Chapter_28_The_Behead

The next night, the wedding ceremony is just Patrick’s and Nathan’s families and a limited number of close friends, so we feel lucky to be included.

Under a big white tent in the beautiful backyard, there are shimmering paper lanterns with candles and several million colorful flowers everywhere.

A storybook dream of a wedding.

Throughout the ceremony, my thoughts turn to our own non-marriage. Of course Wyatt started napping as I was trying to talk about getting married. I’m hoping the wedding itself will inspire Wyatt to reconsider getting officially hitched one day soon.

After hearing the news about my dad’s health, having a giant party with our friends and family to celebrate our love is something I want more than ever.

But Patrick and Nathan’s themed wedding is nerdier and quirkier than I’d expected. We’re all dutifully seated as the quartet plays the main theme song from Star Wars.

“Oh my god. Look at his groomsmen,” I say. Patrick’s two brothers stand by his side wearing stormtrooper helmets with tuxedoes.

Their groomsmaids wear dusty rose dresses but with Princess Leia buns in their hair.

Their four-year-old niece and nephew ring bearers don fuzzy little Ewok costumes.

The wedding officiant is a woman in a Chewbacca suit.

The groom and groom appear at the altar dressed as Luke Skywalker and Han Solo.

“Love is love is intergalactic love,” I whisper to Wyatt and we both quietly laugh.

By dinner, Wyatt the movie expert informs me that we’ve heard the entire musical oeuvre of the famed Star Wars composer, John Williams, everything from Close Encounters to Indiana Jones to E.T.

Sometime after the speeches, the nerd fantasy melts away and the romance of the evening finally kicks in. Patrick and Nathan ditch their lightsabers and turn into earthly beings who just want to smoosh wedding cake into each other’s mouths.

Even though the cake is in the shape of the Millennium Falcon, I’m envious of this act of commitment I want so badly to share with Wyatt.

A dance remix of the “Imperial March (Darth Vader’s Theme)” comes on and I head to the bar to soak my envy in more champagne. I stand there, taking in the joy on the dance floor as wedding guests show off their best moves, when Wyatt joins me.

He’s returning from the bathroom after a stormtrooper groomsman had accidentally spilled red wine on him on the dance floor.

“Looks like you got it off,” I say, noticing the wet spot on his jacket lapel.

“I’ll send my dry-cleaning bill to Yoda,” Wyatt says before asking the bartender for a glass of champagne.

We notice Patrick’s mother strutting her stuff on the dance floor, surrounded by her son and new son-in-law. She’s a vision in all white, wearing an elaborate hat worthy of a royal wedding. She tosses a pinkie wave at us and we hold up our champagne glasses to her.

“I like his mom’s hat,” Wyatt says.

“Is that supposed to be a Star Wars costume?” I ask, dead serious.

We look around and I realize the entire party except us are grinding and twerking and vogueing on the dance floor.

Wyatt turns to me. “You look so handsome in that suit,” he says. He’s not getting me on the dance floor right now. The idea that we’re about to have a baby but still not married has been eating me up inside all night. This event is highlighting it. “Do you want to dance?” he asks.

“I’m okay just watching for now,” I say, trying to navigate my feelings. Wyatt turns away from me, disappointed. Then an idea pops into my head. “Wanna get lost inside the house?” I ask. “No one would find us.”

Not one to pass up a self-guided tour of someone’s mansion, Wyatt smiles conspiratorially.

We push our way through the gourmet kitchen, past the chefs and cater waiters, and take the elevator downstairs to the four-lane bowling alley.

Lights flicker on to reveal a vintage jukebox full of dance party anthems, an overhead disco ball, a legit hot dog stand and a rack of fluorescent-colored bowling balls.

We find Robin S.’s “Show Me Love” on the jukebox and flip the switch on the disco ball.

It’s a competitive game of bowling between the two of us, lit up by black lights, emitting a purple glow around the entire space. We smile and laugh, teeth ultra white and eyes green from the psychedelic lighting.

I take my rage out on the game and bowl a strike. When Wyatt steps up to bowl, I grab him, our mouths inches apart until I shower him with kisses. He gives in.

We fall to our knees, in the middle of the lane, making out like we’re horned-up teenagers at the local disco bowling alley.

In between our heavy breathing and Robin S. belting it out, I ask, “You know what would be fun?”

“What?”

“The basketball court.”

Back in the elevator.

This time going up.

I slam Wyatt against the wall, causing the moving box to jiggle back and forth.

Loosening ties, unbuttoning dress shirts, hoping the thing isn’t going to get stuck. We laugh as it dings us into a darkened hallway with plush white carpeting, our mouths still connected.

We slowly zigzag forward.

