“Love isn’t the pretty stuff they show you in movies. It’s not all sunset walks and perfectly timed rain showers. Love is Shane putting up with Mateo’s need to plan every detail of every moment of every day of every . . . you get what I mean. His OCD has OCD. Anyway, love is Mateo pretending not to notice when Shane leaves wood shavings all over the bathroom counter after trimming his beard—andstillfinding bits on his face an hour later.”
Both grooms were looking up and grinning now, clearly recognizing themselves in her observations.
“Love is sticking by each other every damn day, even when—especiallywhen—that person is driving you absolutely mental. And fuck me if Mateo isn’t already mental.”
I nearly choked on my champagne as Jeremiah reached over and covered a squirming Debbie’s ears.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Mrs. H said, waving in our direction. “But the little ones need to learn the right way to cuss sometime, and let’s face it, if ya can’t fuckin’ cuss at a wedding, when can ya?”
No one knew how to respond, so people laughed, shook their heads, and waited for whatever might come next.
Trainwrecks being what they are, no one could look away.
Mrs. H braced herself with another long sip. “Love is fighting about stupid shit like whether the toilet paper should hang over or under, then making up in ways that would scandalize your grandmother.”
I caught Jeremiah’s eye across the table and saw him fighting back laughter.
“So here’s to Shane and Mateo.” Mrs. H raised her glass high. “For finding each other despite their questionable taste in sports bars and inexplicable lack of trivia knowledge. May your love be as enduring as my threats, and may your fights be as entertaining as your makeup sessions. We’d love to watch both, by the way.”
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, but Mrs. Hstillwasn’t finished.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out what appeared to be a small stack of cards. “We may have taken some liberties with your photo props.”
As if summoned by magic, Sisi appeared beside her, grinning like a cat high on catnip, holding up signs directly behind Mateo and Shane that definitely hadn’t been part of the original wedding décor and waving to the photographer to get into place.
The first sign read: “I survived Mateo’s bachelor party and all I got was this stupid hangover.”
Snap.
The second: “Shane’s better half (fight me).”
Snap.
The third, held up by Mike who’d appeared from nowhere: “Ask me about my wood.”
Snap.
The crowd dissolved into laughter as more ridiculous signs appeared: “Italians do it with more passion,” “I promise to love you even when you leave wood shavings everywhere,” and my personal favorite, held up by Omar from his seat in the crowd—with a completely straight face: “Team Groom (the handsome one).”
Shane was covering his face with his hands again while Mateo looked like he was trying to decide whether to be mortified or impressed by the coordinated chaos our friends had orchestrated.
But then Matty appeared with the fattest magic marker ever made, apparently having decided the signs weren’t ridiculous enough on their own. He grabbed Mike’s “Ask me about my wood” sign and added “It’s harder than you think” underneath in his distinctive scrawl.
Snap, snap.
“Matthew!” Sisi shrieked, but she was laughing too hard to sound genuinely scandalized.
“What? I’m being helpful!” Matty protested, bolting forward to tweak Omar’s sign. “Team Groom (the handsome one)” became “Team Groom (the handsome one with commitment issues).”
“Hey!” Shane objected, holding up his wedding ring, as if to prove the accusation false; but Omar was undaunted, grinning widely as he held up his newly enhanced prop for all to see.
The photographer, who had clearly seen worse things in his career, was gamely trying to get some normal shots when Mrs. H produced something large and unwieldy from behind the cake table.
“Where the hell did those come from?” Mike demanded.
“A true Scotswoman is always prepared,” Mrs. H declared, adjusting what appeared to be a very real set of Highland pipes. “I thought we needed proper recessional music.”
“Mrs. H, please don’t—” Shane started, but it was too late.
