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We move along, finally making our way over to the behemoth cake. Upon our arrival, it is discovered that the Waterford cake cutting knife and server set Jolyn has gifted to us for this occasion has been misplaced and is currently being searched for by the catering staff. While the search ensues, Emma and I are left standing on display in front of the monstrous cake.
The people at the front of the crowd move in closer.
“You make an attractive couple. Plans for starting a family?” a woman asks.
“Um—” Emma starts, but is cut off by a woman pushing her way toward the front.
“Let me see the ring.” The woman holds her hand out.
Emma extends her hand.
When the woman’s eyes drop to Emma’s simple gold band, I see surprise register on her face. She pats Emma’s hand and gives her a small smile. “Simple. Elegant. And you won’t have a huge rock getting in the way. Just a thin, modest band. Great for everyday wear.” I think she means to be reassuring, but she should have stopped at simple and elegant.
Emma forces a smile. “Thank you.”
It’s the first time I’m thinking about the ring in terms of what other people think about it. From the appearance of this apartment, the way everyone here is dressed, the pile of meticulously wrapped gifts that have been procured with under twenty-four hours’ notice of our wedding, it’s clear that Emma’s family has wealth and status.
A woman like Emma is expected to have a large shiny diamond on her finger. I can see the disappointment in the women’s faces. The flush of discomfort creeping up Emma’s neck.
“How did he propose?” another woman calls out.
“Oh, yes. Let’s all hear the story while we wait on the cutlery.” Emma’s mom tucks in beside her.
“Um, well—” Emma starts, but I can see the panic in her eyes, hear the tremble of her voice. I squeeze her hand and she looks up at me.
“It was on a rooftop in Vegas.” I’m referencing how we met, drawing from the moment I first laid eyes on Emma. “I—” A loud clatter pulls everyone’s attention to the other side of the room where the caterer has collided with one of the cater waiters on her way to bring us a long, narrow black box.
“Found it!” The caterer rushes toward us, leaving the cater waiter scrambling to pick up the dropped tray with hors d’oeuvres. She’s nearly out of breath as she presents the box to Emma, who in turn visibly sags with relief.
“And he said ‘will you marry me?’ and I said ‘yes,’” Emma tosses out quickly before taking the cutlery box from the caterer. “Thank you.” Only I know she’s thanking her for the cutlery and for the interruption.
With custom cutlery in hand, we move behind the cake.
Emma’s mom smiles brightly while Emma’s dad grumpily holds his camera up to take our picture.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Emma whispers from beside me. “I know my mom wants to be a part of all this stuff, I feel bad, but we have to get out of here. Can you fake an injury or something?”
With Emma’s back pressed against my front, our arms aligned and our hands joined over the knife, we press into the smooth buttercream. Another cut, and a triangle is removed from the tier. Emma gingerly places it on the plate then cuts it in half, the intention that we feed each other a piece.
They’re big pieces. More than what can fit in anyone’s mouth. Emma lifts hers, and I lift mine. As I’m moving the cake toward her mouth, the idea hits me. A way to escape. That’s what Emma asked for.
Right before the cake meets Emma’s lips, my fingers relax their grip, letting the cake fall back into the palm of my hand. And then I press my hand firmly into Emma’s face. I aim for her mouth, but the large piece of cake conveniently spans across her nose and cheeks. With smeared buttercream around her lips, I watch as her mouth drops open in shock. The remainder of the cake crumbles down the front of her dress, then falls to the wood floor. She’s staring back at me with confusion and annoyance, but then her eyes light with understanding, and her lips twitch knowingly. With the cake in her hand, she doesn’t hesitate as she moves toward me, winding up her arm and smacking the slice of cake square against my jaw. She rotates her hand for good measure, really smashing it in good. Bits of cake crumbs fall down the neck of my t-shirt and a large glop of buttercream drops onto my shoe.
To this room full of elegantly dressed people, we probably look uncivilized, but Emma’s smiling up at me now, and that’s all that matters.
Kiss!
I can’t tell if the sound came from someone in the room or my brain, but I listen. It’s part of the show after all.
My clean hand wraps around Emma’s waist, loving the way it fits perfectly in the space between the fitted bodice of her dress and the curve of her hips beneath its skirt. I pull her to me and drop my mouth to hers. Her hands grip my arms. The buttercream on her hand is sticky against my skin, but my main focus is the feeling of her soft body pressed against mine.
My tongue dips between her lips. She tastes incredible. The cake is nice, too.
The room cheers and there’s a repetition of clicks from Emma’s dad.
As we pull apart, somebody hands us towels to wipe our faces, but Emma grabs my hand, quickly leading me out of the room and down a quiet hallway.
We spill into a room, laughing, our faces still dripping with frosting.
