As the couple swept down the aisle hand in hand, Lilly pointed to us and waved, Tori following suit. “Our good-luck charms!” one of them said as they passed us by.
* * *
The clouds cleared in time for the reception, which was held on the other side of the courtyard under strings of lights and bled into a dining room with rows of open French doors and gauzy curtains billowing in the breeze.
When we made it to the front of the guest book line, Eli wrote our names as Eli and Vera Buckley-Stein. He handed the pen to me and motioned to the request that everyone jot down their marriage advice. “You’re the writer.”
I thought for a moment, grateful that no one else was waiting behind us. I was the least qualified person on earth to give marriage advice to two newlyweds, but as I glanced at the ring on my left hand, I decided that I could at least play the part of someone who knew what the hell they were talking about.
Eli watched over my shoulder as I began to write.
It’s okay to make it up as you go along. And at the very least: do it for the plot.
“I like that,” Eli said as he pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
“I thought it was better than ‘Get a bunch of secret credit cards you don’t tell each other about.’”
“Yeah, that doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
We found our table at the back of the room with a random hodgepodge of older guests, which meant we were right at home. Eli dove right into small talk and soon we were fabricating a whole life for ourselves. We stuck to the Vegas story, but I was a screenwriter-turned-picture-book-author with a passion for roller derby.
“And what about you?” an older man with a walrus mustache asked Eli.
“I’m a physician,” he said honestly.
I nearly smacked his leg. No way was he going to play it safe after we’d concocted an elaborate cover story for me.
“But his true hobby is cake decorating,” I chimed in. “He’s auditioned for seventy-three reality TV baking competitions.”
Eli sighed. “And never got a one.”
“But I have a feeling seventy-four is the lucky number,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder.
“Oh, I just love those shows,” said a woman across the table. “Might you have any pictures of your work on your phone?”
Eli began to shake his head, but I leaned forward and said, “Oh, honey, I have plenty of photos.”
Eli eyed me suspiciously but kept the act up while I googled for the worst possible cake decorating fails I could find and rapidly saved them to my phone.
“Here’s his latest,” I said, holding up a photo of two breasts that looked more like sad pancakes with an uneven cursive across the top that read:Hasta la vista to Bethany’s titties!
Eli cleared his throat into his fist and jabbed my foot with his. “Uh, our friend was having a breast reduction. It was a... uh, special request.”
Our tablemates nodded politely with wide eyes as they leaned back a little from Eli, reconsidering him.
“Oh, don’t be shy, darling.” I turned to the other guests. “He really excels in anatomically correct cakes.”
Eli sputtered as he saw the giant penis cake complete with sprinkle pubes on my phone just seconds before I was about to whip it out for the rest of the class. He yanked the phone from my hand and shoved it into his pocket before pulling me to my feet. “If you’ll excuse us for a moment, I owe my beautiful wife a dance.”
I followed him and gave a little wave over my shoulder to our still-gawking table.
Chapter Forty-Five
“You are diabolical,” he said as he wound his arm around my waist.
“I didn’t know you liked to dance so much.”
“I would rather eat glass, but I wasn’t about to let you scandalize that whole table with a dick cake.”
