Page 107 of The Fake Husband Play
“It’s a nutria!” Mimi says, laughing as she looks at the charm in the box.
“Princess Nutria,” Grammercy corrects. “Inspired by your drawings. The jewelry maker made it special just for you.”
“Oh, man, it’s so good, Gee. You’re really good at this wedding stuff,” Mimi says, shaking her head with a sweet earnestness that has soft laughter echoing off the stone surrounding the courtyard.
“Well, I love you and your mama a whole lot, baby girl,” he says.
Mimi holds his gaze for a beat, nodding before she whispers, “I love you, too, Daddy.”
And that’s it.
Man overboard!
Tears ahoy.
Fuck, that motherfucker and his gorgeous fucking heart and that little girl with her scrappy-smart-cute kid energy and Elly bending to gather them both in her arms for a family hug while the rest of us weep like Sam when he said goodbye to Frodo at the end of The Lord of the Rings trilogy.
We weep because it’s glorious.
We weep because we know there can be no truer way than this.
We weep because we wish the world could be a finer, gentler place where love like this was the rule, not the exception.
We weep because the most beautiful babysitter a man ever had won’t let him pleasure her into half a dozen orgasms, feed her ice cream in the bath, make her laugh until she snorts water out of her nose, and show her that we’re fucking perfect for each other.
But maybe…
Just maybe, I’m wrong about that.
Because fifteen minutes later, when we’re finally allowed to adjourn to the air-conditioned ballroom for dancing, drinks, and eventual cake, I’ve barely shucked my coat, rolled up my sleeves, and downed half an icy beer when Makena is suddenly there.
Right in front of me.
Looking sexy as fuck in a peach bridesmaid dresswith a hint of runny mascara still under her eyes and a determined expression on her face.
“What do you want, woman?” I murmur, soft and low, jumping right back into that conversation she bailed on seven months ago.
“Dance with me.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just grabs my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor. The band’s playing “White Wedding,” a weird choice in light of all the romance in the air, but the dirty, chaotic energy suits us just fine.
Makena and I dance like lunatics. Intense. Wild. Holding nothing back, making every person who bops by us laugh, and several people whip out their phones to record our “routine.”
But it’s not a routine, it’s just my particular flavor of crazy meeting her particular flavor and making something weirdly and wonderfully beautiful. It’s entertaining. And fun. And exactly the cathartic rush of energy I needed to banish all the heavy “musings on love in a hopeless world” shit weighing me down after the ceremony.
It seems to be exactly what she needs, too. Because when “White Wedding” gives way to “Rock the Kasbah,” we keep the party going.
We dance until we’re sweaty again, and they finally play a slow song, and then she’s in my arms, her head on my chest, making my soul ache again as the plaintive strains of “I Want to Know What Love Is” by Foreigner fill the ballroom.
I want to know what love is, too.
And I really wantherto show me.
We dance and dance, breaking only to toast the bride and groom, stuff cake in our mouths, and suck down avodka and cranberry with a splash of lemon that’s nowhere near as good as a Trash Panda, before we get back on the dance floor.
We close out the night at two a.m., alongside the last men and women standing. Long after Elly and Grammercy have left on their long-delayed honeymoon, his brother Grant and his pack of kids have headed to their hotel room, and Beanie and Schwartz have taken Mimi back to Beanie’s place.
Because even Beanie is getting laid more often than I am.
Grammercy’s agent fucking sold his house in L.A. and moved to NOLA to shack up with his mom. And I’m glad for her. I am. According to Grammercy, Beanie’s never had the love a fine ass woman like her deserves.
