Once they settled on getting hitched at the house, Kurt jump-started the wedding planning while Blaine was still in town. They only had a few days before Blaine had to head back to New York, a couple of days ahead of Kurt, to start his new job on the soap opera.

But even with the matter settled, I still had a question nagging at the back of my head. It had been stuck there since we'd met Blaine's folks. You see, there was one spot that wasn't even considered for the wedding, and it didn't make sense, not completely, not after visiting the Andersons.

Don't get me wrong — from the start, I knew Kurt wouldn't have anything to do with a church wedding. They'd originally wanted a club, or a garden, or maybe a Broadway stage. But a church? Let's say that Kurt's views on religion are, well, settled.

I'd suspected from the start that Blaine simply believed in letting Kurt have his way. My son's a spirited kid and I had to figure that Blaine didn't agree with him on everything, that maybe he just agreed with the things Kurt wanted — or didn't want — because it was easier that way. I didn't think much of it.

And then it happened. The moment I didn't expect, or really want. The moment it started to make sense.

Because in the entryway to the Anderson house, a single wall decoration had opened a door into what made Blaine Anderson tick more than an entire brunch with his parents — a cross.

* * *

Blaine had come over to watch baseball, part of his win over the future father-in-law campaign he'd waged through the world of sports, it seemed. Kurt sat quietly by his side, reviewing wedding notes and reading Vogue, occasionally looking over and smiling.

They were, clearly, stupidly, intuitively in love — each focused on his own activity: a baseball game, a fashion magazine — yet taking a random moment every few minutes to touch a knee, or lean a head on a shoulder, or simply look at each other for the briefest of telling moments.

Burt tried to stay focused on the Reds game, but he couldn't help but notice the wandering fingers and lingering looks. This was a lost cause.

“Kurt, I need to get some groceries for this evening. You guys want to come with?” Carole shouted from the kitchen.

“You stay,” he whispered to Blaine. “Watch the game.”

With a kiss to the cheek, he was gone, leaving Blaine alone with Burt for the bottom of the 8th inning in an unexpected pitching duel with the Chicago Cubs.

“Let's hope they don't have to go to the pen,” Blaine said, taking a sip of iced tea.

“We're doomed if they do,” Burt said.

It went on like this, two men focused on the sub-par team to which they were equally devoted, mumbling at the television and the baseball gods until the Cubs ended the game on a two-run double in the bottom of the ninth.

“Holy hell,” Burt said, clicking off the TV.

“We need a blessing of the bats,” Blaine responded. “Some holy water, or maybe an exorcist.”

Burt looked at Blaine, considered his risky words for a moment, then dove in anyway.

“You know Blaine, I've been meaning to ask you about something.”

“Mmm?”

Blaine was still in baseball mode. His guard, usually up around Burt, was still settled comfortably into the couch.

“When Carole and I visited your folks' home, I saw something I wanted to ask you about.”

Blaine looked at Burt, his look asking, “Yes?” even if his voice didn't.

“On the wall. There was a cross near the front door. Did you grow up in the church?”

Blaine nodded a bit absently. “Yes, sir. St. Paul the Apostle in Westerville.”

“You still go?”

“No sir. No time, really, and the church and I, we don't exactly see eye-to-eye these days.”

“And Kurt's an atheist.”

Blaine paused for the slightest of beats, and then nodded in acknowledgement of that which Burt had left unsaid.

“And I still believe in God, yes.”

“How's that working out?”

“Hmm?”

“With Kurt? And religion? His opinions are pretty...”

“Strong. Yeah, but I love that about him. He knows his mind, Mr. Hummel. He knows who he is and he has strong convictions and I just really am in awe of it, every day.”

“But what about you?”

“Faith is a private thing for me. Kurt knows.”

“And the wedding?” Burt asked.

“What about it?”

“No church? No pastor? I know it's what my son wants, but what about you?”

“I think it will be lovely, Mr. Hummel.”

“That's not what I mean, Blaine. I've been to your parents' home. I saw that cross on the wall. I've seen you wait a second or two before you eat. I've seen you sort of dip your head for a moment.”

“Force of habit,” Blaine said.

“You're praying, and I'm not criticizing, it's just... you were raised in the church. You clearly still worship in your own way. Don't you want to be married in a church?”

Blaine took a deep breath and collected his thoughts.

“Mr. Hummel, I don't need it. I don't need the trapping to believe what I believe. It's just not necessary for me,” he said. “I haven't been to church in years. Yes, I have my beliefs, I've had them since I was a kid and they're not going away anytime soon. It's part of who I am. But the church I grew up in won't marry us, won't even recognize us. Its official stance is that our relationship is a sin. So would I want to get married there, even if I could?”

“But there are other churches...”

“I know, and I've thought about that. But I'm comfortable the way I am. Faith is a private thing. You can't define it just one way, and I don't need a church or a pastor to do that for me, just like I don't need one to bless our marriage. We bless our marriage. We bless it by being good and kind and faithful and patient and understanding. Besides, Kurt wouldn't be happy with a religious ceremony. And how can I be happy if Kurt's not happy?”

“You're willing to give that up for him?”

“I don't see that as giving anything up. I just see it as giving. And I'd give Kurt anything, Mr. Hummel.”

And right then, the light went on.

It wasn't that Kurt had found someone he could push around. There was give-and-take in the future Hummel-Anderson household, even if it wasn't front-and-center. It was subtle, but it was there.

And this boy, this man, and his innate politeness weren't an act. It wasn't a game to impress the in-laws. This kid was no Eddie Haskell.

He was the real deal.

“Son, I think it's about time you start calling me Dad,” Burt said.

“I'm not sure I can do that right now, before the wedding and all.”

