* * *
On our way across the road to Wynn Golf Club, Dex stops suddenly and stares at a random sign above him.
“Why’d you stop?”
He points upward. “Wedding chapel.”
Wow, he is not letting this go today. Sure, over the past six months, he’s talked about marrying Jessica, but more in the sense that he doesn’t know how to avoid it. I guess ultimatums must really work if he’s finally seriously considering making the dumbest decision of his life.
“What about it?” I ask, staring at the sign with him.
He grabs my hand and pulls me in the direction of the chapel instead of toward the golf club.
“You’re not going to call her to come meet you right now, are you?”
Dex Mitchale, officially off the market? This poor gay man needs some warning to deal with that kind of disappointment.
“No. I just want to see it.”
“We live in Vegas. You’ve seen a million of them.”
“Yeah, but I’ve never been in one.”
“Sober, anyway,” I add. “Remember when Porter married that chick he met while we were a week deep into our Stanley Cup win celebrations?”
“Nope.”
“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.