Reaching the end of the hall in the south wing, millions of lights pop on to reveal the professional-sized basketball court, complete with wooden bleachers. We each dribble perfectly new balls down the court, doing messy layups and free throws. We’re only slightly terrible.

I knock the ball out of Wyatt’s hand, slap his ass and get in his face, like a teammate about to give an impassioned pep talk. But, ya know, in a sexy way.

“Coach isn’t sure you can play with the big boys,” I say, role-playing a basketball player.

“Ew. Don’t do that.”

“Yeah, sorry. That was weird.” We laugh and fling ourselves onto each other, falling to our knees, this time onto the hardwood floor in the center of the basketball court.

“That hurt my knees.”

“Mine too.”

We hold each other tightly, fall backward, make out more, like we didn’t get enough the first time around and may never feel satisfied.

“I hope no one comes in,” Wyatt says, letting his rational side creep in.

Something burns inside me and it’s exhilarating.

“I don’t care if anyone comes in,” I say.

“We’re like two stowaways unleashed into an empty yacht,” Wyatt says.

In between lip smacking, I say, “It’s too bright in here. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“The ballroom,” we say at the same time.

Three chandeliers in the shape of starbursts. They slowly lower from the vaulted ceiling. The illuminated crystals rival the ones inside the Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center. Wyatt dims them to perfection.

“It seems the only reason these guys have a ballroom is so their wedding guests could sneak away and have sex inside of it,” I say.

“Imagine being so rich you hold your wedding somewhere other than your own ballroom,” Wyatt says.

We woo each other the old-fashioned way, pretending we’re in a costume period drama; quietly noticing each other from across the length of the room with demure smiles.

We move closer toward each other like animals stalking our prey.

Until finally we’re a foot apart.

“May I have this waltz?” I fling my arm out, both of us laughing hysterically. We do a clumsy old-timey dance to the music thumping outside under the tent, taking turns on who’s leading. We speak in faux posh accents and transport ourselves into a Jane Austen story.

“You’re a natural, Mr. Petterelli,” Wyatt says.

“Why thank you, Mr. Wallace,” I say.

“I’m impressed by your lightness of foot.”

“Don’t make me blush, your lordship.”

We pretend to spot an acquaintance among the polite society across the room.

“Is that Mr. Farnsworth of East Sussex in Derbyshire?”

“I believe it is him, looking rather inebriated and foolish.”

We spin around dramatically and draw each other closer, our mouths almost touching, resisting any urges.

“If I may be so bold, Mr. Wallace, I would like nothing more than to ravish you.”

“Oh, Mr. Petterelli!”

We slam against the red velvet curtains, smearing each other’s faces, necks and chests through our unbuttoned dress shirts with our mouths. We’ve broken a light sweat from our dance and our bodies against each other become even more heated.

“I’ve never been quite this invigorated!”

“And I as well!”

“I dare say we move our tryst to somewhere more... private?”

“I’m perfectly delighted to oblige!”

We swing open the door to... where else?

“Gift wrapping room!” we both say at the same time again.

Every colored ribbon under the sun, bows, boxes, wrapping paper, all organized by someone with severe OCD.

“It looks like a pop-up Christmas store inside a shopping mall,” Wyatt says.

I kiss Wyatt on the forehead and lift him up on a marble counter, climbing on top of him, unfastening my belt buckle.

“It’s the unwrapping room,” I badly joke, as I unbutton, unbuckle and unzip Wyatt’s clothes in an expert three-pronged move.

Something has come over me, I think. It’s unlike me to dominate him this much.

Wyatt lets me take control.

I grab his wrists and pin them behind his head. He lets loose an uncontrollable snort-laugh but I’m serious. I’m working out some kind of long-gestating fantasy in this mansion.

“You know where we should go?” I say, now sitting on top of Wyatt, in charge.

“Where?”

Patrick’s office is the size of a New York City one-bedroom apartment. The decor is plush CEO working space meets Comic Con just threw up. The room is brimming with paraphernalia from every sci-fi movie, TV show and comic book ever. Costumes of various Jedi masters worn by mannequins inside glass cases. The bust of some purple bug-eyed monster’s head on top of a podium. A life-sized, stuffed grizzly bear in killer attack mode.

There’s even a framed autographed poster of Patrick’s God himself, George Lucas.

A rich nerd’s paradise.

I’d swiped a bottle of champagne from the champagne vault on our way through the house and pop the cork. The fizzy Dom Pérignon spills as we gulp straight from the bottle.

“Gummies, anyone?” I dangle the plastic bag full of edibles that Patrick had given me.

Wyatt hesitates. He grabs the bag from me and slips them in his pocket.

