It started out wrong with the ring. Wrong, I mean, from everyone else’s perspective. They would have said, you should not be the one buying this, Kat, and if I was, it shouldn’t be a Ring Pop. Cherry. I remembered you saying once – just once – that artificial grape made you gag as a kid, that it was some sort of travesty against the natural stuff, and so even though purple was my favorite color, I bought you cherry and walked home. I sat in the kitchen, spinning it around on the table, and twice when it fell off, I thought I’d shattered it. Somehow, I still had the thing in tact when you walked through the door.
You had a bag of Chinese take-out in your hand, and I knew the order without asking, which I loved. Garlic eggplant for you, Szechuan beef for me, and vegetable lo mein to share. I loved that you knew, that you thought to stop at Yenping’s on your way home, that tomorrow – like last weekend – I would buy your soy milk and my skim, and neither of us would remember our money wasn’t meant, necessarily, to share.
Still, I had to tease you. “What if I had a date?” I said, curling my palm over the Ring Pop so you wouldn’t see.
“Then you could eat your dead cow cold tomorrow,” you said, and when I smiled, you tried to turn away to hide your grin.
“Hey,” I said.
“What now?” you asked, spinning around. “Am I supposed to greet her at the door?”
I said, “There isn’t any girl, James,” which you knew.
“Good,” you replied anyway, pulling the first cardboard container from the bag and plopping it onto the table. “Don’t make me eat all this lo mein myself.”
“James,” I managed, barely, and when you continued unloading the bag instead of answering, tried more loudly: “Hey. James.”
“Hey,” you said, stopping entirely. “Sorry. I’m just hungry. I ate an early lunch.” You ran over, kissed me on the cheek, and headed toward the cabinet for plates.
“No,” I said. “It’s not that. Only – I wanted to ask you something.”
“Shoot, Katsper,” you said, turning from the cabinet to look at me, keeping your eyes on mine.
I made a fist around the Ring Pop, stood up, feeling suddenly sweaty and sick, and choked a little on something very big stuck in my throat.
“What is it?” you asked, your brow bumpy with worry suddenly, forcing me to hurry, since I didn’t want you scared.
“I want to get married,” I said, which didn’t seem quite right. “To you,” I edited, and unwrapped my fingers from the Ring Pop, the plastic wrap crinkling as I offered you my palm.
You smiled, slowly, thinking I was joking or you didn’t understand, and you took the candy and held it between two fingers, like you had tweezers for hands, like you weren’t sure what to do.
“I mean it, James,” I said. “Really, I mean it. This is what I want.”
Pulling the wrapper from the candy, you sat down slowly, and stared at it like it would suddenly make sense. “This is all you want?” you asked.
“This is it,” I said. “As long as it’s the same for you.”
“I don’t have anything for you,” you pointed out, looking at me, worried, expecting it – somehow – to make a difference.
“You brought dinner,” I said, unable to see that as less than a fair trade, which made you laugh.
“They gave us three fortune cookies,” you offered, picking one up and handing it to me.
I took the cookie and looked at you, waiting there, holding the ring. “Really, then?” I said. “You’re saying yes?”
You grinned the way that made your last boyfriend call you Shark, and slid the Ring Pop onto your hand. Fourth finger of your left hand, the one my mom insisted, back in middle school, I must not put my mood rings on.
I unwrapped the cookie, grabbed a side and held it out to you. We broke it like a wishbone, and when I started to read the fortune, you grabbed it from my hand, and glared at me. “It won’t come true,” you argued, and so I nodded, and cracked the cookie in my teeth. You leaned forward and kissed me on that space where my cheek bridges my mouth, and I thought, this is the best moment I have never wanted, and how will we explain?
~
Telling our parents felt like coming out all over again, except this time it was the prospect of their happiness that terrified me. I imagined my mom, all Mary-Kay-shiny, a grin smeared across her face, kissing each of my cheeks, suddenly European in her pride. I felt the memory of all those June marches you and I attended boiling inside of me, pulsing toward my feet, and, chopping onions for the pasta you were making, I thought I might use the acid as an excuse to cry. How do I tell her it wasn’t a phase? I could see her, taking my grandma – my dad’s mom – to lunch, drinking iced tea with practically no sugar and pretending that she knew it all along. I could see my dad sitting on our couch tonight, Mom beaming beside him, taking another drink of soda, buying time until he could smile and pretend he didn’t think we were settling.
