Betting on the Brainiac: a Sweet Romantic Comedy

31. Chapter Thirty-One

Joey, Matt, and Charlie walk out right before I’m about to go pound on my fiancé’s door and inform him that I refuse to be stood up at my convenience store wedding.

“Josh and Oliver will be out in a minute,” Charlie says, giving me a reassuring smile. I bet it’s the smile he gives to little kids who lose their parents in the library.

Joey exchanges looks with the other men before he slides his iPhone from his pocket and heads to the speakers he set up.

Ruby watches this exchange, then mutters low so only I can hear, “That’s what it feels like having four older brothers.”

“I don’t like it,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “It’s not always piggyback rides. It’s mostly noogies.”

Sami fills the waiting with spontaneous poetry about 7-Eleven. I love her “Ode to That Weird Hot Dog Machine” and the line about “tube of meat in nuclear heat,” but I’m about ready to march to Oliver’s again.

Our neighbors burst into applause when she rhymes sauerkraut with “walk right out,” and that’s when Oliver appears with Josh. They walk toward us, Oliver with an apologetic smile, Josh looking . . . pensive? Like his mind is only half on the wedding. Oliver has a 7-Eleven napkin folded as a pocket square, and I grin. That’s the spirit.

“Sorry about the delay,” Oliver calls. “Technical issues, but we’re good to go.”

Josh nods in Joey’s direction like he’s confirming this. As if I need either of these men to decide what I need and what I don’t. Oooh, we shall have words, these boys and me.

Sami takes her spot in front of the pool. “We’re ready, friends. Oliver and the groomsmen, please?” She indicates where they should stand to her left. “Besties?”

Since we’re not invested in a traditional wedding, I’ve cherry-picked which traditions I want, texting back and forth with Oliver all week to run my choices past him. The only thing he vetoed was a wedding arch made of hot-glued Slurpee cups. That was fair. It would blow over with a sneeze.

“Let’s go!” I call, and a laugh ripples through the audience. Ruby and Ava are walking me down the aisle, and we’ve got a show to put on.

Jamie Foxx’s voice pours out of the speaker in a soulful a cappella. The first full laughs break out while we hit a series of four epic vogues as people recognize the song, but it’s not until the horns drop as our feet hit the aisle that Oliver starts laughing and Sami raps along with Kanye about gold diggers.

Joey cuts the music when we reach Sami, and I hand my bouquet to Ruby, who is now lined up on Sami’s right.

“Ladies and gentleman, we are gathered here together to join Madison and Oliver in this weird business marriage they’re doing. If you have any objections, let’s hear them, but let it be known, my lawyer boyfriend and I researched this, and you can only object on actual legal grounds, and these two have their legal contracts all in order. Any objections?”

Only Oliver looks around, but no one says anything.

“Cool,” Sami says. “More importantly, this is also a party to welcome our new neighbor, Oliver. Say hey, everyone.”

Everyone shouts, “Hey, Oliver,” including me, and Oliver laughs and waves.

“Our happy uncouple will now read their own vows,” Sami says.

Oliver reaches into his shorts pocket, making us laugh again when he pulls out a grocery receipt and squints at the back. He clears his throat. “Madison, I solemnly promise to split the vet bills, and more importantly, the vet appointments for our temporary fur children.”

I wipe a pretend tear from my eye.

“Your turn, Mads,” Sami says.

I glance around my napkin dress train like I can’t remember where I put mine before I give a small “Aha” and pull one of the napkins loose. More laughter. I clear my throat. “I promise to give you thirty percent custody of the remote when we hang out.”

“Objection,” Josh says, standing up. “Did you let her negotiate that? That is way too low.”

“I’m not an idiot, Josh,” Oliver says before turning to meet my gaze. “Fifty-fifty. Final offer.”

I cross my arms. “Happy wife, happy life.”

The neighbors get in on it, ladies on my side, the men on his. After some back and forth, I heave an annoyed sigh and say, “I get it one hundred percent of the time at my house, fifty-fifty at your house.”

“Take it,” Hugo says. “I’ve never heard of any man getting terms that good.”

Oliver nods that he accepts.

