The Randy Romance Novelist(5)
“They tried to do The Titanic,” Delaney said, ignoring Derk’s question.
Derk looked up at Henry and asked, “Did you plant your feet?”
“Yes!” Henry practically yelled before stomping off toward the bathroom, giving both Delaney and Derk a beautiful look at his bare butt.
“Man, he’s sensitive,” Delaney said. Nodding at the rug, Delaney asked, “You going to wear a tapestry while we discuss wedding plans or are you going to get changed?”
“If you give me some privacy, I’ll get changed, but I’m not about to give you a naked lady show.”
“Suit yourself. You have five minutes; the bridezilla has spoken.”
With that, Delaney turned on her heel and shut the door. I walked over to Henry, who was combing his hair in the mirror, and kissed his shoulder.
He gave me a defeated smile before saying, “My feet were f*cking planted.”
Laughing and patting his shoulder, I said, “I know, Henry. I know.”
***
PLOP!
Henry and I were sitting across from Delaney and Derk just as she slammed a giant folder on the table. The four-inch binder was busting from the seams, pamphlets poking out from every direction, dividers clearly labeling each section, and page protectors guarding what I could only assume were her favorite ideas for the wedding.
The bridezilla had awakened.
The last two months, Delaney and Derk haven’t even talked about the wedding; they’ve enjoyed their engagement, actually . . . they’ve enjoyed each other’s bodies. They decided to give in and finally move in together. Let’s just say we haven’t seen much of them, but then again, Henry and I have been in the same kind of fornication fog.
The other night, after I took great notes on a sex scene I was thinking about writing—thank you, Henry for riding out the falling-off-the-bed mishap—Delaney called me and demanded a wedding meeting. We were both to be present, clothed, and excited to help plan.
Henry was ready to dig his claws into some wedding cake and tuxedos, but me, on the other hand, I knew nothing when it came to wedding planning. I wasn’t sure how I was going to be much of a help other than emotional support, and I guess by the sounds of her frantic voice on the phone the other night, she was going to need a lot of that.
“Nice binder,” Henry complimented Delaney with a smile, as his hand grazed my inner thigh.
“Stop stroking her!” Delaney shouted. “You think because you’re at a table I can’t see you moving your hand up and down her thigh? This is neither the time nor the place.” Under her breath, she mumbled, “Pervert.”
“Babe, calm down,” Derk soothed, visibly relaxing Delaney with a touch of his hand to her shoulder.
Delaney placed her hands on the table and stared us down. “The time has come. Rosie and Henry, you two are the most important people in our lives, and we would love for you to be our maid of honor and best man.”
“Man, that’s awesome. Thank you for asking,” Henry replied, but Delaney held up her hand to silence him.
“We’re not asking, Henry. You have no choice in the matter. You will be the bridal party.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms. “Gee, thanks.”
“Are you going to not fulfill your best friend responsibilities?”
“No, I will. It’s just nice to have the option.”
“There is no option in this wedding dictatorship.” Delaney flipped her hair to the side and grabbed the binder. “Now that you both have been told your roles, we must get down to business. Yesterday, Derk and I put down the deposit for a wedding venue out in Long Island . . .”
“Long Island?” Henry mocked.
Instinctively, I slapped Henry on the stomach without even thinking.
“Do you have a problem with Long Island?” Delaney asked, her eyes looking a little wild. “Your girlfriend is from Long Island, you can find the best bagels in the world on Long Island, and you know what, Henry? It’s where the Long Island Median resides, and that’s just cool shit. Plus, it’s cheaper to have a wedding there than in the city, and unless you’re planning on trading in your stylish penny loafers for a deposit on some overly processed banquet meat and an open bar, then your opinion on the location can be found at the intersection of ‘I don’t give a f*ck’ and ‘shut the hell up, you whore’.”
“She paints a lovely picture, doesn’t she?” Derk added.
Henry rubbed the side of his face. “I think I was just bitch-slapped by the English language.”
“I’m glad you realized that.” Delaney folded her hands together and continued. “Like I said before I was rudely insulted by Mr. I-Think-I-Look-Like-A-Young-Bradley-Cooper, we booked the venue and now have two months until the wedding to plan.”
“Two months?” I shouted. “How are you going to plan a wedding in two months?”
“Wedding?” Delaney laughed right before she flipped the binder open to a pop-up display of a massive pink penis. “I don’t care about the wedding. I’m concerned about the bachelorette party. Our parents are taking care of the wedding, what I need you to plan is the party of a lifetime, full of penises, strippers, more penises, COCK-tails, and did I mention penises?” Delaney looked off into a faraway place as she spoke. “Let me paint you a picture, Rosie. This is my last and only night to experience the feel of a man’s dick flopping against my face while cheesy stripper music blasts through my ears in the background. This needs to be the most drunkenly epic night full of male genitalia, sex music, praise for my breasts, and inappropriate pelvic thrusting of strangers.”