“Then Burt. Call me Burt. But no more of the Mr. Hummel thing, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

There was nothing to caffeinate a household like Kurt Hummel with a wedding to plan.

The rest of the week was abuzz with activity. Kurt had made assignments for everyone, treating wedding planning like fashion triage. If they were going to be married in July, they needed to fast-track their interviews of caterers, photographers, bakers, DJs and other wedding specialists who he said get booked up for summer weddings nearly a year in advance.

Kurt took on the lion's share of the work, scheduling as many appointments as possible to review sample menus, cakes, photography and music playlists as possible before he returned for the remainder of his school term. Blaine's job seemed to be to accompany him. Carole was placed in charge household logistics, and would monitor the guest list and RSVPs, as well as record any gifts that arrived in Kurt and

Blaine's absence.

Burt was told, unsympathetically, to get a new tux. The Tony Orlando look died with the Dodo Bird, Kurt told him. Kurt handed him a folder with clippings of sample tuxes he suggested would compliment his father's frame.

“Just ask for a traditional box cut, Dad. Simple, elegant. And make sure it's black.”

“What else would it be?” Burt asked.

“I've seen your original wedding pictures, Dad, and powder blue tuxedos are only acceptable in 70s cover bands.”

“I'll have you know, 70s bands were awesome,” Burt said, chuckling to himself. “We had all kinds of style in the 70s.”

Kurt, already on to the next item on his checklist, didn't even bother looking up.

“Mm-hmm. Black, Dad. Black.”

Burt shook his head, muttering “task master” under his breath. But he kept the clippings and knew, when it came down to ordering that new suit, all he had to do was hand it over to Tony at the tux shop and let him do the rest. Kurt knew what he was doing.

Everyone was to contribute names for the guest list so that the budget could be finalized by the end of the week.

The effort was to result in what could best be described as a staff meeting on Blaine's last night in town, when the results of research, interviews, taste testing and, most importantly, the identification of guests could be tallied, sorted and finalized.

They sat around the dinner table, Carole with the ubiquitous legal pad, Blaine with a database of assembled guest names on his iPad.

Guest names that totaled 213, including plus-ones.

With a menu that currently cost $97 a head, and that didn't include beer, wine, liquor or wedding cake.

“That's it! We are going to sit here until we cut this list in half,” Burt exclaimed. “Kurt I love you and I want you to have a happy wedding.

But there's a happy wedding and there's a royal wedding and we don't have a royal wedding budget. Blaine, read off the names. Carole, take notes.”

The three looked at Burt, then each other.

“Um, in alphabetical order or by wedding party member?” Blaine asked, uncertain what else to say.

“What? However the names show up, Blaine.”

Blaine looked at Kurt for guidance. Kurt gave him a short nod, a go-ahead.

“Anderson, Cooper and Anderson, Don and Bitsy.”

“Yeah, yeah. You can skip over the wedding party, Blaine.”

“Ashcroft, Margaret and Bob.”

Burt announced the verdict. “Cut ‘em loose!”

“But I work with Margaret, and they've been family friends for years,” Carole protested.

Kurt shook his head no to Blaine, who color-coded the names in his database rather than delete them.

“Next!” Burt said, standing up to peer over Blaine's shoulder at the list.

“Rachel Berry,” Blaine said in a soft monotone.

“Wedding party,” Kurt said before anyone else could respond.

“Fine. Next.”

“Bohlner, Arnold.”

“Who?” Kurt asked.

“My best customer and a big campaign contributor,” Burt said. “He stays.”

“Wait a second. You're saying Margaret and Bob — who are family friends — are off the guest list but Arnold Bohlner from Sofa World goes?” Carole asked.

Kurt and Blaine exchanged looks, and said nothing. If Burt was paying for the reception, Burt got a say in who could attend.

“Hey, isn't that next one the photographer? Why do we have to buy a meal for him?”

It went on like that for more than an hour, and when they were done — Blaine with his color-coded database and Carole with her notepad — they had pared the names down to nearly 150. Blaine hardly raised his eyes from the tablet, and Kurt looked shell-shocked.

“There. That's a little more manageable,” Burt said.

Kurt collected the rest of his notes, closed the cover on Blaine's iPad.

“Blaine needs to get home and pack,” he said. “We're just going to go get some coffee before he leaves.”

With a stony look on his face, he took Blaine's hand to lead him to the door, scarcely leaving time for goodbyes.

Carole followed them to Kurt's car, kissed Blaine on the cheek and wished him well in his new job, and shared an uncomfortable look with Kurt. She took a deep breath as she watched the car's taillights disappear into the night, then turned back toward the house.

“BURT!”

* * *

Yeah, I got my head handed to me that night, but a line had to be drawn somewhere. We didn't have the budget for the wedding of the century, or even of the decade. Someone had to be realistic about this.

I didn't see Kurt again until morning, when I walked into the living room to find him asleep on the couch, surrounded by magazines. A notepad was on the floor, looking for all the world like it had slipped out of his hand as he fell asleep.

I did my best to get that notepad without waking Kurt, and then I took it with me into the kitchen. I got a look at his work while the coffee was brewing:

WAYS TO SAVE $$ ON THE WEDDING

• Serve appetizers instead of dinner
• Cash bar instead of hosted
• Make our tuxes myself
• Ask friends to sing at reception instead of DJ or band
• Ask Artie to be the videographer
• Make cupcakes instead of buying a wedding cake.
• Elope

Elope.

The word hit me like a ton of bricks. A quickie wedding at the courthouse would surely save money, but it's a far cry from the wedding my boy had been planning since he was a kid.

Elope. They could get married without anyone there to see the biggest day of his life.

Elope. They might run off in secret and just get it done.

Elope. I couldn't let it happen, even if it landed me in the poorhouse. 

* * *