Betting on the Brainiac: a Sweet Romantic Comedy

29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

We went with 7-Eleven as our theme, of course. What else would you do for a marriage of convenience?

Looking at our setup around the pool, I’m not sure I’ll ever go to a wedding that will top this. It starts in fifteen minutes, and we’re ready to go. We’ve invited everyone in the Grove for the price of a convenience store snack to supplement our grazing table. Ruby has arranged it with crackers—packages of the fluorescent orange cracker sandwiches with gluey peanut butter filling, and cheese—string cheese. She’s got bags of Skittles for fruit and bags of single serving Planter’s peanuts. It’s a magnificent crime against nature. Or at least nutrition.

“Girls,” Mrs. Lipsky calls as she walks out of her front door, “you look stunning.”

No one believed me when I told them that the 7-Eleven website sells branded clothes, but Ruby and Ava are now wearing shockingly cute retro 7-Eleven raglan sleeve T-shirts.

“I’m almost jealous,” Sami says.

Lies. Sami, as befitting the seriousness of her role as officiant via an internet certification it took her five minutes to get, is wearing a pajama set with 7-Eleven foods and signs printed all over it “because it’s more like a suit.”

“Don’t be,” Mrs. Lipsky says. “You’re pretty fabulous yourself. But isn’t it warm for that beanie?”

Sami also got herself a beanie in a neon pattern called “Slurpee Swirls,” complete with a pompom, which she pats. “No way. Everyone knows the biggest-deal priest has the fanciest hat. Nice to see you, Migos.”

Mrs. Lipsky’s chonky Yorkie is nestled in her arms, glaring at us. Ava defended him once by saying it was his wild eyebrows that make him look grouchy, but Mrs. Lipsky had set her straight. “His eyebrows are only like that because he’s too mean to let the groomer do a proper job.”

Other neighbors drift out, depositing their offerings of Doritos or Muddy Buddies on the table and exclaiming over our wedding fashion.

The couple on the other side of Josh, Hugo and Jasmine, unload cardboard trays of nachos with the gross round corn chips and plastic cups of fake cheese sauce. It’s perfect.

“I can’t wait to see what the guys are wearing,” Hugo says.

“Not going to lie, it’s amazing,” Ruby says.

The groomsmen are in white T-shirts with the classic 7-Eleven logo and stripes across the chest.

Oliver has been moving into his new place all morning, but he should be changed into his green button-down resort-style shirt. It has matching shorts. I had no opinion on 7-Eleven a week ago when I came up with this theme, but I love them so hard now.

Matching. Shorts.

Jasmine comes over to hug me. “Why is this the cutest wedding dress I’ve ever seen?”

I look down, grinning at my cropped 7-Eleven tank top and metallic green leggings borrowed from Sami’s stage wardrobe. Joey and Ava crafted a six-foot train from 7-Eleven napkins, and it’s fanned behind me as dramatically as the train of a Rihanna gown at the Met Gala. I’m wearing my highest acrylic platform heels, toes painted the tangerine of the store logo. My ass . . . ets looks good in this outfit.

“Your bouquet,” Ruby says, handing me an artful arrangement of novelty Slurpee straws topped with neon plastic glitter lips.

More neighbors appear with Takis and fried pork rinds and licorice. Compliments keep coming as people settle into the pool chairs we’ve lined up ceremony style with an aisle down the middle.

Five minutes to go. I look around for Joey, who is supposed to be on music, Josh, who has the marriage certificate we’ll need to sign and submit, the groomsmen, and the groom. I don’t see any of them.

Where is every single man who is supposed to be in or at this wedding?