23. Lorde
Lorde
I ’ve done some reckless things in my life. Posed nude in a beach shoot. Accidentally flirted with a mafia don’s daughter when he was right there . Played chicken on an ATV for a YouTube collab.
But marrying Daisy DeMonte in Las Vegas with enough adrenaline to kill an elephant?
Yeah. This is my masterpiece.
The jet touches down, and I feel that momentary shift.
Gravity has pulled us down back to Earth.
It’s metaphorical and literal, and it hits me square in the chest. I glance over.
Daisy’s looking out the window, in awe of the Strip only a few miles away.
Almost as if she’d never seen it before.
Impossible. I know this is where all of her friends have their birthday parties.
God, I love her. Two months ago, all I could think about was teasing her until she was red in the face. Fucking the priss out of her. Knocking this princess off her diamond-encrusted throne.
She catches me staring. “Not backing out, are you?”
“Merely marveling at how hot you look when you’re rethinking all your life choices.”
“Sooo mature.”
“But accurate.” I lace our fingers together. “Now, come on. I have a cabal of queer wedding elves on speed dial. It comes with having a famous Hollywood actress for a mom. The gays love her.”
“You do not.”
“Watch me.”
We end up at a boutique two blocks off the Strip. It’s run by a drag queen named Diamond Eyes who’s already cried twice and offered us CBD gummies. The cash I’ve slipped her is for her silence to the paps that crawl up and down the Strip. But I guess she thinks the gummies are worth it, too.
“I love a Vegas elopement,” she says, clapping her large but dainty hands. “You two are giving runaway royalty. I’m obsessed. Twirl! Again!”
She’s not wrong. We’re half-dressed in two separate curtained booths while tailors work at lightning speed to ensure we look like a million dollars when photos inevitably leak.
Just because it’s Vegas doesn’t mean I’m going to look like a dumbass.
I’ve got a reputation to protect. Even Daisy agrees that women must continue to crush on me after I’m married.
It’s part of her attraction to me, you see.
I lean out of my booth and catch Daisy mid-laugh. Her cheeks are pink, hair pulled in place by a dozen black pins.
“You good?” I ask.
She nods. “You?”
I pretend to stretch as if I’m not overwhelmed with butterflies. “Totally. Simply wondering if I should go with the classic white and black or peacock-madly-doing-a-mating-dance.”
“Peacock that shit, babe.”
My stomach ties itself into knots. Somewhere behind the sparkle and high-speed tailoring, there’s a voice whispering this is too fast. That she deserves more. That I’m a mess in designer sunglasses pretending to know how to love someone because I’ve decided to.
So I step out of the dressing room, take out my phone, and dial the one person who might remind me what this means.
“Lorde?” My mother answers on the first ring, suspiciously alert for someone who usually answers video calls in a robe and a cucumber mask.
“Hey.”
There’s a pause. “What did you do?”
“Why do you assume I did something?”
“Because you only call when you’re in either the drunk tank or telling me you can’t make it to my birthday soiree because you’re taking a pair of Spanish twins to some villa you’ve rented under my name.”
“Okay, whatever, sorry for all that. I need a favor.”
“Does it involve bail money? Oh, honey, there better not be a yacht involved.”
“Nope. But it does involve Vegas. And a wedding.” I clear my throat. “Mine.”
Why the hell is this the first thing out of her mouth: “You’re pregnant? I always knew you and Angus were suspiciously close.”
“Jesus, Mom, no. Gay wedding. Remember? I’m the lesbian daughter. They compare me to Katherine Moennig.”
Another pause. “I worked with her once. Lovely person. Always had groupies hanging around the perimeter of the shoot. Oh! Like you! Except you don’t even have a job.”
Come on, Mom. “You always said if I ever settled down it’d be with someone insane or someone perfect. Daisy’s the latter.”
“I want to meet her. Bring her by after the honeymoon. I have a TV guest spot shoot this weekend but should be available from Tuesday.”
“I want you to be my witness.”
There’s a longer silence this time. Suddenly, she’s realized I’m dead serious. Years of cracking jokes and sneaking snark with my mother (who taught me everything I know) have taken their toll. “You sure about this, hon?”
I swallow. “No. But also yes. I feel like I’m skydiving and I’m about to pull the pin.”
My mother chuckles. “Text me the chapel. I’m booking the next flight out of LAX.”
By the time we’re zipping across town in a vintage white Cadillac provided by Diamond’s mother – who is also her manager, apparently – those butterflies have increased.
Daisy squeezes my hand. “You’re quiet.”
I glance over. Her dress is tea-length, vintage ivory, off-the-shoulder with a scandalous slit and princess-like heels peeking out from beneath.
Everything about her is straight out of my fantasies of the perfect girl I’d like to fuck-up.
