Seriously, though, what was going on with that? How could something that objectively did not matter become the hill you were most determined to die on? Because ultimately, if Oliver wanted a band, fine, we could have a band. We could hire Blue Honey or Felicity or the Corkscrews, and it would make no fucking difference and it would still be the happiest fucking day of our whole fucking lives because it fucking had to be.

Except the more I thought about it, the more I was determined to have a DJ. Because I did not want four men in cardigans, or three guys and a surprisingly attractive woman, doing a ska-punk remix of “Thinking Out Loud” over our first dance as a married couple. Especially because Oliver couldn’t dance, and it would make a ska-punk remix of “Thinking Out Loud” our song. Fuck. We’d been together for nearly three years, and we didn’t even have an “our song.” Or worse, we did, and it was This American Life. We were going to have to have our first dance to Sarah Koenig following a series of small cases through a county courthouse in Cleveland.

To be fair, maybe that was a good argument against a DJ. Because they’d ask, So what kind of music are you guys into? and we’d have to say “Well, my dad’s in a band but I hate his guts, and he listens to quirky horror podcasts and spoken-word media about complicated political topics.”

Perhaps Mum was right. We just weren’t people who were good at being married. Perhaps, given the fact that we—as this wedding was proving—had absolutely nothing in common and had only started dating as a literal hoax, we were the sorts of people who shouldn’t be together at all.

My phone rang. It was Oliver, and I–I wasn’t in a space to be Olivering right now, so I let it go to voicemail. Which, again, didn’t say good things about my relationship. I bet James Royce-Royce never let James Royce-Royce’s calls go to voicemail. I bet Bridge never let Tom’s calls go to voicemail. I bet Prince Harry never let Meghan Markle’s calls go to voicemail. I bet Prince Charles never let Camilla Parker Bowles’s calls go to voicemail, although he probably should have, at least in the eighties.