I’m gathering up my things when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a tall figure walking up next to me. I don’t have to look to know who it is. We’re the only two left on set, we haven’t spoken in the last two weeks, and we’re the only two contestants who seem to hate each other. Well, besides Helen, but I think Helen hates everyone.

“Who’s paying the judges now?” Alec says, and instead of acknowledging him, I finish taking pictures of the invitations we worked on today and then gather up my samples of cardstock, envelopes, and embellishments to take home so I can look them over. “What, not going to talk to me, now?”

Nope.

I carefully slip the invitation paper and envelope we chose into a stiff file folder so they won’t bend. While the other teams chose online invitations because they spent extra on their venues, we were able to spring for paper invites. Cheap paper—but at least we have something tangible to offer.

“I see. Because you won two challenges, you’re too good to talk to me.”

Ignore, ignore, ignore.

“I would like it to be known, after we won our first challenge, right out of the gate, I still spoke with you. It wasn’t beneath me to have a conversation with you.”

Conversation or argument?

“Fine, you don’t want to talk? That’s your choice. But just so you know, I actually was going to pay you a compliment.”

“Ha!” I exclaim before I can stop myself. “That’s why you started off by insinuating I was paying the judges.” After the words have fallen past my lips, I remember what Farrah told me to do. “I mean . . . woof.”

“Woof?” Alec’s brow furrows.

I clutch the folder to my chest and face him now. Trying to look as snarly as possible, I go at him. “Woof, woof, woof.” I use my best baritone impression of a Saint Bernard. “Bark, ra-ra-ra-ra-roof. Bark. Woof.”

“Uhhhh . . .” He scratches the top of his head.

“Woof.” I take a step forward. “Woof.” One more step. “Woof.” He stumbles backward.

“Are you barking at me out of choice, or are you experiencing some kind of psychosis and need me to call someone?”

“Bark. Woof. Woof.”

“Psychosis for sure.”

I move past him and am starting to walk away when he calls out, “Hey, as long as you don’t lift a leg and pee on me, you can keep barking all you want.”

I smile to myself, not wanting him to see that I actually found him funny . . . for a second.

Week Four—Wedding Attire

“For the love of God, where is the pincushion?” Thad shouts, his voice echoing through the set.

I glance over at their workstation and cringe.

Of all the weeks on The Wedding Game, week four is by far the fans’ favorite. Just like how the technical challenge is clearly the best challenge on The Great British Baking Show, because it can easily turn into a hot mess—well, that’s what week four, wedding-attire week, is.

Each team has to design and construct the entire wedding party’s outfits.

Yup, design and construct. Which means we’re provided four mannequins. Each mannequin has to have a corresponding sketch that goes along with the ensemble it’s dressed in. Some of the items have already been constructed, like button-down shirts and pants, but everything else needs to be cut and pinned together. Luckily, we don’t have to sew in a certain time limit. The pieces are brought to a tailor, who then replicates the look.

Tables at the back of the set are covered in fabrics, accessories, embellishments . . . yes, even feathers, and once again, whatever we choose has to be used in our designs, though we have the option of dumping one item.

Can you imagine why this might be the best episode? Some of the creations that have come out of it are Hall of Fame worthy, and I mean, “Ugliest Dress of All Time” worthy.

Because of the mix of couples, there is no budget for wedding attire. It’s first come, first served, since wedding dresses cost more than a suit.

“You don’t think we need more than this?” Declan asks, staring at the mannequins draped in button-up shirts and tasteful vests.

“No, keep it simple. Trust me on this, okay?” I say, tongue sticking out as I carefully pin my “best man” dress together.

“I’m sorry to pull a groomzilla moment for a second,” Cohen says, “but don’t you think you’re spending a little too much time on your dress?”

“If you’d allowed me the honor, I would be spending just as much time on your dress. But you chose a suit, which was easy—I just cut out a nice vest for the both of you. A bow tie for Declan, a tie for you. Done and done. You need to remember: we’re competing against a lesbian couple with two dresses, and if you haven’t peeked, they are flowy and gorgeous, so we need to make this dress pretty.”