What would I say? I wanted to hand my dad dessert and joke, “I’m just finally admitting James is my best girl.” Even now you were arguing with Betty Crocker about the best amount of sugar for your apple crisp and spilling flour all over your Death Cab for Cutie t-shirt. I bought you tickets for that concert on your twenty-fourth birthday. I hid them in a Cher CD case as a joke, and you groaned and said, “I’m gay, Katsper; I’m still allowed to have some taste.”
I’d nearly finished with the onions, when you asked whether my mom would eat dessert if you used real butter. “Probably not,” I said. “Can you wait? I’ll run down to the deli and grab margarine.”
You nodded, said, “I think there’s time.”
Brushing the last of the onions into a pile, I ran my hands under the cold water from the kitchen tap, and went in search of shoes. “I’ll hurry,” I said, but you shook your head immediately.
“No rush. Really. In fact, let me wash my hands, and I’ll come, too.”
“What about all this?” I asked, waving a hand at the mixing bowl of flour and sugar, the bag of apples all still waiting to be sliced.
“You are about to make your mom the happiest she’s been in over a decade,” you said. “Do you really think anyone’s going to care if the apple crisp isn’t quite finished?”
I smiled, but something caught between my chest and my throat, and I felt the expression slide off my face, wash slowly away. Shaking off the feeling, I grabbed keys and my wallet, and headed for the door. You were there a moment later, frowning at the flour on your shirt as if your distaste for it might convince it to disappear.
“We can pick you up an apron if you want,” I suggested, smiling for real this time.
Your eyes narrowed even as you grinned. “Can’t you make me one?” you asked. “After we’re married, I want you to sew me one.” I groaned, which egged you on. “You could embroider the edges for me and everything. Or sew my initials in the center.”
“Shut it, James,” I said.
“Maybe both,” you laughed. “The embroidery and the monogram.”
“Seriously, shut it,” I said, throwing the door open and heading for the stairs. I tried not to care if you were following me, but I needed you there anyway, and when – as I reached the building door – you pulled ahead of me, only to stop just short of opening it, I stopped too, to watch you.
“Go ahead,” you said. “Please? Hold the door for me?”
I felt a smile twist my left cheek, as I pushed the door open. Turning back to face you, I let it spread to fill the other side. I stepped back from the doorway, still leaning against it, holding it open as I waited for you to pass.
“Ladies first, mister,” I said, and you walked through.
~
“He bakes, Kathryn,” my mom said, leaning in and widening her eyes.
I wanted to say, “It’s not a recent development, Mom. Please. Stop talking like you’ve never met him before, like he’s suddenly everything you’ve wanted in a son-in-law. Stop talking like he isn’t still James.”
When we first moved in, we had them over for dinner, my dad excited to see the place, my mom pleased to be able to say she had. I came home at five-thirty and found you’d skipped out after your last meeting and were halfway finished making a turtle pie that Paula Deen would have envied, and even as I resisted the urge to lick the filling from the mixing bowl, I puckered, realizing my mom would never touch it. “You are seriously amazing, James,” I told you then, “but my mom is so weird about food. She’ll never eat this pie.”
You gasped and slumped and hung your head dramatically, remembering my rants about cookies with whole wheat flour and sugar substitutes. “I completely forgot,” you whispered, like she was your own mother and you’d forgotten her birthday, like it wasn’t just my mom’s crazy diet you had overlooked.
“Never mind,” I said, hopping onto the counter and dipping a finger into the bowl for a taste. “Save it for us; we’ll serve her Pop-Tarts. The woman needs to learn, but I’m not wasting turtle pie on her education.”
“No, I have a better idea,” you said, and putting the pie aside for a moment, you started searching through cabinets, gathering ingredients, and before I knew it, you’d created chutney from our half-dead kitchen, and baked the turtle pie regardless. After they left that night, when I sprawled across the couch and groaned for nearly a minute straight, you appeared at my side with two full plates and let me rant off and on for hours, while we devoured what she wouldn’t eat. I ate almost half that pie myself, although one slice should have sent me into a diabetic coma, and then I vigorously attacked the dishes with all my sudden, surplus energy.
Now, I could see a late night spent venting and eating apple crisp in our immediate future, but I tried to smile anyway, and said only, “I know, Mom. You should see what he makes when he’s allowed to use butter.”
