Wedding Games

Kerry

By the time I get home, the late afternoon sun is already streaming in through the big bay windows of the two-bedroom apartment I share with Kerry. There were two letters in our mailbox down in the building’s lobby - a bank statement in a boring plain white envelope for me, and a beautiful pale blue envelope embossed with gold lettering for Kerry. I leave her envelope on the kitchen counter, so she’ll see it first thing when she walks through the door.

Kerry usually gets off work around six or seven, depending on what’s happening at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, where she works as an assistant curator.

Even though we both studied drawing and illustration at The Pacific Northwest College of Art, our career paths took us in very different directions. And it’s not just in our professional lives that we’ve grown apart. Unlike me, Kerry is confident and bubbly, easy-going and sociable. We were best friends during college, having bonded over our shared love of some stupid TV show who’s name I don’t even remember now. Or at least - I think she might have always been my best friend, but I was never hers’. She’s always had lots of close friends, so I was surprised when after college graduation she asked me if I wanted to move to New York with her to chase our dreams. She always wanted to work at a famous art museum in the Big Apple, and it’s always been my dream to work for one of the big NYC gaming companies. We moved here from Oregon a little over three years ago, and strangely enough, the longer we’ve lived together as roommates, the more distant we’ve grown. We’re still friends, but that closeness has worn off, and now we barely hang out anymore unless we both happen to be in the kitchen at the same time. 

I’m not complaining though - this works for me just fine. Kerry gets me - she knows that I’m shy and introverted, and there’s a sort of protective shield that I have up with everyone, even her. A barrier to protect myself, one I can’t dislodge or let down, no matter how much I try to drop it.

She, on the other hand, is as open and as extroverted as they come. We get along smoothly but give each other plenty of space, and have become more like friendly acquaintances than real friends - which I’ve realised is the key to making a roommate situation work long term. We have separate lives and aren’t up in each other's business twenty four hours a day. That’s why, in over three years of living together, we haven’t argued once, not even a minor disagreement over whose turn it is to take out the trash or wash the dishes. We maintain a polite emotional distance. I’m sure it’ll stay this way until she inevitably gets tired of the single life and gets a serious boyfriend. Right now she has a “three dates” policy - she won’t see any one guy more than three times, to avoid attachments. 

As a result, she brings back different guys to the apartment all the time, not that I’m judging though - more power to her. Most nights she’s pretty quiet, but whenever I can hear the muffled moans or giggles from her bedroom across the hallway, I’ll just turn the music up on my headphones and block it out. 

Speaking of which…

There are faint sounds coming from Kerry’s bedroom.

Movement - some sort of shuffling, maybe a window being opened.

It’s too early for her to be home from work. Is someone breaking in?

Dammit. 

On tiptoes, I backtrack into the kitchen, leaning over and reaching for the cutlery drawer. I wince at the groaning creak of wood as it slides open. I wrap my hand around a carving knife, clutching it close to my chest as my heart begins to pound like a war drum.

I begin to creep towards her bedroom door, holding the knife out in front of me.

From behind the closed door, I can hear footsteps followed by a burst of high-pitched feminine laughter and a deeper, more masculine voice saying something like “hungry” and “pickles” with a Brooklyn accent. 

Kerry’s bedroom door swings open, and she emerges dressed only in her lacy bubblegum-pink underwear and a loose baggy grey t-shirt. Her long brunette hair is sexily mussed up and tousled, and she has that telltale post-coital glow about her.

“One toasted cheese sandwich with extra pickles coming right up, big boy!” She calls back into the bedroom behind her in a flirty voice, before shrieking like a banshee when she sees me standing in the hallway brandishing a carving knife like some sort of deranged psychopath.

“WHAT THE FREAKING HELL VAL?!” She screams, but her shrieks quickly give way to breathless hysterical laughter. “Jesus Christ… you scared me half to death. Halloween’s still three weeks away, you know.”

“Sorry,” I mutter sheepishly, walking back to the kitchen and placing the knife back in the drawer. “I thought someone was breaking in.”

“The only thing getting broken in was me,” Kerry says with a wink. “Dave or Dan or whatever his name is… he’s not the brightest spark, but goddam, he gives awesome head.”

Dave or Dan or whatever his name is yells something incomprehensible from Kerry’s bedroom. It sounded a lot like “Hey! I heard that!” but the words were muffled.

“Why are you home so early?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from Kerry’s favourite topic - s*x, s*x, and more s*x.

“The museum closed at twelve,” she says boredly. “They’re prepping for the charity gala tomorrow night. You’re still sure you don’t wanna come as my plus one? It’ll be fun. There’ll be cute guys there...”

I shake my head, dreading the thought of needing to wear a fancy dress and make polite small talk with rich art snobs and trust fund dudes looking for ways to spend daddy’s money.

I’d rather be alone in my pjs watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy for the umpteenth time, or slaying undead blood orc minions online.