“She has a point,” Declan says. “Maybe add a layer of tulle?”

I shoot him a look. “Stick to your bow tie.”

He throws his hands up in defense just as Thad’s familiar scream rattles the set. “That was my ball sack, you dick nozzle!”

Thunk.

Everyone lifts their heads and glances over to the slowly self-destructing Team Baxter; Thad is curled up on the ground, and Alec is standing over him with a pin in his hand and a smile on his face.

“I think we should have designed on the mannequins,” Naomi says. The poor girl is wrapped up like a sausage in white as she stares down at her fiancé.

“Yeah, but then Thad wouldn’t have gotten a ‘feel for the attire,’” Alec says with air quotes. He nudges Thad with his foot. “Are you getting the feel for it now?”

Week Five—Bouquets and Boutonnieres

“Pass me the twine!” I shout, sweat dripping down my forehead. Declan tosses me the twine as Cohen sits in front of me, telling me what to do.

Remember when I said wedding-attire week is a fan favorite? Well, bouquets and boutonnieres is where the drama really ramps up. It’s not as simple as decorating and putting something together.

Nope, you have to play the game of “trust your family.” Which means the person in charge of distributing tools and supplies must stay silent. That would be Declan. Then there are the eyes and the hands. One “eyes” member of the team has to stand in front of the “hands” member and tell them exactly what to create. And “hands” just has to trust them. Basically, my chest is plastered to Cohen’s back, my arms looped under his as he tells me what to do, and I try to blindly replicate what he says.

This was the week I was dreading the most—I may be good with my hands, but I’m nothing without my eyes.

“Is everything centered?”

“Looks like it,” Cohen says.

“Looks like it? Cohen, I need a solid yes or no.”

Cohen shifts against me. “Cool it with the attitude. We practiced this—just repeat what we did this past week.”

“Repeat? How can I repeat when I don’t know what I’m seeing? Stop being so casual. This needs to be perfect.”

Knowing we would be creating boutonnieres and bouquets blindly, Cohen and Declan had me over this past week, two nights in a row, to practice. It was rather cute, actually. Cohen had it all planned out: he’d bought the supplies and told me exactly what he and Declan wanted. We practiced, over and over, and going into today, we felt like we knew what we were doing . . . until Helen took the twine I wanted, and the time started ticking down. The pressure of it all is getting to me, and it’s showing.

“One minute!” Mary calls out.

“Shit,” I mutter, knowing production will have to bleep that out. “Cohen, is it straight?”

“Yes. Just tie it.”

“But I can’t see where I’m tying—you have to tell me where to tie it.”

“Right there.”

“Right where?” I yell.

“Right where your hands are. Christ.”

Fortunately, we’re not the only ones yelling at each other, which makes bouquets and boutonnieres a great week to watch on TV, though not a great week to actually create in. Luciana and Amanda, the quiet ones, have been at it, yelling back and forth about the silk peonies they picked and how the lace they chose to wrap around the bouquets isn’t secure enough and they should have grabbed floral tape, but they forgot.

Rookie mistake.

And then there’s Team Baxter, who for some odd reason has put Naomi in charge of supplies, Alec in charge of overseeing everything, and Thad in charge of creating. You can imagine how well that’s been going.

Thad has yelped at least three times and, I think, cried, because at one point, Alec yelled, “Are you wiping your snot on my back?” To which Thad replied, “You created the snot with your sarcasm, so deal with it!”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Hurry, Luna!” Cohen stresses.

“It’s not that easy,” I reply, upper lip sweating.

I twist the twine around, form a knot, and hope for the best just as the time runs out. I unlatch myself from Cohen and quickly step around him so I can see what we’ve created.

Twigs and wheat are askew, the fake baby’s breath—fake because all items made today need to last, plus they’re cheaper—is off center, and the bow I tied is vertical rather than horizontal.

Christ on a cracker!

“Cohen, what the . . .”

“Don’t blame me.” He steps away, hands held up.

“You were the eyes. You should have told me the wheat was clumped weird.”

“Looks fine to me.”