TBPA summer edition gold medalist 2016.
Alistair Flynn is a walking anxiety attack/accident waiting to happen.
Ridden by nightmares and peer pressure of being the jock of the block, his life takes a confusing turn when a hazel-eyed boy invites him...
"Okay," my dad consoles. My sister is on the verge of breaking down. The flowers were the wrong colors and the caterers got lost on their way to the farm. To top it all off: the priest's car broke down and he's late.
Very late.
"Don't panic, just take a deep breath. It's nothing to worry about."
"But I was supposed to wear a bow tie!" I groan, fidgeting with the top button that popped off the crisp new, white shirt. It's the fanciest shirt in my closet and it broken. Just when I warmed up to the idea that the wedding will be bearable.
It'll be a pretty wedding, I assured myself. There will definitely be an Oreo cake, because that's all dessert Malarkey eats. I want to eat food and party, keeping my gay situations under control.
Like this goddamn missing button.
"You don't have to wear the bow tie, I'm sure Malarkey will forgive you."
"I don't care about Malarkey," I carp, falling down on my bed. "I wanted to look like James Bond."
My dad rolls his eyes, folding a black tie around his neck. He's a pro at tying a tie, but not a pro at needling buttons to a shirt. I don't think he even knows what a needle is outside a hospital.
"You're far too lazy to look like him," he teases, flattening the tie on his chest. He's proud of his handiwork, I can tell. Especially by the way he looks at it condescendingly in the mirror [I mistook it for an aroused expression at first, but I got the hang of it].
He's a different, healthier, happier man. Happiness is achieved by pressing the self-destruct button.
"Now get cracking, the wedding is already delayed."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
After stumbling in, visibly perspiring and panting, the priest made it. He didn't even have time to look less like he ran a marathon; he went straight to the lectern.
He did a great job at making me perspire and I don't even care about anything other than the food prepped in the kitchen. The kitchen has the least amount of people, because the rest of the people is seated in a clear field between rows of trees raining with grapefruit and decorated with little dangling paper hearts.
It looks like Saint Valentine threw up on the farm.
Brody is shaking, fidgeting like a dog. His hands are in his pockets, to check if the rings are there, every second minute. He corrects his tie for the thousandth time today before smoothing his messy hair [his attempt is futile].
