Chapter Seventeen #2
Sam, beside him, leaned forward, eyes shining with the eager energy of a man who had never set foot in Nevada and wanted to experience it vicariously.
I continued, “The main thing is, at two-thirty in the morning, we decided to walk the strip, which is what you do when you want to make bad decisions on a timeline. Somewhere between the third and fourth casino, Kenneth suggested—logically, calmly—that we could do a practice run at one of the twenty-four-hour wedding chapels. He claimed it would be good reconnaissance.”
Kenneth, next to me, raised an eyebrow. “You were the one who brought up the discount for same-day service.”
“Did I?” I said, feigning innocence. “Alcohol is known to impair memory, so I will defer to the official record.”
The room laughed.
“I don’t remember finding the chapel,” I went on. “I do remember a neon sign shaped like an angel with an expression of deep regret, and the sign promised an ‘unforgettable ceremony.’ The last part was true.”
Delancy leaned forward. “Was it the one with the drive-thru window?”
“No,” I said. “Ours had a two-for-one coupon for matching rings, and I’m pretty sure the officiant was also bartending in the back room.”
“What did he look like?” Delancy asked, eyes narrowed with delight.
I opened my mouth, realized I had no idea, and said, “I honestly don’t remember.”
“Enthusiastic,” said Kenneth, deadpan. “He was very enthusiastic.”
That brought the house down, and even Lucas cracked a smile, which was rare enough to be newsworthy.
“I do remember the vow exchange,” I said, “because someone—I won’t say who—had taken notes on the ceremony and insisted we do it by the book. And then, about halfway through, there was a fire alarm. We had to evacuate into the parking lot.”
“You finished the vows in the parking lot?” Sam asked, incredulous.
“We did,” I said. “It was just us, an Elvis impersonator, and a lost iguana that had wandered in from the desert. We have a photo somewhere, but it’s locked in a cloud folder I can’t access without a court order.”
Jake said, “There’s always an iguana in these stories.”
“Is there?” I said. “I think this one was special.”
Kenneth shrugged. “It seemed happy.”
I concluded, “Anyway, we signed the license, got a copy, and then promptly headed for the hotel in a taxi. There’s probably a whole generation of cab drivers with theories about why two men from New York left a wedding license, three pairs of sunglasses, and a bag of marshmallows in the back seat.”
Delancy looked at Alejandro, who was listening with the unblinking attention of a man evaluating tactical advantage. “Married in Vegas, divorced in—?”
I sipped my coffee. “Well, that’s where the story gets complicated.”
Kyue, who had been silent until now, caught my eye. There was a long, layered look, the kind you share only with someone who has survived the same childhood twice. His face said, I knew it would be you, and I let mine say, I’m glad you’re here to see it.
Eventually the laughter faded and the group drifted back into its normal mode of operation—small subgroups, low conversation, the occasional eruption of sarcasm. I watched the rhythm of it, felt the pleasure of being in a room where everyone present was both armed and disarmed at the same time.
The gathering broke up the way these things always do: quietly, in stages.
Miles and Sam left first. Sam clutched the book I had loaned him, and said, “I’ll return this in a week, or less if I don’t sleep.”
I said, “Keep it. I’ll just steal another copy from Kyue’s gallery.”
Jake and Jai came next. Jake shook Kenneth’s hand, and said, with the understated gravitas of a man making a binding declaration: “Glad you got there, in the end.”
Kenneth smiled, said, “So am I,” and the two exchanged a look that made the room feel heavier and lighter at the same time.
Jai told me, “You did good, Jude. If you ever want a job in oversight, let me know.” I said I would keep it in mind.
Delancy lingered, looking around the room as if appraising it for resale value. He turned to me and said, “If you’re ever bored, there’s a whole sector of the information economy that could use your particular brand of genius. The offer stands.”
Alejandro, at his side, clapped me on the shoulder. “Good man,” he said, and the two of them departed, leaving the faint, ozone scent of problems solved.
Lucas and Kyue were last. Lucas gave me the nod, which I had learned was not just a gesture but a complete sentence, and Kyue gripped my arm and held it for a moment longer than necessary.
“Don’t screw this up,” he whispered, but he was smiling as he said it.
The door closed, and the apartment was full of the residue of company—a warm clutter of empty glasses, a half-eaten cheese plate, the sense that, for once, the future was allowed to arrive on its own terms.
Kenneth and I sat there, side by side, not talking. The silence was easy, and I let myself enjoy it. I thought about the story I had just told, and the stories we were going to tell next, and I decided that, for the first time in my life, I was fine with letting the plot unfold at its own pace.
It felt like winning.
After everyone had left, the apartment became a still life: the spread of empty glasses, the cool blue light from the city, the absence of urgent noise.
I rinsed the last plate, left it on the rack, and poured myself a small glass of red—the last in the bottle, which felt like a boundary. Kenneth had drifted to the window, hands in his pockets, the curve of his shoulders outlined by the downtown lights.
He didn’t say anything.
I joined him, wine in hand, and leaned against the counter. The only sound was the distant pulse of traffic, the hum of the fridge, and the slow, even rhythm of two people not needing to fill the air.
I let it ride for as long as I could stand it. Then I set my glass on the counter and said, with a clarity I would not have managed six months ago, “I want to get married again.”
Kenneth did not turn, but I saw the slow-motion flex at his jaw, the almost-smile that never reached his mouth unless he allowed it. “We are married,” he reminded me.
“I know,” I said. “But I want to do it on purpose. Not as a… contingency plan, or a running joke, or something to keep the wolves at bay. I want the real thing.”
Kenneth looked at me then, fully, the kind of attention that could strip paint. “Tell me what you want.”
I thought about it. “Small. No invitations, just the people we want. My mom, if she’s up for it.
Kyue—he’s been my person since the first time I needed someone.
The rest, if they want to come. Afterward, the back booth at the ballpark, with extra wings and a pitcher of cheap beer.
That’s it. No press, no flowers, just a thing that actually belongs to us. ”
Kenneth nodded, slow and measured, and said, “Sunday. When we’re at your mother’s, I’ll propose.”