Chapter 62 Dog Wedding
Earth Day crept up on me.
We’re getting ready to move into filming for Love Today.
I’m prepping to be uprooted again so I can be present on set.
But first things first: My mom is getting married.
Yes, I told her wedding prep was burning me out, but let’s be real, I was in too deep by New Year’s to let go of the reins.
This dog wedding is my weird, quirky child.
I have my handy clipboard clutched against my chest as I watch Mom and Layla from the edge of the lavish white tent we put up in the park.
They’re doing a couple’s version of the “willow” choreography from Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour, and it’s the best first dance I’ve ever seen.
They’re wearing green capes and clutching glowing orbs as they prance around each other, lip-synching, posing to all the sharp accents in the music.
A good half of the guests are watching from their seats with their dogs, but the youths present are sitting at the edge of the portable wooden dance floor, cheering Mom and Layla on.
Micah and Jordyn are at a table toward the front of the tent, near the dance floor. They have a brand-new baby girl named Celaena back in New Jersey (currently staying with Micah’s parents). I made it to the hospital about eight hours after she was born.
Jordyn insisted on flying out here for my mother’s second wedding despite my many assurances that it would be fine if she missed it. She gave birth two months ago!
Whitney and Glenn are here too (obviously).
I’ve stopped giving them couples sessions.
Whitney assured me that they’d find a new therapist. I don’t know if she has, and it’s taken everything in me not to ask.
But I haven’t. I have to trust that she’ll be able to do what’s best for her and her husband.
I’ve been working hard at being a better version of myself.
I’ve been engaging with the people I work with.
Opening up about my personal life in the writers’ room.
Hanging out with them outside of work. I never did that at The Minute.
I had work acquaintances that I knew nothing about.
It changes the game, having real friends at work.
I’ve been spending more time with my mom.
Telling her when things annoy me. And I’ve been making an effort to accept compliments when they’re given rather than chucking them off as fake or insincere.
I’ve been doing CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) paired with EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) to dig into that.
Being on the therapist side of EMDR feels like being the “guy in the chair,” directing your top agent to reach their objective and take down their demons in the process.
Being on the patient side of EMDR is like lying awake on an operating table, glowering at your own insides. Not quite as fun or rewarding; but hell, if we didn’t uncover and work through some shit, that should have been glaringly obvious.
I’m bad at compliments because I don’t think I deserve good things. And I think I don’t deserve good things because eight-year-old Rikki thinks she’s a failure. She failed her mother when she failed to successfully reform her father, and she’s still in here with me.
Once I pulled that wound out from the depths of my chest, we were able to start reframing her narrative, and, in turn, start to reframe the way I walk through the world.
I’ve been stuck on that mental loop my entire life.
I couldn’t outrun it. I couldn’t outsmart it with my degrees.
I had to face it like everyone else. And if I’d never met Reed, and my fucking magic journal, I don’t know how long it would have taken me to look it in the eye.
To admit to myself that I have issues that I need help to conquer. And for that I will always be grateful.
The guests and I cheer as the “willow” dance finishes, and the DJ opens up the floor.
I grin as people swarm around my mom and stepmom.
The two of them are in gold to honor their favorites—golden retrievers (you can’t make this shit up).
I’m wearing a white vintage swing dress with black polka dots (in honor of dalmatians) that my mom picked out.
Layla’s sister and maid of honor, Melody, is in a white poodle skirt with her hair in tight curls (poodles).
There’s a whole slew of people lined up along the right side of the tent with their pups for our dog photographer.
Everyone looks so happy. I think I did good.
We’re about thirty-five minutes into the dance party portion of this wedding when my mom gets up on stage with her bouquet and exchanges words with the DJ. I squint at her from my seat next to Jordyn. We’ve been catching up on her new life as a mom.
“What is she doing?” I mumble. “There’s nothing on the schedule until after dinner when we do the cake cutting and karaoke hour.”
The DJ picks up the mic. “All right, folks, time for the bouquet toss.”
I snort, shooting Jordyn a look. “Is she kidding? This is a queer wedding. Why are we engaging in this hetero nonsense?”
Jordyn shrugs. “It’s your mom’s wedding. She gets to do what she wants!”
