Bernice, who—in spite of her name—looked twenty-five-ish, and the kind of white that suggested fantastic Scandinavian genes, produced another sample slice. The cake itself looked like it might have been harvested from an old sponge, but the frosting was gorgeous, with a dozen different textures and colors that made it look like it was decorated with flowers.

  “Textured cakes are very in this season,” Bernice told me. “We can also customize the textures. For example, if there’s a texture that’s particularly meaningful to you as a couple, we can create that for you.”

  “Corduroy,” Dag said in a very un-Dag-like voice.

  Bernice glanced at him and then nodded as she said to me, “We can definitely do corduroy.”

  “And leather,” Dag said. “We’re really into leather.”

  A hint of color came into Bernice’s Scandinavian cheeks. But she managed a professional, “We can do leather.”

  I gave Dag a look that, in very un-Dag-like fashion, he ignored. After a moment, I passed him one of the tasting forks. He made a face, and we each took a bite.

  Ok, the whole harvested from an old sponge thing? Not far off.

  “It’s very chewy,” I said—managed to say after about seven minutes of working my jaw. “Maybe—”

  “Watercolors are also very promising right now,” Bernice said, collecting the offending cake and disappearing behind the display case. She emerged with another sample slice, one that looked, well, like a watercolor. The frosting was smooth—no texture here, thank you—and a marbled blue and white that made me think of robin eggs. “This would be a bit avant-garde—”

  “Oh,” Dag said, “really?”

  “But some people invite their guests to paint the cake—edible watercolor, of course—before cutting it. And, of course, it makes for a dazzling presentation.”

  “Yeah,” Dag said. “Dazzling.”

  I gave him another, more considering look. We’d been to two other bakeries this week, and Dag—who was normally, in the fine tradition of his parents, so supportive and encouraging that one time he had told me I’d done a good job putting my socks on—had gotten increasingly, well—

  Oh my God, I thought. He’s grumpy about cake.

  And that didn’t make any sense because Dag had never met a baked good he didn’t love.

  “You’ll notice that this cake tends toward a dense, wet mouth-feel—” Bernice was saying, her tone encouraging us to accept the possibility that dense and wet were good things when it came to cake.

  “Uh huh,” I said loudly before she could provide any more compelling descriptors. Grabbing a fork, I nudged the plate toward Dag with my other hand. He didn’t exactly make a face this time, but when he took a bite, he went totally motionless and then, without chewing, swallowed.

  I speared a bite of cake and slid it into my mouth.

  Wet and dense, huh?

  It was closer to the feeling you’d have if you stuck a tube of toothpaste in your mouth and squeezed it.

  Somehow, I let it slide down my throat. No jokes, please.

  “Are you sure that’s a cake?” I managed to ask.

  “Well, legally, in some countries, you have to call it a gel.”

  “What about, you know, a cake that’s legally a cake?”

  She smiled at me. I knew that smile. I’d used that smile—once, notably, on a salesclerk in an Old Navy who had told me I’d look good in plaid shorts because, quote, “they’ll draw the eye away from other areas.”

  “Cake is really more of a concept,” she said, “don’t you think?”

  “Actually, cake is cake.” I leaned forward in my chair. “It’s this thing like bread, only sweeter.”

  “And fluffier,” Dag said.

  “Oh, and it’s fluffier.”

  “I know what you’re going to love,” Bernice said, springing up from her seat and heading for the display case with a little twirl—which, incidentally, showed the Scandinavian waistline of someone who had never in her life been serious about cake. I should have spotted it right off the bat. “You’re going to love this watermelon cake.”

  Dag had adjusted his grip on the plastic fork. He was bending one of the tines with his thumb. “Watermelon.”

  “Watermelon is a flavor,” I said.

  “It’s a Laffy Taffy flavor. It’s not a cake flavor.”

  “Uh, Dag, the fork—maybe you could—”

  The tine snapped.

  “Here it is,” Bernice said, floating back to us from behind the case. In one hand, she carried a plate with watermelon. Prettily sliced watermelon. Neatly stacked watermelon. Watermelon garnished with mango slices and cherries and blackberries and mint leaves. But still, unmistakably, watermelon.

  “I’ll give you three guesses which celebrity had this exact cake—”

  The screech of Dag’s chair legs on the tile meant that I would never know, sadly, which celebrity had indulged in a watermelon cake. Not-cake. Deconstructed cake. Whatever you wanted to call it.

  Bells jingled.

  The door wobbled shut.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told Bernice. “Can you show me what you have in a vegetable?”

  That perked her right up. “There’s a parsnip mash with a beet-root glaze—”

  I shut the door behind me as I stepped out into the snap of the February air, trying to cut her off before Dag heard more blasphemy.

  He was around the side of the bakery, leaning against the painted cinderblock, hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “You should take up smoking,” I said. “Actors do it. It gives you something to do with your hands.”

  He huffed a breath. The day wasn’t cold enough to see the vapor, but it was still cold, and when I nudged him enough times, he rolled his eyes and put his arm around me.

  “It’s a stupid cake,” he said. “I know it’s a stupid cake.”

  “You know what I was thinking?”