“That’s beautiful, kids,” Sami says. “You will now exchange the tokens of the vows you’re making before your friends and neighbors.”

I give Sami a confused look. We aren’t exchanging rings. She winks at me and nods to Oliver, who smiles.

Ava crouches and calls to Migos the Cranky Yorkie, “Migos, come. Treat!”

Mrs. Lipsky releases him, and he waddles over, his collar jingling. Ava detaches something from it and hands it to Sami. I catch a glint of gold and sparkle. What in the . . .

Sami hands it off to Oliver. “Do you, Oliver Octavian Locke, take this woman to be your legally wedded wife for business purposes for a year and a day?”

“Octavian?” Charlie says. “That’s your middle name?”

“Because he’s the eighth grandkid.” I grin as I explain because that discovery was my favorite part of the week.

“I do take Madison as my legally wedded wife for a year and a day,” Oliver says. He holds up something gold and shiny, about two inches long. “Madison, I offer you our ironclad prenuptial and this gold-plated and bedazzled Slurpee cup keychain as a symbol of our deal.”

I hold out my hand for it and giggle at the tiny pink crystals forming the slushy swirl on top of the gold cup.

“Madison Leigh Armstrong, do you accept this keychain?” Sami asks.

I hook it to the waist of my bridal train to whistles and claps. “I do.”

“Very exciting,” Sami says. She presses something cool and metallic into my hand. “Please present Oliver with the symbol this ceremony and commitment deserves.”

I open my hand and let the Slurpee keychain dangle and catch the light. This one has silver slushy crystals, not pink. “I’m sorry I got you . . . mushroom flavor, I think? But I wanted to give you a neutral color for accessorizing.”

Oliver fans his eyes with both hands, like he’s trying to hold back tears. “How thoughtful! I had no idea. Luckily, silver was exactly the color I wanted out of the only two choices I had.”

“Oliver Octa—” Sami starts.

“Just Oliver is fine,” he interrupts.

“Do you accept this keychain?”

“I do,” he says.

Sami smiles. “By the power vested in me by the church I found on the internet, I pronounce you business husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!”

A kiss? I can’t believe we didn’t discuss this, and Oliver’s surprised expression suggests he’s thinking the same thing. My stomach flutters the way it sometimes does before a first kiss. Why not? Oliver is the sweetest of all frogs, and I’m curious about these skills Ava mentioned. As our guests cheer, I’m all for giving them what they want. I lean forward with an exaggerated pucker, but Oliver meets it with a hand over my mouth and a smile.

“Business deals are handshakes, Mads. Don’t want to give the neighbors the wrong idea.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” Sami says. “You may shake hands! And smile big for the photographer!”

That’s Joey again, since he’s a pretty good amateur. The marriage certificate is all the legal proof I’ll need to get the trust released. Adding pictures of our minimart marriage is the extra tasty icing on the cake as I imagine my parents’ faces when they see how neatly I’ve met the letter of the law without in any way satisfying the spirit of it.

Oliver drops his hand from my mouth. I laugh when he does, but it’s to hide my confusion because I feel a split second of disappointment. Unmet curiosity, that’s all.

We both turn to Joey and his camera, hands clasped in a shake. “Big fake smile for the corporate newsletter,” I tell him.

Joey clicks several times while Oliver and I try to win the biggest audience laugh with increasingly faker smiles. When Joey nods that he’s got what he needs, instead of dropping my hand, Oliver pulls me into a hug. “Thanks, Mads. I’ll owe you forever.”

I hug him back, surprised again at how substantial he feels. He really does drown in those hoodies. “Legally, you can’t owe me for more than three years.”

He pulls back with a grin. “I won’t. I guarantee it.”

I turn us around, join our hands again, and swing them in the air like a real married couple does. “Party time, people!”

More cheers erupt as Joey puts on the playlist the Gatsby’s deejay made for me. Everyone drifts toward the food. A few people congratulate us, but mostly everyone gives Oliver a warm welcome. I smile as I watch people ponder their Slim Jim choices or snag the candy bars you only find at gas stations.

It’s unconventional. Bonkers, even. And fun.

Oliver wanders over to join me.

“Thanks for my bling.” I spin it on my waist like a tassel.

