“It could have been more awkward,” Corey said. “Trust me, I would know. I’ve had experience. There needed to be wine for it to go completely what-the-fuck.”
“So,” Vince said, voice a little wobbly, “what I’m trying to ask is… Paul Auster, will you marry me?”
We all held our breaths.
“Yeah,” Paul said hoarsely. “Yes. Yes, please. I would like that. Now. Let’s go do this now. Please.”
The smile on Vince’s face was breathtaking as he pulled Paul in for a deep kiss.
I think no one was more surprised than I when I burst into tears.
Alcohol and best friends getting engaged do not mix.
“Is there any m
ore bacon?” Brian asked.
“You’ve eaten like a pound of it!” I sobbed. “There’s no more fucking bacon.”
It was truly a wonderful brunch.
(Except for Brian.)
(And Octavius.)
(And Darren, but that shouldn’t even need to be mentioned. Right? Because it’s obvious. I mean, obviously I wouldn’t want Darren there for any reason. Ever.)
Chapter 6: Nick Carter Is Jamaican Me Crazy
“SO,” PAUL told me at lunch the following Tuesday, “we’re thinking about a spring wedding.”
I was admiring his ring, a thin platinum band that showed Vince had far more taste than I ever gave him credit for. It was flashy, but not overtly so. Vince obviously knew what he was doing. Apparently, according to Paul, no one knew, not even Darren. Sneaky man, that one was. This was the first time I was seeing it, given that Paul had called in sick to the office yesterday, claiming he’d come down with a twenty-four-hour virus, which really meant he and Vince were having just-got-engaged monkey sex. I loved them both dearly, but there were some things I really didn’t want to think about, especially since I still had yet to recover from the sex dream. Paul had tried to tell me about how Vince was a big fan of rimming, but there was just something off about hearing my best friend talk about getting his butthole licked.
“Hmm?” I said, distracted by the shiny. “That’s good. Gives a nice, long engagement because surely you don’t mean this spring, which is only like five months away. Because that would just be ridiculous, given that there is clearly not enough time to put together the wedding I deserve for you to have. Right, Paul?”
“Uh,” Paul said. “Have I said how pretty you look today? So pretty.”
I looked up at him and gripped his hand tightly. “Right, Paul?”
He looked nervous as the waitress came back to our table, bringing us our salads. I noticed Paul’s had far less fried chicken in it than he normally got. (“Paul, that’s not as healthy as you’re making it out to be.” “It’s green. There are tomatoes.”) “Watching our figure?” I asked lightly.
He shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to lose a few pounds before the wedding.”
“Who told you that you needed to do that?”
“Down, girl,” he said. “Put the nails away. This is something I thought of all on my own.”
“You’re perfect just the way you are.”
“I know,” he said.
“Do you?”
“Mostly. But if I want to do this, then why can’t I?”
I shrugged. “Just as long as you’re doing it for the right reasons, baby doll. You do you.”
“So, look,” he said. “Here’s the thing.”