The Wedding Crasher

“Now I need to ask you something,” he says, his mouth curved into a smile that fills me with pure, unadulterated joy.
“What is it?”
He holds my hands and squeezes. “Will you, Solange Pereira, take me as your boyfriend, to have and to hold, through sickness and in health, through the good times and bad, as long as we both shall share a Netflix account?”
I hold back a laugh and nod. “Throw in Apple TV+, and we’ve got a deal.”
“Done.”

These feelings you’ve inspired in me make me feel reckless and impulsive and disoriented in the best way. And I’m sorry that I once told you I couldn’t love you. Because that isn’t true. I already do.”

“Solange, at this very moment, I have no idea what my job will be, whether I’ll be able to afford my mortgage much longer, or whether I’ll ever get married and have kids. And you know what? I’m not terrified. Why? Because if there’s any chance that you’ll be a part of my life, I can handle all of the other unknowns, even if that means we can’t be in the same place right now.”

“And who knows?” Solange’s mother continues. “Maybe Brandon and Solange are meant to be. I just need to see this with my own eyes.”
Yeah, no. I don’t need to see shit with my own eyes. If Solange is meant to be with anyone, it’s abso-fucking-lutely me.

“Oh God, I think I’m in love with Dean.” I fan my face, then drop my head between my thighs. “And I think I’m going to hyperventilate.”
“Well, I’d bet my life savings that Dean feels the same way.”
“Two whole dollars?” I say, still hunched over. “Now that’s a high-stakes wager.”

Once the opening credits appear, I tap Max on the arm. “Thanks for doing this.”
“No problem. You’d do the same for me.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t.”
He smirks at me. “Fuck off and watch the movie.”

“Dean, a job is not a personality. It’s not a life either. Somehow you need to figure out how to make a life for yourself that includes your work but also gives you space for the people and things that make you happy.”

Max holds up his hands. “I’m not here to tell you I told you so.”
“Good.”
“I’m here to sing it instead.” And true to his word, he singsongs the damn words like a four-year-old. “I told you so. I told you so. La-la-la-la-la. I told you so.”

I just thought she’d appreciate seeing all three of you. Single women. Controlling your own destinies. Prospering. Living well.”
“Not having sex,” Tia Viviane says, her lips curled in disgust.
My mother covers her face with her hands. “Viviane, precisa ser tão vulgar?”
“Sim,” Tia Viviane says without further explanation.
“It’s fine, Mãe. I do know what sex is.”
She gasps, but she’s also holding back a grin.

I raise our clasped hands and kiss her palm. “You’re amazing, and I’m so blessed to be your daughter.”
My mother stands and lightly bops me on the nose. “Yes, I know I am the bomb, as you kids say.”
“No one says that,” Rey adds, remaining motionless in the armchair but plainly eavesdropping.
We ignore him. It’s our shared superpower.