  “The watermelon cake would probably have negative calories.”

  I hid a smile. “I was thinking, I never asked you what kind of cake you wanted.”

  He was quiet for a beat too long. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Whatever makes you happy.”

  “That’s very sweet of you.”

  After ten seconds, he started chewing his lip.

  And because he was my fiancé and I loved him, I decided to help him out. “But if you were going to recommend something...”

  For one final instant, the effort to hold back showed in his face—an unbearable strain. And then the words came rushing out: “Costco does this funfetti sheet cake with vanilla icing—” He stopped himself. Shrugged, one-shouldered. “It’s not fashion forward or avant-garde or anything.”

  “I don’t know if I care about avant-garde.”

  “It’s definitely not sustainable. I know you said you wanted sustainable.”

  “Yeah, but there’s nothing sustainable about a cake.”

  He had this little line between his eyebrows.

  “I think,” I said, “I want a Costco cake. Funfetti. With vanilla icing.”

  “E, it’s our wedding. We’re not—”

  “And because you have been so unbelievably kind and patient throughout this whole week, even when we tried the carrot cake that tasted like carrots and sawdust, I’m going to do something nice for you.”

  A sidelong look. A cocked eyebrow.

  “Do you want to tell Bernice?” I asked. “Or shall I?”

  DAG (4)

  Nothing good happened in alleys; that was one of those things you learn on the job, although, come to think of it, it didn’t take much more than common sense to figure it out. Someone had hidden the men’s formalwear at the end of an alley in Moulinbas, which should have told me something right there. It occupied the ground floor of a Creole townhouse that had been painted the color of a parakeet. Ferns hanging from the second-floor gallery did their best to hide the streaks of rust staining the crumbling stucco. The man helping us—if helping was the right word—was white, in his fifties, and had that rigorous thinness that’s like the smoking gun for too much cardio. Well, that, and being gay. He said his name was Cookie.

  Cookie made a swallowing noise that came close to expressing displeasure, but it was just ambiguous enough that it might have been disappointment or dismay. You know, so you couldn’t actually pin him down for being rude. And then he said, “I simply don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand?” I said, plucking at the white suit I was currently wearing. “I look like Poppin’ Fresh.”

  “You don’t look like Poppin’ Fresh,” Eli said. “You look very handsome. Doesn’t he look very handsome, Cookie?”

  “Scrumptious,” Cookie said.

  “It’s too tight.” I pulled on the offending jacket. “And it’s too baggy at the same time, even though I’m pretty sure that should be impossible. And my legs are sticking out—look, you can see my ankles.”

  “That’s how people wear their trousers,” Eli said. “Isn’t it Cookie?”

  “My, yes.”

  “See?” Eli gave me a once-over. Then he sighed. “All right, we’ll try something else.”

  We did. And Cookie insisted on helping, no matter what I said. He got his hand in the, uh, cookie jar twice before I sent him out of the changing booth.

  “He’s quite strong, isn’t he?” Cookie said on the other side of the curtain. “It gives one a certain thrill.”

  If Eli answered, I couldn’t hear him, but I thought I could sense him laughing in the other room.

  The next suit was better. Kind of. The jacket was a linen that Cookie kept calling “stone-washed gray,” which was all right, except that the lapels were trimmed with royal blue velvet. And the vest was royal blue velvet. And the trousers were royal blue velvet.

  “I sound like a Dyson when I walk.”

  “Spin around.” Eli twirled a finger in the air.

  I folded my arms.

  “Dag!”

  I did not spin. I turned in place. Like a man.

  “Scrumptious,” Cookie said, and then there was a wet smack of lips.

  “All right,” I said. “Are we done fooling around?”

  “What’s wrong with this one?” Eli protested. “You look fantastic.”

  “Aside from being a walking noise ordinance violation? Jeez, Eli, my thighs are going to wear this velvet down to the backing by the time I walk to the car. And that’s leaving out the part where I look like a peacock.”

  “You look very handsome,” Eli said stoutly.

  “What are you wearing? Maybe you should try something on, and I’ll sit there and eat bonbons and—and dish with Cookie.”

  Cookie and Eli exchanged a look.

  “I can’t pick what I’m going to wear,” Eli said, “until I know what you’re going to wear. It only makes sense for you to decide first; you’re the picky one.” He sat up a little straighter. “Selective.”

  “I am not—” Against my better judgment, I spun around and stalked toward the changing booth. “—selective.”

  The downside to changing booths, I was learning, was that they didn’t have a door to slam.

  The next suit was what Cookie called, “A purple, slim-fit shawl-lapel tuxedo.”

  “I look like Willy Wonka.”

  It might have been the lights, but Eli was looking a little green. “You do kind of look like Willy Wonka. Oh, maybe you could lean into it—like, roll down the aisle or something.”

  The next wasn’t a suit at all. It was a black blazer, a shirt with vertical stripes, and white jeans that weren’t big enough for my arms, let alone my thighs. Somehow, I got them on. When I emerged from the booth, Cookie made a little moaning noise and fainted onto the sofa, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead.

  “It should feel nice to be appreciated,” Eli told me.

