I WOULDN’T have gone so far as saying I had a hangover Monday morning. And if I did, it was from happiness as much as booze. Sunday evening, I’d gone out with Becca and announced my engagement in a snazzy bar in Birmingham. True to family form, Becca had screamed loud enough to turn heads in the whole venue. From there, the evening escalated joyously and tearfully, and I didn’t make it home until midnight.
Now it was official. My favourite cousin in the whole world was going to be my best woman, and on top of that, she was going to plan my stag night. Knowing that key role, and everything it entailed, was in her capable hands was a huge weight off my mind, and worth the slight residual fuzziness.
At work, I was useless in any sort of professional capacity to my colleagues at Lamplin, as well as my customers. Instead, I hung around the coffee room showing off my engagement ring to every poor sod who wandered in for a caffeine fix. By mid-morning, I was bouncing off the walls—lifted high as a kite from the warmth of the handshakes and hugs, and giddy from six cups of coffee. The women from the finance office, especially, lapped up every detail of Dale’s proposal, and our wedding plans. Had Dale and I set a date? Where would we hold the ceremony and the reception? What would we wear?
‘We haven’t really decided on anything yet except the venue,’ I said. ‘But it’s not going to be a big affair, and we’re pretty laidback about what we want. Our main goal is to use as many local businesses as possible.’
I went on to explain I felt excited, but calm. Quietly confident. The wedding planning books would be delivered today. Dale and I had our calendar, spreadsheets, and internet access. All we had to do now was choose what we wanted and put in our orders. How hard could it be?
I registered the mumbles of surprise, possibly mild disagreement, and shaking of heads. But they didn’t bother me.
Back in my office, I turned on my laptop in case Patrick or any of the other senior leaders paid me a visit. Then I got down to wedding business. On the phone, I spoke to a lovely and wonderfully enthusiastic lady at The Rust Belt Market, to discover only a handful of available wedding dates remained in August. Unfortunately, no Saturdays. Undeterred, I agreed a couple of potential dates, which she would hold for twenty-four hours while I ran them by Dale.
Satisfied, I ticked that job off my list, and started on some online research. In next to no time, I found a site called Purple Union, which was a complete directory of LGBT wedding-related services. As soon as I had a date booked at The Rust Belt, I could use them to source everything from cakes to flowers to a celebrant (Americans called them officiants). I was so pleased with myself, I spent the next half an hour re-watching Dale’s proposal on my Facebook page, and responding to all the comments added by family and friends wishing us well.
However, soon after lunch, an entourage—actually, more like an intervention—of concerned female colleagues turned up at my office with three different wedding magazines. And a printed flyer for a bridal show in Pontiac, the Michigan Bridal & Wedding Expo.
‘Wow. Thanks.’
They didn’t appear to appreciate my tone. Their spokesperson, Cynthia, said, ‘We thought you boys might need a push in the right direction. If not, feel free to hand them back.’
Someone else chimed in, ‘Also, don’t forget to make up a Pinterest board.’
‘Oh yes,’ Cynthia replied. ‘You could have one for the cake, another for the floral arrangements and buttonholes. You can find everything on there.’
‘What the hell’s a Pinterest board?’
Given the murmurs of horror that followed, I must have uttered the words they’d simultaneously been expecting yet dreading to hear. Someone near the back of the group gasped, and said, ‘Oh my god. They’re planning to tie the knot in four months. I hope his fiancé has his shit together.’
I was gracious. I took the wedding magazines and genuinely thanked the ladies for their thought and care in choosing ones that included same-sex couples. I didn’t say that Dale and I wouldn’t get our panties in a bunch over flowers or cake. The last thing I wanted to do was come over as smug. Still, I couldn’t help feeling they were making a mountain out of a molehill.
Most of the afternoon, I flitted between exploring Pinterest, and perusing the wedding magazines. Some of those grooms were damned hot. Though their outfits were of course my main focus, and imagining how lush Dale would look dolled up to the nines.
