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“OK,” we said. “If you’re sure Judge McAfee won’t be offended.”
As we waited for the mayor to get ready, Jackson, silent and still, held my hand tightly as he was afraid I’d fly away. I looked around the room. It was warm; its polished oak-paneled walls gleamed. High above our heads was an elaborate plaster ceiling, stenciled in gold leaf and enamel; cherubs, sexless, ageless, holding garlands of laurel, cuddled in each of the ceiling’s four corners. I was reminded of our first date—that picnic in the countryside—when I’d imagined Cupid sitting in the trees shooting love’s arrows at us. I felt tears pricking the corners of my eyes. MJ, who knows me well, touched my arm. “It’s hard to believe we’re here, isn’t it?”
I nodded, afraid to speak, not trusting my voice not to tremble, not wanting to cry through my vows.
“Gentlemen, are we ready?” the mayor asked, emerging into the room through a door notched into the paneling I hadn’t noticed before.
Standing in front of the mayor listening to his words, none of which I can now remember, I felt…not nervous—after all, I’ve been with Jackson my entire adult life—but giddy with excitement. We repeated the vows the mayor spoke. We—or ratherI—had opted not to write our own vows. Having been together as long as we had, we’d surely said everything we had to, to each other. Standard vows had been sufficient for generations before us, and they’d be sufficient for us. Besides, I told myself, this was just a legal formality and had little to do with our love for each other.
Then it was time to exchange rings, and my thoughts changed. Jackson slipped my ring on my finger, promising to love and cherish me forever. Jackson’s ring has spent most of its life on a thin platinum chain around his neck; his being a union plumber wearing a wedding ring without a visible wife had seemed bothunwise and potentially dangerous at the time. Today, I proudly slipped his ring on his finger, knowing it would stay there this time.
Winding down, the mayor said, “I now pronounce you husbands.”
Turning to each other, holding each other’s hands, we said simultaneously, “And we shan’t be parted no more, and that’s finished.”
“You may kiss,” the mayor said. I opened my eyes to soft flashes, cheers, and the feel of Jackson’s lips on mine. Claude was crying, as was MJ. Octavio smiled and slapped us on the back. He and Claude left to make sure everything was ready for us at the house.
Because we didn’t need to be at our reception until seven, MJ arranged for us to stop at Indigo for a glass of Champagne. I thought nothing of it when the host had us wait in the vestibule while he conferred with MJ before leading her away.
He came back to get us. On the threshold into the bar, he paused and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please join us in welcoming new husbands, Oren and Jackson.” There was applause. In the murky lavender light, there were flashes of light, sparks in the dark from watches and bracelets and rings and the occasional set of flawlessly veneered teeth. MJ was already seated at our table. As we sat down, a pinpoint spotlight bathed our table in blue light. A waiter poured us each a glass of Belaire Bleu, their “house” Champagne—a blue-tinted French import said to have been inspired by the Riviera. “Please join us in a toast to the newlyweds,” the host said, raising a glass. It was only then we noticed everyone in the bar was holding a glass of Champagne.
Turning to MJ, I said, “MJ—”
“Oh, hush,” she said. “Drink up. We don’t have a lot of time, and I refuse to leave a half-empty bottle behind.”
Jackson squeezed my knee and touched his glass to mine. “You heard the lady. Drink up.”
At her parents’ house, MJ left us at the garden gate, instructing us to wait to enter until we heard the DJ announce us. Then we would walk in and dance the first dance together. At the end of the walkway leading to the backyard was an ice sculpture of two grooms holding each other. I was touched beyond words. The DJ said, “Everyone, please join us in welcoming the newlyweds, Oren and Jackson Strange.” There was thunderous applause and then the opening music to King Floyd’s “Groove Me” began to play. Claude had decided our reception should be a dance party and had installed a dance floor over the pool, so we knew dancing would be important. We’d decided our first dance would be sexy and sultry. Still, when Jackson took my hand, I was nervous.
As the song wound down, there were cheers and a few catcalls. Then things heated up when “Time of My Life” fromDirty Dancingbegan to play. We’d taken ballroom dancing classes for years when we lived in the city, and once we chose the songs for our first two dances, we’d returned to classes and practiced for weeks, memorizing the song’s iconic dance moves. When Jackson spun away from me and went into his solo performance, I’d never in my life felt so proud, or so possessive. When his solo ended and he stood a few feet away from me, I launched myself into the air; he caught and held me aloft for moments before lowering me to the ground. It was possibly the most magical moment of my life. The DJ invited everyone to join us on the dance floor as he cued up “Feel This Moment” by Pitbull and Christina Aguilera.
The music faded and the dancing crowd dispersed, settling into their seats as MJ’s TV voice filled the air. “Good evening, everyone. If I could just have you attention for a few minutes, I’d like to say a few words.”
Sitting beside Jackson, trying to catch my breath, I looked around. The evening’s décor was spare but elegant, all moody blues and winking white lights. Tables were covered in heavy black linen and white plates, whose silver rims caught and held the dancing white lights. Waitstaff, in crisp white shirts, formal pants, and satin cummerbunds, offered bellinis and canapés of every description.
There was silence, except for the rustling of fabric as people sat and turned their attention to MJ, and whispered thank-yous to the waitstaff handing out glasses of Champagne and collecting empty plates.
“Years ago,” MJ began, “I was looking through Oren’s parents’ wedding album, and I asked him if he thought he’d ever get married. He said, ‘What?’—if you know Oren, you know he starts every answer to a question with ‘What?’ as if he misheard you.” This was followed by polite laughter and murmured agreement. “Then,” MJ continued, “he said, ‘No. Don’t be ridiculous.’ Oren is one of the smartest people I know, and he’s often right in his opinions and predictions. I’m always pleased when he turns out to be right—I find his rightness reassuring. But in this instance, I am thrilled he was wrong.” She raised the glass she held in her right hand and, raising her left hand in a Vulcan salute, palm forward, thumb extended, her fingers parted between her middle and ring finger, said, “To Oren and Jackson, may you live long and prosper.”
Taking the microphone from MJ, Claude cleared her throat. “First, thank youallfor joining us. When Octavio and I offeredto host this reception, I knew from the start I wanted it to be more than a traditional reception. I wanted to it to be a true celebration of two extraordinary men, a testament to a great love it was our privilege to witness in its infancy, and a recognition of everything they’ve been through and overcome. That we have seen marriage equality become the law of the land and also to witness their marriage seems miraculous. Now, I’d like to make a toast to the newlyweds,” she continued. On cue, waitstaff appeared with fresh trays of Champagne.
Claude paused as Octavio handed her a glass. “Here’s to Jackson and Oren, who deserve all the happiness in the world.”
Kitt said, perhaps more loudly than she’d intended and to no one in particular, “Why do they get a happy ending?”
“Whatdid you just ask?” MJ demanded, turning towards her in a shiver of light and fury.
Kitt stepped back as if to place herself outside MJ’s striking distance. Claude’s maternal instincts must have picked up Kitt’s vibrations because I saw her step from the podium and make her way towards us.
“I—I just was remarking on how lucky Jackson and Oren are to have found each other and gotten their happy ending…is all…”
“We’ve worked hard for this,” Jackson said, taking my hand. “It’s not like anyone wrote a fairy tale in the stars for us the day we were born.”
Realizing her mistake and clearly not wanting to alienate Jackson, whom she adored, Kitt said, “I just meant you two are lucky—”
“Lucky?” Jackson practically shouted; Jackson, who never raises his voice. “Growing up when we did? Where we did? Until we met MJ and her family, O and I were all we had—”
“You have me, too,” Kitt said looking at her feet.
