Mrs. H’s eyes lit up with the kind of gleeful malice that probably made her fictitious ancestors successful in whatever battles they’d fought. “Now you’re talking dirty to me. I was thinking we could mess with their honeymoon suite—”
“No,” Sisi interrupted firmly. “Whatever you were about to suggest, absolutely not. They’ve been living together for a year. They’ve been doing all the sex for many months now. Trust me, there’s nothing new to see there, and nothing we need to interfere with.”
“Spoilsport,” Mrs. H muttered, but she was smiling. “What about the reception?”
“Nowthathas possibilities,” Omar said. “Something during the dancing?”
“Or the speeches,” Mike added. “We could coordinate something with the DJ.”
“Ooh, what about during the cake cutting?” Matty suggested.
“Too fucking obvious,” Mrs. H said. “Everyone expects something during the cake cutting. The whole smushy-face-cake-move is older than I am, and I’m ancient.”
We spent the next hour coming up with increasingly elaborate schemes while moving food around our plates without ever actually taking bites. Mrs. H didn’t appear to notice. Thank God.
It felt a bit strange, planning shenanigans for someone I hadn’t met with others I barely knew, but the whole thing was too funny to walk away from.
Omar suggested hiring a flash mob, which was quickly shot down when Sisi pointed out that Shane would probably hyperventilate while Mateo would simply join in the show.
“What about strippers?” Matty proposed with a completely straight face. “We could get them costumes to look like wedding cake toppers.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Jesus Christ, Matthew,” Mrs. H said finally. “Even I have standards.”
“Too much?” he asked innocently.
“Waytoo much,” Sisi said, looking slightly green.
He raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. What about replacing all the wedding music with death metal? Really get people’s blood pumping?”
“Shane would literally die,” Sisi said. “Like, his heart would stop. We’d be planning a funeral instead of celebrating a wedding.”
“Polka then?” Omar suggested. “Everyone loves polka.”
“Nobodyloves polka,” Mrs. H corrected. “That’s why it’s called polka.”
I wasn’t sure that made sense, but everyone simply nodded like her explanation was the most logical thing in the world.
“Ooh!” Matty’s eyes lit up again. “What if we arranged Shane’s woodworking tools to spell out something inappropriate in the background of their photos?”
“Like what?” I asked, immediately regretting opening my fat mouth.
“You know . . .” He waggled his eyebrows. “Something about his wood . . . or his drilling techniques . . . or how he knows how to handle a good piece of hardwood—”
“NO,” we all said in unison.
“You people have no imagination,” Matty complained.
“We have plenty of imagination,” Mike said. “We also have functioning brain cells that understand the concept of ‘appropriate for a wedding.’”
“What about hiring a mariachi band to follow them around during the reception?” Omar suggested. “Nothing says romance like unexpected mariachi music.”
“Shane would hide in the coat closet for the rest of the night,” Sisi pointed out.
“Or punch the trumpet into a flat piece of metal,” Mike added.
“Exactly!” Omar said, as if this was somehow a selling point.
