I wrap my arms around him, bury a hand in his hair, ask if he wants to go back to his car.
At least that’s one thing we can agree on.
22
We didn’t think they would be so… naked.” Lincoln taps his chin as he stands in front of a nude oil painting that leaves nothing to the imagination. “Or so, uh, well endowed.”
“My parents are going to lose their minds,” Victoria says. “We can’t have our first dance in front of this. Not on TV.”
A producer and camera operator stroll through the exhibit, pausing by each work of art to examine it up close. Victoria and Lincoln booked the museum six months ago, and suffice it to say, the exhibits have changed.
“It’s all very artistically and tastefully done,” Mom says, trying to be helpful. “Right, Quinn?”
“Oh—right.” I try to tear my gaze away, but it’s, like, a lot of penises. It’s taking all my willpower not to send a photo to Julia. Maybe I can snap one when no one is looking.
“Are you sure we can’t move some of them around? Even just for one day?” the producer asks the curator.
“Unfortunately, that’s not going to be an option. This collection is in very high demand.”
Mom lets Victoria and Lincoln walk a few paces ahead of her, then whips her head toward me, lowering her voice so only I can hear. “What happened to that quick pop-by you were going to do last week? To take photos of what the art looked like in the space before the walk-through?”
Last week. Shit. Was I? When Mom mentioned the walk-through at work brunch, I assumed this was what she meant.
“It may have, um, slipped my mind,” I say.
The disappointment on her face is impossible to miss. I’m not just her daughter. I’m the employee who fucked up.
“We’ll play around with the setup.” Mom strides into the center of the room with a binder tucked under her arm, all business. “We could do the buffet here, and the band here, and then we could get some curtains or a divider screen to cover up the more erotic pieces?”
“I like that idea,” Lincoln says. “Vic?”
“Everyone’s going to think we’re pervs for deciding to have our wedding here,” Victoria says. “My mother thinks HBO is pornography. This many dicks might actually kill her.”
The producer and camera operator are discussing something in hushed tones. “I know timing is tight,” the producer says, “but we’re wondering if it might be better to explore other venue options at this point.”
“Other venues?” Victoria squeaks. “We’ve had this booked for ages. I grew up going to this museum with my grandparents. There’s a reason we picked it. We can’t pull a new venue out of our asses with two weeks to go.”
“It might actually be kind of funny if we do the cake cutting right here.” Lincoln points to a painting of a man with some strategically placed desserts. “It’s unconventional, sure, but we could roll with it. What do you think, hon?”
Victoria bursts into tears.
“Sorry—I just—” she says, and then she races out of the exhibit.
“I’ve got this,” Mom says.
Lincoln holds out his arms, looking defeated but concerned. “Be my guest. I wish I could say this is the first time this has happened, but I think she’s under a lot of pressure. I can say from experience that I’m probably not who she wants to talk to right now.”
I place a hand on my mother’s binder. “This whole thing was my fault. I can go talk to her.”
A beat passes between us before she relents. “Thanks. I’ll try to puzzle this out with the camera guy.”
Comforting a weepy bride is the last thing I expected to do today. I’ve seen my parents do it numerous times, and I’m always bowled over by their patience, their empathy. Crying in public is the worst; I owe it to Victoria to try to make things right.
I can hear her sobs before I reach the bathroom. I knock on the door. “Victoria? It’s Quinn. Can I come in?”
She just cries louder, which I take as neither a yes nor a no. Her pointy-toed flats peek out from beneath the door of one of the stalls.
“I’m just going to sit out here,” I say, sliding onto a padded bench across from the sinks. It’s a very luxe bathroom, with a sparkling chandelier that looks like a work of art itself. “If you want to talk about anything, I’m here to listen. Or if you want to not talk, we can do that, too.”
A sniff from the stall, and then the sound of toilet paper unrolling. When she opens the door, mascara has spiderwebbed down her cheeks, and a few strands of hair have escaped her curly bun. I’m reminded of her meltdown the week before proposals.
“Sorry,” she says, blotting at her face with a wad of toilet paper. “You must think I’m a complete bridezilla.”
“We at B+B firmly reject that word. You’re absolutely allowed to be emotional, and we deal with plenty of disaster grooms, too, and there’s no word for that.”
“Fine. A mess, then.”
“No,” I insist, and when she raises a single eyebrow in a way that makes me deeply jealous—my eyebrow-raising ability is both or nothing—I relent. “Well. A little. But you don’t have to apologize.”
“It’s honestly not even about the art. I mean, hell, I work with art. Those paintings are beautiful. The dudes are hot, am I right?”
I let myself laugh at that. I’m starting to get the feeling there’s something bigger going on than painted penises. Metaphorically speaking.
Victoria joins me on the bench. “All of this is just a reminder that people are expecting perfection from us. They have this idea of who we are and what this is supposed to look like, and if the wedding doesn’t mesh with that, then we’re going to get a lot of backlash.”
“Most
