Chapter 4
Evan
J ane is calling, but I can’t pick up because I’m in the middle of a Zoom meeting.
As soon as I can, I call her back.
“We got the house!” she says.
I hadn’t let myself be too hopeful when we put in another offer, but I didn’t express that out loud. And now, it’s finally happened. We’re going to own a four-bedroom house in Richmond Hill. It’s a little dated, but there’s no critical work that needs to be done.
We end up closing on the house less than two weeks before the wedding, and we both get our stuff moved in a few days later, on a Friday. That first night, too tired to cook, we order pizza and eat it at the kitchen table—the one that used to be in my apartment.
“We should buy some patio furniture so we can eat outside,” Jane says. “And a barbecue, though maybe we should wait until next summer.”
Yeah, we’ve spent a lot of money lately, and looking at my accounts online makes me cringe. Jane and I also have a joint account now—for paying the mortgage and other household bills—and we’ve agreed on how much we’ll each put in monthly.
I can’t believe I have a mortgage.
I used to think I wouldn’t want to live north of Steeles, and I hoped to own a condo downtown one day. That was how I saw my future. But in 2020, stuck in a high-rise, I ached to have a yard. I wanted to step outside and see my garden. Even the idea of having a driveway to shovel sounded appealing.
And when the world (sort of) returned to normal, that feeling didn’t leave.
After dinner, we meticulously clean up, not wanting a crumb left on the floor or counter of our new house, and then we both do some unpacking in our bedrooms.
From the beginning, we agreed on having separate bedrooms. Of course, that might make some people suspicious of our marriage, but there are definitely couples who maintain separate bedrooms for one reason or another. My mom raised an eyebrow when she was here earlier, but Jane rushed to assure her that she’s a finicky sleeper and besides, she snores very loudly. (From traveling with her, I know that’s a lie.) Mom told her to participate in a sleep study.
I have the biggest bedroom, which has an en suite. Jane suggested this arrangement if it meant she got a second bedroom for her office; I’ll be working in the basement.
I’m hanging up clothes in the walk-in closet when Jane appears at my bedroom door.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m going to bed now. I’m beat.”
How do goodnights work with a committed friend and roommate? I’m not sure, but I walk toward her and wrap her in my arms. She smells faintly of peaches.
“We did it,” I say.
“Yes, we did. See you in the morning.”
But as she returns to her bedroom, I no longer feel like I’ve accomplished something big. No, I feel strangely hollow.
I just bought a house with my soon-to-be spouse. We shouldn’t necessarily be having sex right now—after all, it’s been a long day, and we’re not twenty-two—but I feel like we ought to be snuggling in bed together, even if one of us eventually goes to another room to sleep.
Until we made that pact, I never imagined marriage would be like this.
Same-sex marriage has been legal in Ontario since before I started high school. When I came out at the age of fourteen, it was in a world where I’d be able to marry the person of my choice, no matter their gender. That didn’t mean everything was rainbows and unicorns, but I always felt like I had options.
I would get to marry for love.
Yet here I am, nine days away from my wedding, and there’s no romance. A friendly sort of love, sure. But not the kind I thought I’d have.
What if I hadn’t given up? Sure, the pact might have given me solace at one point, but I didn’t need to go through with it. I was dissatisfied with my career and managed to make a change in the fall, rather than assuming I was stuck. Maybe I could have succeeded here as well.
It’s not too late , a voice in my head says.
I scoff. It’s definitely too late. We own a goddamn house together.
Besides, I made a promise to her, back when her piece-of-shit father said he wasn’t coming to our wedding. Aside from the logistical mess, flaking out on that promise is not something I’d do to Jane. I refuse to be another person in her life who thoroughly disappoints her. She doesn’t deserve it.
Listlessly, I wash up. There are two sinks in this bathroom, but it seems unnecessary. It’s not like there will ever be two people in here at the same time.
I crawl into my queen bed. Though the mattress is familiar, the outside noises are slightly different from what I’m used to, but eventually, I fall asleep.
Alone.
A few days after we learned that Jane’s father wouldn’t attend the wedding, I broached the subject of the rehearsal dinner, and she said she didn’t want one. I also asked if she wanted someone else to walk her down the aisle, and she said no. We’d simply walk together.
When I explained all this over the phone to my mother, she was aghast that Jane’s father wouldn’t show up. She asked if it was a financial problem, and I assured her it wasn’t. Then she asked if there were any other relatives that Jane wanted to be there—from anywhere in the world—and offered to help with the airfare.
But Jane hasn’t had any contact with her mom’s family since she was a kid, and she has a limited relationship with her uncle and cousin on her father’s side. They’re in China, and she hasn’t seen them in a decade. And I guess her stepmother sees no reason to come if her father won’t be there.
