And my instincts proved dead right, although to be fair, Oliver’s did too. Kind of. To a sudden round of applause, the minister entered and took his place on a stage that had been meticulously designed to look hastily improvised. Of course, I say minister. What I meant was “tiny drag king in full leather daddy getup wearing a T-shirt that, from the back of the room, I could just about make out read Gender Is Over.”

“Shit,” I whispered to Oliver, “that’s Roger More.”

“He’s looking good for a dead man in his nineties.”

I gave him a look. “Not Roger Moore, as in the fourth best Bond actor—Roger More. As in sexually penetrate with greater frequency. He used to be one of our best mates back in the day.”

Oliver looked like he was about to ask a follow-up question when Roger began his typically bombastic introduction.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, “in case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t going to be a traditional service. We aren’t in a church and I’m certainly not a priest, but ladies, if you want to see God, call me after the ceremony.” He rode the laughter a bit before he continued. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the love of two totally fucking amazing people—”

And I sort of checked out after that because I was having feels. Complicated feels. Because for all I could snark about the indie venue and the rainbow lights and the drag minister, this had been my world for years until one of the fucking amazing people we were here to celebrate had blown it up.

“And here they are,” Roger finished with a stagy snap of his fingers.

All eyes turned to the back of the room, where Miles and JoJo entered from opposite sides of the archway, linked arms with a precision I suspected they’d practiced at least a hundred and twelve times, and proceeded down the aisle. A well-hidden speaker system kicked in and “Slip Away” by Perfume Genius played over the procession while two professional cameramen captured the whole thing for what I was willing to bet—and a sneaky check of JoJo’s Twitch channel confirmed—was a livestream.

And I did have to admit that they both, in their radically different ways, looked great. Irritatingly great. Miles was dressed in a very traditional suit that made him every inch the perfect groom and even managed to make his hipster beard less risible. JoJo was in full makeup, with rainbow eyeshadow out to the temples, and wearing a silk tailcoat over a denim shirt and a black skirt flowing with organza.

Fuck. The man who’d ruined my life was a spread in gay Hello. Which I guess would be Bona to Vada Your Eek.