And then he passed the fuck out.
Nailing his head on the table on the way down.
Delores freaked—Kate said she was never good with blood. She called 911. And even though he swore up and down that he was fine, she made him go to the hospital in the ambulance.
That’s when things got interesting.
Because hospitals have certain protocols they have to follow. One of them involves hospital gowns. So when they wheeled Matthew in, a bloody bandage on his head, they started to cut his clothes off. Then they put all of his belonging in a big plastic bag—including the two hundred thousand dollar diamond ring he’d purchased for the occasion.
The idea of losing that ring cured Matthew of his cold feet real frigging quick. So he hops off the gurney, grabs the ring, runs out into the ER, and drops to his knees in front of Delores. And that’s how he popped the question.
In the middle of the god damn emergency room with his ass hanging out the back of a hospital gown as bare as the day he was born.
Naturally, Delores said yes. And two days later, the four of us jetted to Vegas for the Elvis Chapel Special.
Crazy? Sure. But it kind of fits, don’t you think?
Anyway, we come back to the city, where Matthew announces to his parents that he’s a married man. I’ve never seen Estelle Fisher so animated in my life. She started bawling her eyes out, sobbing about how she missed her only child’s wedding.
I felt bad, so I can only imagine how shitty Matthew felt. Making your mother cry? That guilt is like the sixth circle of hell.
Frank, being a man of few words, just looked at his son and said, “Fix this.”
But his eyes said so much more. They said, ‘You may be thirty years old, but I will still kick your ass up and down Park Avenue if you don’t make this right real motherfucking quick.’
And so here we are.
At Matthew and Delores’s grand New York City wedding reception, courtesy of Frank and Estelle. No expense was spared—very New York high society. It’s supposed to be elegant. Classy. And it is.
Except for Delores’s dress, of course. Have you ever seen Madonna’s Like a Virgin video?
Perfect—then you know just what Delores looks like.
Cocktail hour—hands down, it’s the best part of a wedding. Exceeded only by that garter thing. I’ve always been an excellent garter catcher, and there’s no better way to get to know a chick than sticking your hands up her dress as high as you can go.
But that was then. My now is much better.
Because I’ve got the hottest girl in the room sitting next to me—and I can stick my hands up her dress anytime I want.
Now that Kate is wearing her dress, I understand why she said garters wouldn’t work. It’s silver and short. I’m talking micro-mini. And strapless. Every time I look at her, I can’t help but think about how easy it will be to get it off. And her shoes? You remember my thing for shoes, right? They’re very high, very strappy, open toed and…
Amelia Warren, Delores’ mother, stands up from the table. She’s thin, with shoulder length, feathered 80’s style, strawberry blond hair. And like her daughter after her—she’s nuts. When I say nuts I mean that in the most literal way possible.
For Kate’s birthday, Amelia sent her a huge, heavy, natural crystal necklace harvested from the caves of Perigord, because she believes they’ll protect Kate’s lungs from the city air pollution.
It’s a shame, how stringent the involuntary commitment protocols in this country have become.
Oh—and Amelia doesn’t like me at all. Don’t know why. I only met her once before this blessed event, and we didn’t speak more than five words to each other. I wonder if the withering glares she throws my way have anything to do with her nephew.
“Oh look—Billy’s here! He made it!”
Speak of the Devil and he doth appear. I glance over to the doorway where, sure enough, the ball-licker just waltzed in.
Yep, still hate him. He’s like genital herpes—he just won’t go the fuck away.
He’s been living in LA for the last eight months and much to my displeasure, he and Kate still talk. She says they’re just—say it with me—’friends’—but I don’t buy it. I mean, sure, for Kate, they’re just friends. That I believe. But for a guy? No way.
The “friend” card is one of the oldest hook-up tricks in the book. Right up there with ‘I think I might be gay.’ He’s just biding his time—waiting for me to screw up so he can be the shoulder Kate cries on. Then when she’s all vulnerable and weak, he’ll stick his tongue down her throat.
Not gonna happen. Not on my fucking watch.