She kept smiling regardless. She hadn’t stopped smiling, – her hard white teeth glaring at the rest of us, – since you leaned over and dug your head against my shoulder, egging me on. Her tweezed eyebrows had crossed so quickly as she waited for the news, and then perked, permanently, with excitement when I pushed out the words James, me, marry. I found myself unable to share her glee, and instead looked to my dad who kept scratching his beard and staring out a window over our shoulders. When Mom started talking wedding dresses and china patterns, he mumbled something about a cigarette and made his way toward the balcony, Mom wincing for half-a-second at the nastiness of the habit. After a moment, feeling a strong need for air, I followed him, and although he didn’t look pleased to see me, he didn’t seem particularly surprised.
“Hey, pumpkin,” he said, flicking ash over the ledge into the parking lot.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, leaning out myself. I watched the familiar pattern of drag, exhale, ash and found it comforting. “Look,” I added slowly, uncertain of the words. “Look, I know it seems weird.”
“You don’t have to explain, Kat,” he said, but I shook my head immediately.
“No,” I argued. “Let me. Please.” I glanced back through the glass, saw Mom’s make-up glowing in the lamplight, her hands darting back and forth as she discussed God-knows-what with James. “I want you to understand, at least.”
He sighed. “I want you to be happy, Kat. That’s all. You know that. But I was so proud of you, all these years, doing your thing, being true to yourself.”
I felt a punch knock through my chest, the sting of the words I was so proud. “I’m still myself, Dad. Really. I’m still being myself; I promise.” He nodded, appeasing, not really listening. “Dad.” I raised my voice like I could startle him out of the silence. “Dad, listen to me. I love James. I really do. Every day we live together, I’m happier; I want to wake up to eat breakfast with him for the rest of my life. I want him to be family.”
He shook his head. “I know you love him. But you love him like you would a brother; that’s no reason to marry him.”
“Why not? I can’t imagine anyone else that I would rather—”
“And what about that girl you can’t imagine?” he interrupted. “What happens when she shows up? Or when James meets someone neither one of you expects? What happens when you fall in love for real?”
“This is real, Dad,” I said, wishing he would look at me.
“I wish you’d trust me,” he said, taking a long drag on the cigarette. “I wish you’d trust me to know what you’re missing.”
“Trust me,” I said. “To know what I want.”
~
For over a week, you and I prepared for the wedding like we were planning a trip, – making phone calls, writing lists, gathering our birth certificates. Somehow you’d managed to forget your social security number, and even though you had your card, you kept asking me to quiz you on it. We worried for awhile, after reading that the license application would require information about our “marital history,” but eventually decided six years as roommates should suffice. Then we laughed, realizing they were wondering if we’d ever been married in the past.
“It hasn’t been legal that long,” you chuckled, sparking a laugh from me.
Your office wasn’t far from city hall, so you talked one of your colleagues into serving as our witness, and we prepared to make the so-called biggest step of our lives over an extended lunch hour on a Tuesday afternoon. I wore khakis and a work shirt that vaguely resembled a blouse, and agreed to let you braid ribbon into my hair. It was leftover Christmas ribbon, but it looked festive anyway somehow, and your seriousness as you concentrated on me was so sweet. Plus, pretending to humor you gave me the perfect excuse to retaliate by smearing glitter around your eyelids and on your cheeks like blush. When I finished, you shone and sparkled, and I threw my arms around you, excited all over again.
You grabbed your keys and your wallet, slid into your shoes, and just as I was grabbing my things, I discovered you bending beside me, suddenly in front of me, on the carpet on all fours.
“What the hell, James?” I smiled, nearly stumbling.
“Mount me,” you said.
Laughing, I choked out, “Excuse me?”
“Get on my back, Katsper. We’re going out of here in style.”
Still giggling, I climbed onto your back, then grabbed tight to your shoulders, as you started to stand upright. You carried me, piggy-back, toward the door. “You know you’re supposed to carry me across the threshold after we’re married,” I pointed out, and you threw up your shoulders to fake shaking me off.
“You and your customs,” you said. “Must you always be so traditional?”
I laughed as you closed the door behind us, then called out suddenly, “Hey, wait! I’m not even wearing shoes!”
But you just kept walking, down the hallway, down the stairs. “You think you need shoes to get married?” you said, bending down as we came to the front door. In response, I pushed it open for the two of us, and you marched through.
