The Reception Continues

By the time they returned to the reception hall, twilight had settled over the venue, transforming it into a glittering wonderland of string lights and candles. The DJ announced the first dance. The crowd parted, forming a circle around the dance floor.

Paul took Gerry's hand and let himself be led to the center. The opening notes of their song—Jackie's choice, a slow ballad about enduring love—filled the space.

Gerry's hands settled on Paul's waist. Paul's arms looped around Gerry's neck. They swayed, moving in sync with muscle memory neither of them owned.

"You picked this song," Gerry said quietly.

"Jackie picked it," Paul corrected.

"You're Jackie. For tonight, at least."

Paul's fingers played with the hair at the nape of Gerry's neck. "Does that make it easier? Pretending I'm her?"

"I don't know what makes it easier." Gerry's voice was strained. "Nothing about this is easy."

"Then stop trying to make sense of it." Paul pressed closer, until their bodies were flush from chest to hip. "Just feel."

Gerry's breath caught. His hands tightened on Paul's waist, fingertips pressing into the fabric of the dress. "I can't stop thinking about the fact that you're Paul. That my best friend is—"

"Dancing with you on your wedding night," Paul finished. "Wearing your wife's body. Feeling things Paul never felt before." He tilted his head, lips brushing the shell of Gerry's ear. "Want to know a secret?"

"Paul—"

"I like it. Being like this. Being held by you. Being the one who gets looked at instead of doing the looking." Paul's voice dropped lower, intimate and dangerous. "Jackie never appreciated this body the way I do."

Gerry pulled back, eyes blazing. "Don't talk about her like that."

"Why not? She's not here. Not really. She's over there—" Paul glanced toward where Jackie stood with the other groomsmen, watching them with barely concealed anguish. "—watching her life happen without her."

"And you think that's funny?"

"I think it's tragic. But I also think it's done. The orb is gone. We don't know how to reverse it. And in the meantime, I'm stuck being Jackie, and you're stuck wanting me even though you don't want to."

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do." Paul's smile was sharp, knowing. "Your body doesn't lie, Gerry. I can feel it. The way you hold me. The way you kissed me earlier. The way you're looking at me right now."

The song ended. Applause erupted around them. Gerry stepped back quickly, putting distance between them, but his eyes never left Paul's face.

The DJ transitioned into upbeat music. Guests flooded the dance floor. Paul was swept away by bridesmaids, pulled into a circle of laughter and movement. He danced with abandon, letting the music move through him, feeling the dress swirl around his legs, the weight of the veil bouncing against his back.

Across the floor, he caught glimpses of Gerry. Talking to family. Accepting congratulations. Looking increasingly strained.

And always, always, Gerry's eyes found him. Tracked him. Devoured him.

________________________________________

"Time to cut the cake!" the DJ announced.

Paul and Gerry stood side by side at the ornate three-tiered confection. Cameras flashed. Phones recorded. The crowd pressed close, eager to capture the moment.

Paul picked up the knife. Gerry's hand covered his—larger, warmer, steadying. Together they cut through fondant and buttercream, the blade sinking into layered sponge beneath.

"Feed each other," someone called out. Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Paul carved a small piece, speared it on a fork. He turned to Gerry, smile playful, and held it up. "Open wide, husband."

Gerry's throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then he opened his mouth. Paul slid the fork in slowly, deliberately, watching Gerry's lips close around it. When Paul withdrew the fork, a smear of frosting remained at the corner of Gerry's mouth.

Without thinking, Paul reached up and wiped it away with his thumb. Then, holding Gerry's gaze, he brought his thumb to his own lips and licked it clean.

The crowd hooted and hollered. Gerry stared at Paul like he'd been struck.

"Your turn," Paul said softly.

Gerry's hands shook as he cut his piece. When he lifted the fork to Paul's mouth, he hesitated, searching Paul's eyes for something—permission, reassurance, sanity.

Paul parted his lips. Leaned forward. Let Gerry feed him.

The cake was sweet. Too sweet. It coated Paul's tongue, cloying and rich. But he smiled anyway, making a show of savoring it, licking his lips for the cameras.

Gerry's fork clattered to the plate. "I need air," he muttered, and walked away.

Paul watched him go, heart hammering—Jackie's heart, in Jackie's chest, responding to Jackie's husband in ways Paul was still learning to decode.

________________________________________

The lights dimmed. The DJ's voice boomed across the reception hall. "Gentlemen, you know what time it is!"

A chair appeared in the center of the dance floor. Paul was guided to it amid cheers and whistles. He sat, arranging the voluminous dress around him, crossing his legs at the ankle—demure, feminine, perfect.

Gerry approached slowly, looking like a man walking to his execution.

The music kicked in—something sultry and slow. The crowd roared. Paul smiled up at Gerry, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Go easy on me," Paul teased, loud enough for nearby guests to hear.

"Fat chance," someone yelled back. More laughter.

Gerry knelt in front of Paul. His hands hovered near Paul's ankle, trembling. "We don't have to do this," he said quietly, beneath the noise of the crowd.

"Yes, we do," Paul replied. "They're watching. Smile."

Gerry's smile was a grimace. His hands settled on Paul's ankle—small, delicate, encased in white silk. Slowly, he began sliding the dress up. Inch by inch. Revealing Jackie's toned calf, the curve of her knee, the soft skin of her thigh.

Paul felt every second of it. The brush of fabric against hypersensitive skin. The heat of Gerry's hands. The weight of a hundred gazes fixated on his exposed leg.

The garter came into view—white lace edged in blue. Gerry's fingers hooked beneath it. Paul felt his touch like electricity, zinging straight up his spine. His breath quickened. His thighs tensed involuntarily.

Gerry looked up, meeting Paul's eyes. There was something feral in his expression now. Something unguarded and dangerous.

"Do it," Paul whispered.

Gerry slid the garter down. Slow. Torturous. His knuckles dragged against Paul's skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake. When he reached Paul's ankle, he lifted his foot gently, slipping the garter free.

The crowd erupted. Gerry stood, garter dangling from his hand, and held it aloft like a trophy. Then he turned back to Paul, still sitting in the chair with his dress hiked up, flushed and breathless.

For one suspended moment, the noise of the reception faded. There was only the two of them, caught in the gravity of something neither could name.

Then Gerry extended his hand. Paul took it. Let himself be pulled to his feet. Let Gerry's arm wrap around his waist and guide him off the dance floor.

Behind them, the DJ launched into the bouquet toss. The bridesmaids scrambled. Paul barely registered it.

All he could feel was Gerry's hand at the small of his back, possessive and burning, as they navigated through the crowd toward some semblance of privacy.

Jackie appeared in their path. Her face—Paul's face—was pale, eyes red-rimmed. "We need to talk," she said, voice cracking.

"Later," Gerry said firmly. He steered Paul past her, toward the exit leading to the hotel attached to the venue.

Paul glanced back once. Jackie stood frozen in the center of the reception hall, surrounded by celebration and joy that no longer belonged to her.

Then the doors closed, and she disappeared from view.