I lift my hands and offer a slow clap, laced in sarcasm.
Thankfully, no one notices the true meaning behind my subtle clap. As long as I’m performing joyful noise, they don’t bother considering my intent.
After what feels like half an hour, Annalisa makes it to the altar, kisses her dad on the cheek, and then sucks in a sharp breath as she makes a scene of giving her besotted groom a slow once-over. And because they are expert performers, she turns to the audience—oh, excuse me, ahem, friends and family—and gestures to Simon with her bouquet.
“Give our groom a round of applause. Have you ever seen anyone more handsome?”
The best man cleans up pretty well, but who am I to argue with the bride on her wedding day?
Once again, the chapel rings out in clapping, and as all eyes are on us, I smile and give Simon a few claps as well while I envision his head between my hands, and instead of clapping my palms together, I’m slapping him right in those floppy, surgically pinned-back ears of his.
The chapel finally calms down, people take their seats in the sturdy pine pews, and the pastor begins his speech.
I tune him out. Not quite in the mood to hear about how the happy couple is the model for a perfect marriage. Instead, I stare down at the light-blue wing tip shoes that expertly match my light-blue Armani tuxedo, Danny Kaye–style.
The shoes bring me back to a time I brought Annalisa to my Boyle Heights apartment, which was littered with friendly drug dealers and ruled by an unspoken agreement—you don’t rat us out and we won’t murder you in your sleep. It was a deal I didn’t mind taking. Annalisa was a struggling actress at the time, so she understood the need for low rent and didn’t even think twice about where I lived. Instead, we cuddled up on the futon mattress on my floor and streamed White Christmas. I marveled at the timeless story line, and she sighed over the costumes, declaring that one day, she was going to marry a man who wore a suit that matched his shoes. I promised her that on her wedding day, I’d make that happen.
Only . . . at the time, I was convinced I was going to be the groom, not the best man.
“The couple has prepared their own wedding vows,” the pastor says with an impressed lilt to his voice.
Of course they have.
Bet they didn’t actually write the vows themselves.
I refrain from crossing my arms over my chest and tapping my toe indignantly as they proclaim their everlasting love for each other.
This should be good.
Simon continues to dab at his eyes—the man must have tear sticks attached to his handkerchief because even though his eyes haven’t stopped dripping, his facial expression remains stoic. Wouldn’t be the first time he inconspicuously taped a tear stick to his eye. I was the one who introduced him to the magical Hollywood trick.
In grand fashion, Annalisa sets her shoulders back and makes a dramatic display of drawing a folded piece of paper from the depths of her cleavage like a magician pulling a bunny from his hat. The awe that falls over the crowd is exasperating. You’d think she’s just mastered boss-level sorcery from their oohs and aahs.
If they think that’s spectacular, they should attend one of my family reunions, where my aunt Suzie utilizes her cleavage like Mary Poppins’s carpetbag. Roarick, my brother, still swears to this day that he saw her pull a live succulent from between her “bosoms.”
Carefully, Annalisa unfolds the paper and looks up at Simon. One would think for being such a trained actress, she’d memorize her vows. But like everything else, it’s all for the show.
I stuff my hands in my pockets, and from over Simon’s shoulder, I stare her down. Just waiting to hear what she has to say.
“I can remember the day I first laid eyes on you,” she begins.
Yeah, it was at my apartment. Simon came flying in looking like a gnome-size Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson in jeans and a black turtleneck. He’d just finished an off-off-Broadway performance of A Day in the Life of Zack Morris, a less-than-titillating “play” that required the hole-in-the-wall theater to refund ticket prices to the audience due to the lead puking across the ten-by-ten-foot stage after an overdose of Sausage McMuffins that morning.
He barged through my door, told me there was vomit everywhere, and then ran down to his apartment, one level below me. Annalisa found him offensive.
“From your beautifully stark black hair.”
Dyed black hair.
“To your square, masculine jaw.”
Jaw implants; he got them five years ago.
“To your mesmerizing blue eyes.”