Except instead of showing her a good time and ensuring she never forgets me, I want to never forget her.
“You look like the girl I didn’t know I wanted to marry,” I say. “It’s fantastic.”
She grins. “You should see yourself. You look like something Cristiano would wear to my funeral.”
“That is the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
We both dissolve into laughter. The nerves don’t go away. But they start to morph – from what if this is a mistake into what if this is the first thing I’ve ever done right.
The chapel is a converted police station with soft lighting, a neon sign that says Love is Never a Gamble, and two officiants: one in a top hat and one in a velvet suit. We pick the one in velvet. I can’t look at the top hat and not start laughing.
The waiting area has a record player spinning old love songs and a stack of rainbow marriage certificates bound in glitter ribbon. Diamond is hovering, handing out tea, and slapping people’s wrists if they try to use flash photography.
My mom shows up fifteen minutes before the ceremony, wearing something she stylishly slapped together for either a high-end wedding in the Hamptons or a drunken rager in a biker bar. She’s the kind of flawless beauty who can pull off either look in one outfit.
She kisses my cheeks before pulling Daisy into a hug like they’ve known each other for years.
“You’re braver than I was at your age,” she whispers to Daisy, loud enough for me to hear.
“Wow. Way to make my elopement about you.”
She winks. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The ceremony is short and sweet.
We stand hand-in-hand in front of a painting of two women in dresses dancing in the moonlight.
The officiant reads something poetic that I barely hear.
Too busy zoning out halfway through, staring at Daisy’s face, her smile, the way her fingers tremble against mine like she’s going to pass out at any moment.
When it’s time to speak, I panic. Words evaporate. I’m hardly the smooth talker who would normally take Vegas by storm and forget most of what I did.
“I’m sorry, Daze,” I say. “I didn’t think of any vows. Between falling asleep with you on the plane and everything leading up to this since then, shit, when would I have had the time? Fuck it. Love you. Can’t wait to tell our kids about this so they can be appalled.”
She laughs. So do I. The officiant doesn’t give a shit and Diamond says she’s going to steal it for her next show.
My mother rolls her eyes with a shrug, but she’s smiling again, holding back her laughter.
This woman has seen more Vegas weddings than she has the inside of casinos, probably. I hope she’s having a good time.
Daisy and I kiss. Who the hell needed words, anyway?
The applause is real. The photographer Diamond hired for us – her cousin, of course – snaps Polaroids. There’s glitter in my bra that sticks out of my white silk shirt, and I don’t care.
I’m married. We’re married.
We sign the certificate with borrowed pens.
Diamond throws a handful of flower petals at us and says something about eternal blessings.
My mother poses for a couple of pictures and takes some selfies with us on our phones.
She promises to leave first, in case there are paps outside.
Her wedding present to us is leading them away.
Perfect timing. My wife and I have places to go.
Later, while Daisy’s stealing a donut from the chapel’s complimentary snack table, I find my mom near the bar, sipping something pink with a slice of lemon on the rim.
“You’re really married,” she says.
“Apparently.”
She studies me as if we’ve never met before. “I didn’t think you’d do this. Not like this . Did you even get a prenup?”
I shrug. “I didn’t think I would either. But then I met someone who made me want to show up. Without a prenup.”
Laughter tickles her shoulders. “You always did love a grand gesture.”
“Says the woman who once proposed to a stranger at my seventh birthday party.”
“Exactly. It didn’t work, but it was dramatic as hell.”
What do I even do with that? “You think I’m doing the right thing?”
“I think you’ve done a lot of wrong things. Lord knows that as your mother I’ve had a few strokes along the way. Shoulda knew you’d end up like me. Thank God you weren’t a boy. Or that you’re gay. I don’t know which I’m more grateful for.”
“So, you’re saying you’re glad that pregnancy was never on the table.”
I don’t realize I’m choking up until she touches my shoulder.
“You’re not me, Lorde. You’re not what’s-his-face who gave me you after a one-night stand at a wrap-party…”
“Joey Pete. My dad is Joey Pete, Mom. We did a blood test and everything.”
“Do things your way, honey. It’s the only way to live.”
Damn knots in my throat… clogging up the works…
“Thanks for coming,” I croak.
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m sending you a crockpot and a reference to my old relationship therapist.”
“God, you are so West Coast.”
“And you married New England.” She grins. “I hope you like all the lobster that old money can buy. Ooh, especially department store money. Do try to hook me up with a discount, would you? DeMonte’s has decent tableware.”
I glance over at Daisy, who’s trying to feed Diamond a bite of wedding cake with a fork made from gold plastic.
“I think it can be arranged.”
We raise our drinks – hers pink, mine still fizzy – and toast to whatever comes next. Harvard, probably. After we take on the DeMonte’s when we get back home.
But I’m not thinking about that yet. I’ve got a wedding night to attend to.