  “He’s dead because this is so ugly.” I glared at him. “I look like I just left the Jersey Shore.”

  “You look very—”

  I held up a finger. When a moment had passed, I said, “All I need now is a spray tan.”

  “All right, let’s try—”

  “No more, Eli. This isn’t the right place; we’ll look somewhere else.”

  “One more—Dag, please, one more. Look at Cookie. He worked so hard. Can’t you do it for Cookie?”

  Apparently because no one else was going to do it, Cookie was reviving himself and, simultaneously, trying to give me puppy dog eyes, which worked less well when you had hair growing out of your ears.

  The thing about getting married, I told myself, is that you only have to do it once if you do it right the first time. So, I went back into the changing booth.

  It was seersucker. It fit perfectly. Better than perfectly, actually—it made me look like I had a waistline, instead of just being a big block of body set on a couple of legs.

  After that, it took some cooing from Cookie, some adjustments suggested by Eli, an overall unbearable amount of time while they fussed at me.

  I didn’t figure it out until we were walking to the truck. Then I stopped, looked at Eli, and said, “Are you kidding me?”

  He stopped a pace later and turned to face me. Butter in his mouth and all that. “What?”

  “Do not make me use your middle name.”

  Half-laughing: “What?”

  “If you wanted me to pick this one, just tell me next time.”

  “I wanted you to pick what you wanted to wear.”

  “You’re about to get yourself into serious trouble, mister.”

  With a sliver of a smile, Eli asked, “If I had said seersucker, what would you have told me?”

  “It’s too casual for a wedding—oh.”

  Eli was nice enough to let me put an arm around his shoulders and walk him the rest of the way back to the truck.

  “And,” he said as he buckled himself in, “you can buy me dinner as an apology.”

  I grinned as I started the truck. “That sounds about right.”

  ELI (5)

  Don’t get married in August. Not in Louisiana. And definitely not outdoors at an old plantation house, no matter how beautiful it was when you visited in February, no matter how the live oaks and the Spanish moss and the wall of French windows seduced you. Not if you can help it, anyway. There are simple, practical things you can do to avoid that kind of mistake. The first one—the easiest—is murdering other potential brides and grooms to create openings at venues. We could have gotten married in October. Hell, we could have gotten married in January.

  So, that’s a life hack, and you’re welcome.

  I was trying to fix my hair.

  We were having the ceremony in Chêne’s ballroom, which was conveniently located on one side of the aforementioned French windows. On the other side of the windows was the patio—Dag had made it a condition of our marriage that I stop referring to it as the French patio since it was, as Dag continued to point out, the only patio. That’s where we’d be holding the reception—in the summer dusk, in the blue bloom of night, with fairy lights and moss strung overhead. And, I was now realizing, bugs. And birds. And the enemy of every beautiful person who has ever lived, all the way back to Helen of Troy: humidity.

  “Perhaps a smoothing mist,” said Bradley, the little wiener who had tricked me into this situation. He, of course, looked fine—he had that straight, blond, white-boy hair that did whatever you wanted it to and never caused any trouble.

  “I tried a smoothing mist,” I said.

  “A dry de-frizzer?”

  “Check.”

  “A shielding serum?”

  “If I try any more serum, I’m going to look like I use Vitalis.”

  Bradley adjusted the folio-sized planner he was hugging to his body. Then, in what he clearly thought was an appropriate tone of voice, he said, “The volume does give your hair a certain energy and dynamic—”

  I turned around slowly, and Bradley must have forgotten what he was saying. His eyes widened. And he backed out of the groom’s suite.

  Which, all things considered, was a win. I didn’t even have to scratch his face off.

  I looked in the mirror. The lopsided, greasy, humidity-blasted hair. The gray suit that fit me about as well as a grocery sack. The way the shirt rounded over my belly. Even the way my trousers broke. I stared for another minute, and then I stumbled over to the door, locked it—which, a part of my brain noted, was a tremendous oversight in expensive venues that catered to unstable brides- and grooms-to-be. But, just to be safe, I also wedged a chair under the door handle. That was definitely an oversight on their part; brides- and grooms-to-be shouldn’t be allowed any kind of blocking or jamming implements, even makeshift ones.

  The interior designer, or whoever had outfitted this place, had included a divan, which was placed under one of the tall windows. I sat. Then I kicked off my shoes, which felt nice, because they’d been fucking murdering my little toes. I heard the music start. And then I heard Bradley, the little wiener, knock on my door. He tried the handle. Then he called my name. I turned off the lights and went back to the divan, and after a while, he went away again.

  The music kept going. I guessed we were getting our money’s worth out of the quartet. The last bit of daylight filtered through the window, and then the sun sank out of sight, and the only light was the indirect glow from the horizon. Shadows fattened. A night bird called. Down below, I could hear voices—thankfully, not clearly enough for me to make out what anyone was saying.

  And then I heard metal chime, and a familiar grunt.

  I couldn’t help myself: I turned around and knelt on the divan to poke my head out the window.

  Dag was climbing up the downspout. His face had a relaxed, almost easy look to it, which could probably be explained by his oh-so-fucking excellent chest, arms, and shoulders. He looked perfect, of course.

 

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