“Set me down on the asphalt and die, James,” I said, and you nodded and headed for your car.
~
Pulling parallel to the sidewalk at city hall, you put the car in park and turned to me. “Don’t move,” you said.
“What? Am I standing on your shoulders this time?”
“Shut up and close your eyes,” you said, and I stuck my tongue out at you, but closed them anyway. I heard your car door slam, and a moment later, mine open. I started to open my eyes, but you yelled at me to keep them shut, so I sighed and closed them again.
“I have a surprise for you,” you said.
“Seriously, James, I think the marriage thing is enough.”
“No listen to me. Just listen. Jeff isn’t coming.”
“What?” I bit my tongue. “We have to a have a witness, James. It’s not optional.”
“I know,” you said. “I know.”
“I don’t want some stranger from the city as a witness.”
“I know, Katsper. Just…open your eyes.”
I opened my eyes, and you stepped to the side. My dad was standing on the sidewalk in a dress shirt and tie, his beard neatly clipped. I bit my lip to keep it from quivering, and slowly started to smile.
“Your mom’s here, too,” he said. “I couldn’t really talk her out of it.”
He laughed when I laughed and held out a hand for me. “Listen, Kat. I know this isn’t some big to-do with the white dress and me giving you away. But I thought I could at least witness my baby being in love.”
I jumped up and threw my arms around his neck, the pavement biting into my feet. “Ow, ow, ow,” I said.
“Where are your shoes?” my dad asked.
“I don’t have any,” I laughed, groaning a little. “James is evil.”
He smiled. “She really does love you,” he told you, and you grinned.
“Queerest thing about her,” you said, and took my hand.
~
Inside, my mom stood talking with your dad. Her eyes grew wide when she saw me. “Kathryn,” she said immediately. “Where are your shoes?”
I smiled. “Hi, Mom.”
“Have you been walking on the sidewalks like that? As if the floors here aren’t dirty enough. Honestly—”
I turned to you and said simply, “Let’s get married, shall we?” We walked toward the counter, leaving them to follow or not.
Inside the main hall, the ceremony was swift. You snorted audibly to hear the justice of the peace leave in the line about “obeying” each other, and I chuckled, which neither the JP nor my mom seemed to find appropriate. Afterward, as we walked out, you turned to me and said, “Are they serious? Obey? What is this 1800?”
“Please don’t do as I say, James,” I replied. “I’d be so confused.” I put my arm around your waist, and made my way toward the car. You hit the button on your keychain to unlock it, but stopped me from opening my door. “Oh, don’t even get chivalrous on me,” I ordered, and you laughed.
“No. No, it’s just… I wanted to play you a song.”
“Now?” I glanced behind us. My parents and your dad stood waiting on the sidewalk, still waiting for the rest of the fuss.
“Patience, Katsper,” you begged, and bent down into the car to fiddle with the stereo. After a minute or two, you started cursing quietly, but I heard you anyway, and tilted into the car to figure out the problem.
“What’s the deal?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” you whined. “I burned this CD, and now it won’t play.”
“What’s the song?” my dad asked. “Tell us the song; we’ll sing it for you.”
A sudden look of panic flushed across your face as you looked from the car stereo to my dad and back again. “I have such better taste than this, really,” you said, to no one in particular.
“Now, you have to tell me,” I urged, and you sighed and circled my waist with one arm. You lifted your other hand, and I met it with mine. I shook my head, thinking, the middle of a city sidewalk, fighting the urge to say, What is this – junior high? But I was grinning again and found I didn’t care.
You took a deep breath, tried to look at me and lost your confidence, tried to look at our parents, and picked me again. Swaying from one side to the next, you started visibly counting beats, listening to music in your head, and then slowly, quietly you started singing.
“They say we’re young and we don’t know. We won’t find out until we grow…”
I burst out laughing, and you blushed, struggling to continue. So I joined you. “I don’t know if all that’s true” – I could hardly sing for laughing, but I didn’t mind so much to hear the tune suffer for our joy – “’cause you got me, and baby I got you.”
“Babe. I got you, babe.”
Behind us, my dad was picking up the tune, and you reached into your pocket and held up a ring pop for me. Purple.
“You hate grape,” I said, interrupting the tune.
“I know,” you said, handing it to me. “But purple is your favorite color.”