So, when we get married today, all of the family guests will be my own.
I’m glad Claudia flew in yesterday for Jane, and I’m happy to have her stay in our guest room—I can’t believe we actually have a guest room—for two nights. To be honest, I’m also glad she knows the truth. If she didn’t, she’d probably refuse to stay with us tonight.
I head downstairs at seven. Jane is already up, coffee nearly ready.
I’m getting used to my new reality. Living in a house, having a home office that isn’t a corner of the living room. Eating dinner with someone else every night. It’s nice.
But I continue to have complicated feelings about what we’re going to do today, and as I watch her pour a mug of coffee, humming quietly to herself—“Here Comes the Bride,” heh—I’m hit with a slightly different thought than the ones I’ve been having recently. My complicated feelings have been self-centered, but now I think: She deserves better .
“Jane,” I say.
She turns around, mug in hand. “Hm?”
“Are you sure you want to tie yourself to me?” I gesture feebly. “You deserve to marry someone…who loves you.”
She puts down her mug, walks over to me, and sets a hand on my chest. It’s warm from the coffee. “You deserve that, too. But we were both tired of not getting what we wanted, and so—have you changed your mind?” Though she speaks evenly, I can tell she’s freaked out. We’ve spent months setting all this up.
I think of Yvonne, who ran up the aisle rather than getting married.
“No,” I assure my fiancée. “I just wanted to check that you hadn’t.”
“Of course not. I’m ready for this.”
In an attempt to convince her, I press a quick kiss to her neck—I don’t know why I think this will work, but it somehow makes sense—which is how Claudia finds us when she walks downstairs.
“Am I interrupting something?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows.
“No, no,” I say. “We’re all good.”
After breakfast, we get in my car—I need to remember to add Jane to the insurance—and I drive the three of us to a salon. Two people have come in early to assist us. I’m getting neutral makeup, just so my features look a little sharper in the pictures. Jane asked if I wanted something more glamorous—there have been phases in my life when I experimented with dramatic eyeshadow. I appreciated the thought, but I said no.
By ten o’clock, makeup and hair are done: a simple updo for Jane and a blowout for Claudia. After picking up the bridal bouquet, we return to the house, where I put on a tux. Claudia changes into a sleeveless pink dress before assisting Jane with the wedding dress that we picked out all those months ago.
“You look beautiful,” I tell my wife-to-be as we wait for the limo, and I’m not lying. She looks lovely. I just wish that said loveliness stirred up stronger feelings in me.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” she says lightly.
It’s an overcast, cool summer’s day, which is fine with me. If it were hot and humid, I’d be sweating buckets. The important thing is that it’s not supposed to rain until this evening.
It’s less than a ten-minute drive to the venue. Although we booked the venue before buying the house, they coincidentally happen to be quite close to one another, which is convenient. My parents are already here, and the photographer takes a few pictures before the other guests start arriving. Jane met most of my extended family at the Lunar New Year, but I introduce her to the few people that weren’t there.
Five minutes before the appointed time, we urge everyone to take their seats—“no bride’s side and groom’s side, sit wherever you like”—and share a few words with the officiant, who stands in front of the chairs set up on the grass. There’s a simple flower arch behind them, nowhere near as grand as the décor at the last outdoor wedding I went to (my cousin Mirabel’s), but neither Jane nor I were too concerned about such things. We just didn’t want the planning to be too stressful.
When the music begins, I take a deep breath and paste on a smile. I’m not standing next to the love of my life, and it’s not how I would have once imagined my wedding day, but this is it, for better or worse.
Jane and I link our arms and proceed down the aisle together. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience as the ceremony begins, even as I keep my eyes focused on Jane. Like this can’t possibly be me getting married, but someone else, and I say “I do” a split second later than I should.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant says.
As I lean in, I’m very aware of just how odd the act of kissing is. Lips against lips. Tongue on tongue. (Well, not in this particular kiss, but still.)
But as I pull back and smile at my wife, a wave of fondness overtakes me.
I’ve made promises to her, and I’ll do my best to be a good husband, even if some silly part of me thinks I should have held out for love.
“Congratulations,” Auntie Gladys says, pressing one of my hands between both of hers in the receiving line. “You’re lucky she didn’t run!” She laughs as though this is a funny joke.
My mother, who’s standing to my right, glares at her.
But I just say, “Yes, I’m very lucky.”
I’m married to Jane, and everyone important to me is here to celebrate. There’s something bittersweet about the whole thing, but I will make the most of it.
For her sake, if nothing else.