I wondered whether we should wear the same thing, or the same design in complementary colours, or different outfits in the same colours. And whether we should ask our best man and woman to wear a specific colour too. Was that a theme? Did we have to have matching table settings? Hmm. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go to a wedding fair. Not necessarily the one in Pontiac.
The next time I glanced at the clock on my computer screen it said four o’clock. Where had the time gone? Dale would be on his way home from work by now.
On weekdays, Dale made dinner, and I cleared away. Two or three nights, we also tried to get in a workout before we ate. But I doubted I’d make it in time tonight. I had forty-seven unread emails in my inbox, and a meeting to set up for the following week at Lamplin’s production plant in Georgia. Shit.
I finally left the office at six thirty. Twenty minutes later, I burst in through the front door to the smell of spices and meat and melting cheese. Dale was sitting on the sofa, with what I quickly realised were the two wedding planning books.
‘Moussaka?’ I asked, throwing the wedding magazines on the coffee table in front of him, as well as a printout of our tickets to the Michigan Bridal & Wedding Expo in Pontiac.
‘And salad,’ he said, his gaze fixed on the magazines.
I watched his face travel through a fascinating range of expressions. Confusion, disbelief, amusement, no doubt wondering what had possessed me. Or who.
‘For goodness sakes,’ I said at last. ‘Don’t keep staring at me like that. The ladies in finance bought me the magazines, because we’ve apparently been a bit naïve about how easy it’ll be to pull off a wedding in four months. There was a lot of tittering.’
Dale lifted his hands up in the air. ‘I have no objection to wedding magazines. But you got us tickets to the Michigan Bridal & Wedding Expo? Bridal? Really?’
‘That’s just what it’s called. When I went online for the tickets, I was able to register as a groom. It’ll be fun, and it’ll save us a lot of legwork being able to look at lots of different vendors under one roof.’ I also planned to cross-reference their list of vendors with the recommendations on the Purple Union website. That should make our search more manageable.
Dale picked up one of the magazines and flicked through a few pages. Paused. ‘I don’t think that kind of event is meant for couples like us.’
I didn’t mean to huff quite as loud as I did, because it wasn’t like I didn’t know where he was coming from. Hence my online search first. But. ‘We don’t have much choice,’ I explained. ‘I looked online and there was an LGBT wedding expo in Detroit last year, but nothing for this year. Another in Cleveland a month ago. Other than that, there are a handful in May and June but they’re too far away.’ I slumped on the sofa, my bubble well and truly burst, mainly because Dale had only voiced the same discomfort I felt. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have searched for LGBT-friendly wedding services in the first place.
I wasn’t scared we’d be attacked or thrown out of the Pontiac wedding fair if we approached vendors that didn’t appear on the Purple Union directory. Since we had to see what each vendor offered, we couldn’t solely rely on that as a resource. But there were plenty of smaller ways to be worn down: a dirty look, a snide comment, a snub. That was the last thing I wanted, especially for Dale. He’d put so much effort into proposing, I couldn’t bear for him to be upset by any part of our wedding preparations.
As I resigned myself to the fact that we wouldn’t be going to the wedding fair, and that we’d just have to get out there and find everything we needed locally, Dale put his arm around my shoulders and kissed my temple.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘It’s nuts, but let’s do it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ He squeezed me again. ‘Why shouldn’t we?’
No matter the conviction in his words, Dale was worried. Maybe scared. He and I were able to live honestly and openly together, unlike many same-sex couples, but that didn’t mean we could live with the same ease and unselfconsciousness that heterosexual couples enjoyed. When we travelled anywhere together, we had to keep in mind the potential hostility en route and at our destination. Our journey to marriage was no different. All the allies in the world couldn’t shield Dale and me from people who wouldn’t keep their noses out of our happiness. People who’d try to block our way with their bigotry.
Yet despite Dale’s wariness and reservations, my big man had offered to step outside his comfort zone for me. For us. Knowing that made me braver, and more determined to walk in that exhibition hall with my head held high. We had as much right to be there as much as anyone.