“Hot to go!” blasts from the speakers. “Single ladies! You’re up! Get out here on the dance floor!”
I sigh and wander onto the floor. There’s a few uncomfortable late-teenage, maybe early twenties women out here with me (my mom’s friends’ kids), but no adult adults.
My mom waves to me as I shuffle to the right edge of the floor.
She spins around, and I groan as her pink bouquet spirals right for me.
All I have to do is extend my arms, and it lands in my hands without any effort. Oh boy.
Does she have a plant she’s trying to set me up with?
To her dismay, I haven’t been dating. I haven’t wanted to, and I’ve been so busy anyway.
I pad over to the front of the floor next to the DJ.
Layla walks onto the faux wood with a chair and gestures to my mom with a flourish to sit.
Our guests get out of their seats, closing in around the perimeter to watch the theatrics.
They’re all giggles and cheers as Layla makes a show of getting under my mother’s gold dress and removes a shiny pink garter with her teeth.
I chuckle as Layla does a little victory dance.
“All right, we have our bouquet girl!” the DJ chimes in. “Our maid of honor! I believe her mother told me she’s straight! So, let’s get all the single guys who date women up here!”
I pull the bouquet up to block my face as a blush creeps up my chest. I’m scared of the sheer number of divorced sixty-plus men present that could wander out onto the floor.
Behind me, Layla climbs onto the stage with the sequined pink garter.
She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Rikki, are you okay? No pressure here. Your mom thought this would be fun.”
I look up at her and laugh awkwardly. “I’m okay. It’s fine. I’ll just tell whoever gets it to put it on my wrist.” Layla squeezes my arm and stands up as “Shake It Off” bursts from the speakers.
I swallow and peek out at the suitors. I scan past three late-teen, early twenties youths too.
And, oof, two sixty-plus fellows. I take an alarmed step back, ramming into the stage and falling on my ass along the edge as my eyes latch onto Reed, standing behind them all.
Shock spears through me. Chills race down my limbs as his cyber gaze locks with mine.
He’s in a black fitted suit. Clean shaven.
The sides of his thick auburn hair are buzzed, and the top is long.
My heart twists as his lips press into his adorable, dimpled, closed-mouth smile.
When Layla tosses the garter in Reed’s direction, I know this has been fucking rigged. He catches it easily. Reaching an arm up and snatching it out of the air, without even breaking eye contact. Warmth blooms across my chest.
“Legend has it!” The DJ comes back on. “The couple who completes the garter cycle are blessed with romantic luck for the next year. You two up for this?”
I think I’ve seen this film before. Someone’s brought the chair back to center stage. I throw up my thumb without looking away from Reed, and he does the same. Jet’s “Are You Gonna Be My Girl” erupts from the speakers as we meet in the center of the floor.
My mouth splits into a smile. “What the hell are you doing here?”
His lips tilt up. “I’m your plus-one.”
I laugh, sitting back into the chair as he lowers onto his knee with the garter.
“You comfortable with this?”
“Just keep the show PG, sailor. The sun’s out.”
He picks up my foot and slips off my red heel.
Tingling threads of heat dance up my leg from where his fingers brush my skin.
Reed tastefully slips the garter up over my toes, arch, and heel as the photographer’s camera flashes.
Then his hands disappear under my swing dress.
He carefully leads it up, over my knee. I press my smile into a purse as his fingers caress my upper thigh under the cover of my skirt.
Hot sparks tornado around my abdomen. He winks as he releases the garter, and I gasp in a shallow breath as he drags his nails down the inside of my thigh, over the length of my leg, before extracting his arm from my dress.
Reed stands to an abundance of cheers around the room and innocently offers me his hand.
“Are You Gonna Be My Girl” is still blaring from the speakers as he tugs me off the chair, and we explode into movement with the beat.
Twisting and turning across the floor as the song crescendos, and the other guests converge around the DJ.
It feels like we’re out there lip-synching and giggling at each other for an eternity.
But eventually the song ends and shifts to “Lover.” We naturally slow our roll to a snail-paced mosey.
I smile at him. I haven’t stopped smiling. I don’t think I physically could right now.
Nope, just tried. Can’t.