“Is that a no?” I ask.

In a power move, like a disgruntled coworker, I wipe Patrick’s desk clean with one swoop of my arm.

I push Wyatt on top of the empty desk and straddle him, lying on him to feel the heat between our chests.

I kiss him gently at first and then go to town.

It feels like I’m channeling the grizzly bear that’s surveying the entire scene behind us.

The whole thing feels illicit.

“We’re like cat burglars but instead of money and jewelry, we’re stealing kisses in every room of the house,” I say.

“Only two hundred and sixteen rooms to go,” Wyatt jokes.

“Stand up,” I demand. He complies and I pin his chest against a wall, kissing the back of his neck, brushing my hand through his chest hair.

I step in between his legs to sturdy myself, rubbing our thighs together until he stumbles slightly, our feet knocking into each other.

Wyatt loses his balance, grabs on to the tail of my shirt, tearing it, and falls sideways on top of the grizzly bear statue, creating a loud thump.

The bear’s head chops right off as it hits the side of the desk.

I try to grab both Wyatt and the bear but it’s too late. Wyatt tumbles on top of the bear’s body. We’re both horrified.

The head of the now decapitated bear rolls toward the door in agonizing suspense.

Panic engulfs us as we hear footsteps outside the door. Only wearing an unbuttoned, torn dress shirt and naked from the waist down, I grab the bear’s head and cover my junk.

I turn three shades of red as the door slowly opens.

A woman is silhouetted by the hallway light, and we can’t tell who’s standing there, witnessing this crime scene.

We’re in silent shock.

The woman is wearing some complicated hat thing. Like a flamingo standing on top of her head. Then I realize it’s Patrick’s friggin’ mom.

“What is happening in here?” she says in a fizzy way with a laugh, entering the room to reveal herself, barefoot and holding her high heels with one hand.

“Hi, Judith,” Wyatt says as he stands, dusts himself off and buttons his pants.

I’m frozen, holding the bear head steady and upside down. Judith arches an eyebrow, trying to figure out what has just unfolded in this room.

“I was just going to the powder room—the one in the east wing because I like that hand soap in there—it’s jasmine, so pretty. Anyway, I heard a pop like a gun went off then a crash like someone hit the floor!” she says.

“Oh, that was probably the champagne we opened,” I explain, trying desperately to ignore the bear head eclipsing my crotch. Judith eyes the poor bear lying on its side between us.

“And, uh... what about this guy? Did he have too much to drink?” she asks, pointing to the injured bear with a half smirk and a tiny laugh.

“No, but we probably did.”

Recognition washes over Judith’s face.

“Oh my god. Wyatt and Biz! It’s you guys! I thought you were Nathan’s creepy cousins,” she says.

“Nope. Just us. Sorry about the commotion. The wedding is amazing, by the way. So lovely. Congrats to you and Ronald.” Wyatt pours on the charm when he wants to.

“Oh, kill me if I ever have to do another one of these. Pat’s sister can elope.” We all laugh.

She looks at us with a certain nostalgia and says, “Oh, you guys, it’s so great to see you and Patrick still connected after all these years.” She adjusts her bra straps. “Don’t get too wasted, boys.” She pinkie waves at us and closes the door behind her.

Once we hear her padding away down the hallway, we dissolve into a giggle fit.

“Oh my god. How are we going to fix this stupid-ass bear? We need superglue. Screw it. Patrick can just buy another one,” I say, holding the bear head in the air like baby Simba.

Wyatt turns to me. “Wait.” He blinks. Something occurs to him. “Was this a revenge fuck?”

I tilt my head like a puppy trying to understand a human. “What? No.”

“We just had foreplay in every room of Patrick’s house while he was dancing to Mariah Carey at his own wedding. I’ve never seen you this... aggressive. I mean, I love it but... this feels like revenge sex.”

“Maybe I wanted to have sex with my boyfriend because we haven’t been intimate in months,” I say.

“Or maybe you’re mad that we’re not the ones getting married and you took it out on Patrick’s mansion,” Wyatt adds.

“This? No. I would never want to get married like this. It’s waaaaaay too over the top,” I say, not convincing either of us. I think again. “Actually... I mean, why not? It’s still something I would like to do. Maybe I am a little upset this isn’t us getting married.” I look up at Wyatt, hopeful. “There’s still time.”

“We can’t rehash this. I just want us to have the baby first. Then we can figure that out when the time comes.” Wyatt simply isn’t ready.

The pain of his parents splitting up is still too much for him.

He doesn’t want that to happen to us.

But I’m ready.

For now, I just have to wait and hope that one day Wyatt catches up. We button our shirts in silence, both keeping our eyes fixed on the fallen, headless animal.