Okay, I caved.

I know, I know — tough resolve, responsible budget.

You try telling your only son, a good kid who's been planning his wedding since he was in training pants, that he couldn't live his dream.

You do that, and see the look on his face.

And then you watch him respond, not pouting or complaining, but by listing how he can bake cupcakes or make the wedding clothes himself to meet his budget. You watch him tear down those dreams because you told him it cost too much, and you see how far your resolve goes.

It won't go far.

“We'll make it work.” That's what I told him.

I didn't give him my credit card, mind you. I just said we could find places to compromise: a slightly less expensive meal in exchange for a few more guests, stuff like that.

So we had a talk, we set some guidelines, and we got to work.

And that unleashed the beast.

* * *

Kurt — and to a lesser extent, Blaine — handled all of the initial interviews with caterers, florists, decorators and rental companies.

What Burt didn't anticipate was Wedding Planning, Phase Two: the site visits, the follow-up interviews, the estimates. And with Kurt back in New York for the last few weeks of school, many of those responsibilities fell into Burt's lap. He was, in effect, representing Kurt, at time like a de facto nuptial employee.

Not entirely, of course. Burt knew that Kurt did his best to call or Skype in to the Hummel-Hudson household to participate in as many appointments as possible. He also figured that it was Kurt's way of easing the strain caused by the parade of consultants rummaging through the house, vying for his wedding business— or that he simply didn't trust his father to entirely get it right. But between juggling school, his internship-turned-part time job at Vogue and wedding planning, he sometimes called in late, or missed meetings entirely, leaving a befuddled Burt to take notes about white ceiling drapes or colorful accents, or of a wooden trellis versus an iron arbor. 

Blaine, on the other hand, benefitted from a reduced academic schedule, and saw his role on the daytime soap grow rapidly.

Dr. Ridge Rockwell proved an instant hit with viewers, both men and women, and the producers were more than happy to adjust existing story arcs to write a few more scenes for their burgeoning star.

Blaine valued the extra income. Kurt was a little less than enthusiastic, especially after his fiancé's saucy debut on the show.

He knew that Blaine's character was introduced to the show by being admonished for bedding two nurses his first week on the job. But

Blaine left him with the distinct impression that he would learn this as background, through dialogue.

What he did not expect was to see these scenes graphically illustrated in two make-out sessions between Blaine and two of the show's actresses — both in Blaine's first week on the job. Nor did he expect him to shoot a scene sleeping with them — simultaneously — in his second week. Or shoot a shower scene with another actress in his third.

“Kurt, it's a soap opera. You knew there would be sex scenes. It's about all these shows are,” Blaine said, trying to talk some reason into his increasingly annoyed fiancé.

“You didn't tell me,” Kurt argued.

“Did I need to? I'm playing a Lothario, Kurt. You knew that. Do you want me to tell you every time I have a scene like that? Because we'll be talking about work a lot.”

“It's a bit sudden, isn't it? And a bit graphic for daytime TV. I mean, I'd understand if it was HBO...”

“They're trying to push the envelope,” Blaine said.

“I should say so.”

“They think it will pull a younger demographic. Kurt, they're women. And they're not you. You're going to be asked to do a love scene soon enough, but I know that at the end of the day you'll be coming home to me. It's the job, Kurt.”

Kurt's jaw was set, his eyes sharply focused on a spot on the wall. Blaine knew these looks. They were Kurt's tells.

“Do you want me to stop? It's not exactly my dream job, but the money's good. I figured we needed that right now. But if you're not comfortable...”

Kurt let his shoulders ease down into a comfortable slump, easing his plywood-straight posture.

“It is paying the bills,” Kurt said, softening his edge.

What he didn't tell Blaine was that it wasn't just the love scenes. He expected those. Blaine was hired to play a womanizer. On a soap opera. An edgy soap opera. He was bound to get naked sometime.

What really unsettled him was the fans' reaction to the new character, and to Blaine. Dr. Ridge Rockwell was a hit, and Blaine was starting to get recognized when they were out and about. With the fresh exposure came extra attention — not all of it welcome. Some of it was lavished on him through random praise and requests for curbside cell phone selfie portraits.

Some of it came in the form of phone numbers slipped into his breast pocket.

Blaine laughed it off and threw them out, as had been his habit since the last number he'd actually kept — Kurt's. But the fact that it happened at all still got under Kurt's skin, just a little. Not the men, not so much. Kurt was oddly prepared for the men who hit on his handsome fiancé, and he never for a moment questioned Blaine's devotion or fidelity.

It was the number of women who came on to Blaine, even knowing that he didn't play that game, and Blaine's friendly acceptance of the attention that sometimes unnerved him.

* * *

Burt had finally gotten the hang of this Skype contraption, thanks in large part to the number of times he would have to turn on Carole's laptop at an appointed time during the day and wait for it to ring, opening a portal of sorts for Kurt to meet with estimators and decorators.

He knew to click on the “answer” button when the computer erupted in a certain series of beeps and squawks.

“If it's ringing, why can't they just make the damn thing ring, already,” he mumbled to himself as Kurt's image appeared on his screen.

Kurt was seated at his desk at work. Pulled together with upswept hair and wearing what Burt assumed was a sort of a suit, though not one he was likely to ever wear, what with its offset button placket and what appeared to be embroidery on the collar.

“Hey kiddo. How's it going today?”

“Good, good. Busy, but good. Thanks for taking time to do this.”

“Sure, sure,” Burt said. “So is today a florist or a party rental guy? Because I've pretty much lost track at this point.”

“Party rental. He's bringing over sample linens and place settings.”

“I'm just going to have to trust you on that, Kurt.”

“That's why we Skype, Dad.”

“So how's Blaine doing? How's the show going?”

“Fine, fine,” Kurt said, sounding distracted.

“Carole said to let you know that all the nurses are watching, and they all love him. And Fernando the night charge nurse said to let you know that if you ever change your mind about him...”

“Gotcha, Dad.”

Burt picked up on something in his son's voice, something that rang a little too hollow for distraction.

“You sure everything's alright on that end? Nobody's getting wedding jitters, are they?”

“No Dad. It's okay,” Kurt said. “Everything's going to be fine.”

* * *