“Oooh! What’s this?” Kerry exclaims as her eyes alight upon the pale blue envelope that I placed on the counter or her earlier. “Oh my god… I think I already know…”

She rips open the envelope with gusto, barely able to hold back her excitement. Her eyes light up as she unfolds the creamy white sheet of paper within, and she reads the words aloud.

“Della & Patrick invite you to the ceremony and celebration of their marriage. Friday 12th November, three o’clock in the afternoon at The Portland Japanese Garden. Dinner and dancing at the Ambrose Social Club to follow - bring your dancing shoes! Please RSVP by Monday 11th October.”

She looks perplexed for a moment, rereading the wedding invitation. 

“That RSVP date is literally next week,” she says with a sly grin. “Either I was a last minute addition to the guest list, or they’re in quite the rush. Do you reckon he got her knocked up? Weren’t her parents like… super strict Catholics or something?”

“Yeah, something like that,” I say, recalling how Della always complained that her mom, and to a lesser extent her dad, was overbearing and controlling in the extreme.

Della and I were never super close, but we were friends back in art school - she was in the same group as Kerry and Patrick and I. And also, as ‘He Whose Filthy Name Shall Not Be Uttered.’

I should be hurt that Kerry got an invite to Della’s wedding, and I didn’t - but really, it’s for the best. Della and I never really had that much in common anyway. And besides - he’ll definitely be there. Patrick’s best friend since childhood, and probably his groomsman, or even best man. ‘He Whose Filthy Name Shall Not Be Uttered’ - the boy who broke my heart. My first, and final, love. The reason I’ve sworn off love and dating and relationships for the past three years.

Him.

“Are you ok?” Kerry asks, her face creasing with concern. “You look…like… sort of bleak.”

“Just thinking of something unpleasant,” I say. It’s more like someone unpleasant, but I won’t mention that. If I do, Kerry will put two and two together, and she’ll know that I’m talking about him.

She saw first hand what a mess I was in our final year of art school after I caught ‘He Whose Filthy Name Shall Not Be Uttered’ - my college boyfriend of two years, the supposed love-of-my-life - literally having s*x in the office of our second year design lecturer… with the aforementioned lecturer. Lexi Martinez, known on campus as 'Sexy Lexi' due to her being fairly young for a senior lecturer (early thirties) and drop dead gorgeous, with killer curves and a pretty face to match.

I found out that he’d been two-timing me with her for over a year and a half - for most of our relationship, in fact. It was particularly hurtful because Lexi had been my favourite lecturer up until that point, someone I looked up to and wanted to be like. 

Not anymore. Now I hate her guts - almost as much as I hate him.

Still, I shouldn’t have been so naive. I never even questioned it when he started having extra one-on-ones with her, what he described at the time as extra-curricular practical sessions. I stupidly assumed they were innocently hanging out in her office, discussing techniques for printmaking or typography best practice.

I’ll never be that stupid again. 

Now Lexi and ‘He Whose Filthy Name Shall Not Be Uttered’ are happily married, with a baby on the way, according to Kerry. Although I haven’t kept in touch with our group from art school, she has - and she hears all the gossip through Della, and passes it along to me.

I always tell her I don’t want to know, but she tells me anyway. I think she assumes that I’m still carrying a torch for him three years later, and if she convinces me that he’s moved on, I’ll move on too.

She’s got it so wrong though - I’m glad he and Lexi ended up together. They deserve each other. Backstabbing lying vipers…

“You’re thinking about Wyatt again, aren’t you?” Kerry says, breaking me out of my private thoughts. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“Nah,” I lie, hoping to avoid speaking about ‘He Whose Filthy Name Shall Not Be Uttered’ aka Wyatt aka the worst person in the whole world. “It’s not that. I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now.”

“Well ok…” she says doubtfully, brushing past me to reach into a cupboard. “You want a cheese toastie? I’m making one for uh-”

She glances back towards her bedroom, face creased in concentration.

“Dave… or Dylan… no, actually, I think his name’s Dan,” she muses, smiling as she grabs a block of cheddar cheese and some pickles out of the fridge. “Anyway, it’s something like that. He has D name. Plus an amazing D game, if you know what I mean. You can borrow him after I’m done, If you like? Or come join us?”

She wiggles an eyebrow seductively, popping a fairly large pickle into her mouth with a provocative flick of the tongue.

“I’ll pass,” I say, snorting with laughter at the joke.

Although, at least, I think it’s a joke. You never know, with Kerry.

“See you later, you saucy minx,” I say, heading to my own room. “Enjoy Declan or Dawson or Damian or whatever.”

“You’re missing out!” She calls behind me, and I shake my head at that. “Just knock on my door if you change your mind.”

No way will I be doing that. I have better things to do. Like murdering a whole army of noobs in ShadowStrike Legends.