“You fill out that suit nicely, son,” Grandpa says, and I don’t know if I should take it as a compliment or not.

“I think the bridesmaid dresses would’ve fit you better,” Nana adds.

Because of course she has to.

“Well, I think a casket would’ve fit you better, but we can’t always get what we want.” I want to say this as loud as I can, but it comes out a whisper. Because this isn’t the time for me to make a scene, to defend myself against her transphobic bullshit.

I have to be the good son this week.

The perfect child.

“How is everything going?” Wyatt’s voice in my ear makes me jump, and I grab my chest.

“You scared me.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s going about as well as I expected it to,” I tell them, leaning back into them.

“That bad, huh?”

“Yep.”

Mom claps her hands. “Okay! I want to see Michael and Ashley up front so we can see how they’ll look.”

Michael steps forward, but Ashley stops him.

“Actually,” she says, “I’d like to get a quick view of the ceremony. Can we have someone stand in while we watch the whole playthrough?”

“Of course,” the priest says. “Any volunteers?”

Mother motions to me. “Neil, you and Wyatt stand up there.”

I freeze. “Us?”

“There isn’t another Neil here,” she says with this sarcastic tone. “Get up there—we don’t have a lot of time before dinner.”

I want nothing more than to take Wyatt’s hand and pull them back into the hotel so we can hide in our room for the rest of the day, but there’s no denying the eyes staring expectantly at us now, or the judgmental look that Nana and Grandpa are giving as two male-presenting people stand at the altar. Wyatt and I take our stance under the arch in front of everyone.

The priest runs through his spiel—rather quickly, after a curt look from Mom. Wyatt and I both put our hands together. I have absolutely no idea why—it just seems like the natural thing to do here.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the joining of these two families—”

I stare down at Wyatt’s hands around mine, their grip so warm and strong.

When I look at them, into those deep green eyes, my heart hurts. My heart hurts the same way that it hurt when I looked at Josh when he told me that he loved me. And my heart has to be hurting for a reason; it has to be telling me something. I can’t expect Wyatt to get involved with this family. I can’t expect Wyatt to get involved with me.

I don’t want to live in a world where Wyatt Fowler hates me.

But maybe that’s the cost I have to pay now to avoid a much worse hurt later.