He pulls his from his pocket. “I need to figure out how to wear mine with pride.”

“Zipper pull for your hoodies,” I suggest.

“Stop mocking my hoodies.” He plucks at his collar. “I own this shirt now too.”

“This shirt is doing you favors your hoodies don’t.”

One eyebrow goes up. “Say more.”

I shrug. “I’ve known you, what, two months? Seen you almost daily, and yet this is the first time I realized you are not a code titi.”

“A what?”

“A tee tee,” I enunciate slowly. “Those scrawny monkeys?”

He looks at me like Ava does when she is not buying my nonsense. “That is not what you meant.”

I give him my best Scarlett O’Hara. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” I switch to my regular voice. “Anyway, in this shirt, you are less code monkey and more . . .”

He swells his chest and deepens his voice. “Code gorilla?”

I pat an inflated pec. “Settle down, Kong. Let’s go with code chimpanzee.”

He pulls me into another hug, and I’m reminded that I like his manhandling. Uh, make that assertiveness.

“Madi with the jokes,” he says, a puff of his laughter stirring my hair. “But remember, I’m a code monkey the way Planet of the Apes chimps are sweet little pets.”

Owning his power. I like that too. Layers after layers with my husband.

“Bottle girl,” Ruby calls, pushing a library cart holding a large cloth draped box. I keep an arm around Oliver’s waist when I turn and salute. “What is the only drink that will do for a celebration?”

“Champagne,” I say.

“You’re right! But what if we’re too cheap to rent a champagne fountain for your marriage of convenience? Presenting . . .” She whips the cloth away and Oliver and I burst into laughter.

“We rented a Slurpee machine!” Sami says, delight all over her face.

“I love it!” I yell over the sound of the crowd going wild.

The playlist switches to “Single Ladies,” and I laugh. “Dance with me, besties!”

But Sami and Ava shake their heads. “It just hits different with our boyfriends here,” Sami calls.

“Fair,” I say. “Ruby-Roo—” But I break off, realizing this is the absolute wrong song for her. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Joey, reading the room, gives me an offended look. “Why are you only calling the girls over? You think dudes can’t do this dance? Come on, Josh.”

Josh knows he’s being tagged in to cheer up Ruby, and it’s already working; the wobble is gone from her smile. Josh does something like a twerk, but as he gives us a dead-eyed look and a pout, Sami yells, “You need fiber, baby? Someone brought oatmeal bars!”

Josh answers by giving his hair a dramatic fling and adding a chest pump, and Ruby is done.

“Ruby Ramos, time of death, 3:24 PM,” I say, glancing at my watch, as she collapses against Ava, howling.

Joey is doing better, benefitting from all the salsa they’ve danced in the Ramos backyard. He moves sort of like the music video in the way that a Pinterest fail sort of looks like the original. But I love both of these guys so hard for keeping Ruby smiling.

Oliver shakes his head. “This is sad. Hold my Slurpee.”

He strolls toward Josh and Joey, reaching them as the second verse hits, and he is in full Beyoncé mode, hitting a squat, popping up with his hand on his hip, and we are screaming.

The neighbors crowd in to watch, and Sami and Ruby run toward me for a closer look as my nerdy husband becomes a booty-shaking, shoulder-shimmying . . . diva? He’s committing to it like Ryan Gosling doing his Barbie number at the Oscars.

“He is eating it,” Jasmine shouts.

Mrs. Lipsky shoots Oliver a worried look.

“That means he’s doing good,” I tell her.

They hit the “whoa-oh-oh” section with the marching and punching-down moves. Even Josh knows this part and almost stays on the beat.

“Did Oliver do a kick ball change?” Ruby says, her voice going so high it fades.

“He did.” I was on dance team all the way through high school, captain of the squad my senior year, and I know dance. He’s seriously good. “I have a lot of questions.”

When it gets to the next chorus about putting a ring on it, Oliver stops, reaches into his pocket with a confused expression, and out comes his sparkly keychain. He holds up his hand and taps his bare ring finger in the iconic video move, looks at his sparkle Slurpee again, and looks at me like revelation has struck. Then he comes toward me in a down rock with slides, crooking his finger as he gets closer, still on the beat.

