has the potential to be messy.” I frowned. “How did we get to talking about fisting after Thanksgiving?”
Paul shrugged. “How do we get anywhere about anything we talk about?”
“That’s scary and terrifying and also mostly true,” I said. “This is all Vince’s fault. Damn him and his sneak proposals that make me have feelings. I hate having feelings.”
“Sure,” he said. “But what does that say about you that you didn’t know?”
“I’m a failure as a best friend and overall nosy person,” I admitted. “I didn’t even see this coming. I’ve failed you, baby doll. Maybe you’d be better off finding another fabulous drag queen to be friends with.”
Paul shook his head. “No one’s more fabulous than you.”
“That was a test,” I told him seriously. “And you just passed. Congratulations. There is absolutely no one more fabulous than I.”
“Deflecting,” he mocked. “We’re getting married. In March.”
“March,” I said, trying it out on my tongue. “A March wedding. A wedding. In March. Helena Handbasket cordially invites you to the March wedding of Paul and Vince.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I let it out slowly. It didn’t feel quite right, but I could work with it. If I had to. I opened my eyes. “Okay,” I said. “I can deal with this.”
“Good,” he said. “And I love you. Remember that when I tell you this next part. And can you put down the fork?”
“There’s more?”
“Uh. Yes?”
“Am I going to get stabby?” I asked, because it’d been a good long while since I’d felt stabby. Two days, at least.
“Possibly.”
I put down the fork, but I kept it close. Nobody told me I couldn’t get stabby and got away with it. “Continue,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I love you.”
“You said that already,” I reminded him.
“So. I want you to be my best man.”
“Bless your heart,” I said sweetly. I dropped my voice. “Now get to the stabby part.”
“Darren is going to be Vince’s.”
“Close, but not quite a stabby offense,” I said. “I figured that would probably happen.”
He winced. “Ah. We… want. A. Hmm. Small wedding?”
I blinked. “I’m sorry. You want a what?”
“Small wedding,” he said. “You know. Not that big of a deal. So. Like. Um. No flowers. No churches. No engagement dinners or anything like that. Not a lot of guests. We can have a quiet civil ceremony and then some kind of party afterward. And that’s it.”
“That’s it,” I repeated.
He shoved his mouth full of radicchio. “Hrmph.”
“Paul,” I said, running my fingers along the tines of the fork. “Do you remember the promise we made to each other when we were fifteen?”
He swallowed thickly and nodded.
“Can you remind me of what that promise was?”
“Um,” he said. “We promised that when we got married, we would be each other’s best man, and that we would have destination weddings. Yours was going to be to Nick Carter from the Backstreet Boys in Jamaica.”