Sami smacks my arm. “Did he just Patrick Swayze you?”

He reaches me before I can answer, and as if they practiced it, Ruby takes the Slurpee out of my hand and Mrs. Lipsky gives me a light shove on my lower back. I take a stutter step forward, off-balance.

Oliver hooks his finger through the key chain at my waist and pulls me toward him, and then suddenly he’s got my back to his front, and he settles a light hand on my hip in a way that suggests we’ve danced together a thousand times, and we’re super comfortable doing it.

The song switches to an old Motown classic. The Temptations, I think, and I twist to grin at him. His eyes laugh down at mine as I rest my hands on his shoulders, and we drop into a mellow step-sway-step, more of a groove than slow dance.

“You’ve been keeping secrets,” I tell him.

His eyes turn watchful. “I have?”

It still surprises me that I have to look up a bit even in heels to meet his gaze. “When were you going to tell me you know how to dance?”

He shrugs. “It’s a party trick. I learned that song for a pep rally my senior year.”

“Oliver Locke, were you a cheerleader?”

“No, our swim team was going to state, and we got to do that dance in front of the entire school, swim caps, goggles, and everything.”

“Everything,” I repeat. I squeeze his shoulders and give him a small shake. “Like a Speedo? Did you do this dance in front of the whole school in a Speedo?”

He groans, and I cackle, thrilled with this new nugget.

“Only because I lost a bet,” he says. “I was a jammer guy. Tech suit for races, Speedos for…losing bets.”

“The Speedo dance would explain why it wasn’t a big deal for you to do it in 7-Eleven resort wear in front of people you’re going to pass at the mailbox every day.”

“It truly taught me that there is no dragon I can’t slay.” His expression is solemn, and it makes me laugh again. It also reminds me of Joey’s question about what kind of dragons a worthy prince would have to slay. Oliver reaches up to slide my hands from his shoulders and hold them between us, still keeping a gentle beat with his feet. “Hey, thanks for marrying me and making me a millionaire.”

I smile at him. “Thank you for marrying me and making me a millionaire too.”

“No problem, neighbor wife.” He leans forward and my heart does a skip beat because a lean means a kiss, and now I can satisfy my curiosi—

“I’m going to go ask Ruby to dance,” he says, his voice low. “I’m in the rotation to cheer her up, right?”

“Oh, right.” I’m disoriented by misreading his lean-in. “I’ve got brain fog from too much sugar. It’d be good for me to go find some protein.”

“Hot dog roller,” he says. “I’m sure their two-star Yelp rating doesn’t mean anything.” Then he goes to find Ruby, who smiles when he holds out his hand and invites her to dance.

The party goes strong for another hour before the crowd starts to thin, but it’s gradual, and the last of the holdouts doesn’t wander back to their condo until almost 6:00.

“Clean up, clean up,” Ruby sings like she does after the weekly children’s story time.

I give my feet a break and slip my heels off before they need to go back on for my shift, then head over to start cleaning up the well-trafficked snack table.

“Whoa, no no no,” Oliver says, taking a packaged PBJ sandwich from my hand. “You had to do most of the wedding prep while I dealt with work craziness this week. I’ll handle clean up.”

“No worries. I do this all the time at work, and it’s even easier to clean up when no one’s drunk.”

“Mads, please, I got you. Go take a power nap before you have to get ready. I’ll move Tabitha and the bigheads over in the morning. They’ll be making their own Netflix profiles and putting their feet on my coffee table before you’re even awake.”

I got you.

“Oliver.” I reach out to rest my hand on his wrist as he’s reaching for some of the opened and abandoned packages. “I think I’m about to get lucky.”

He freezes, his eyes locking on mine. “Excuse me?”

“I’m ridiculously lucky to already have three friends who’ve had my back for years. Is it about to be four?”

His eyes soften, and he gives me a tired smile before he jerks his head toward my door. “It already is. Get out of here, sugar mama.”

“See you later, future ex-husband,” I say, thinking about a power nap on my magic bed. “Oh, and the cats better not love you more than me by the time I wake up tomorrow.”

He shakes his head and mumbles something as I’m closing the door.

I’m not sure, but I think he said, “Impossible.”