I GRASP MATTHEW’S hand tighter as we stand on the front porch of my parents’ colonial. The sound of heavy footsteps approaches the old wooden door. It’s a chilly spring day in Jersey, but moisture forms at my hairline. “My parents are crazy,” I squeeze out just before the door swings open and Peggy stands before us in all her matching sweat pant glory with plastic tulips swinging from her ears.
“Did you hit traffic or just get a late start?” She looks down at her watch. We were due at eleven, and it’s 11:12. “We had snacks set out, but when I realized you were gonna be late, I told your father he could start eating them.”
That’s our greeting.
“It’s fine, Mom. We’re not hungry.”
“What? You’re not hungry?” my mother screeches. “We have plans to go to the Olive Garden at twelve thirty.”
“What’s the matter?” My father comes down the hall. No hello. Just, “Did something happen?”
“They’re not hungry.” My mother tosses up a hand in annoyance.
“What’s the matter, you don’t want to go to the Olive Garden? I thought you love the breadsticks there? They’re unlimited. You can have as many as you want. You can fill up on bread and salad and take the meal home.”
“Oh my God. I can’t…,” I mutter under my breath. I can’t do this. Give me strength.
“I’m starving,” Matthew says, jumping in to most likely try and put an end to the madness he’s already witnessing. Poor guy. He doesn’t know yet that there is no way to end the madness.
“You’re starving?” my mother asks, almost as if this news makes her more upset. Her mouth stretches down into a look of horror. “Well, we’re not going to the Olive Garden for another hour. Jack, did you save any snacks? Holly’s boyfriend is starving.”
“Fiancé,” I correct her, not that it matters.
“He’s starving?” My father looks guilty, obviously having already done a number on the snacks. “Uh—I think there’s still some pepperoni in the fridge. I can go slice some up.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary. I’m fine. I can wait an hour,” Matthew insists, but I know damn well that my father is not going to listen to him and will be force-feeding my fiancé large, unevenly cut chunks of pepperoni in no time. “Really, don’t. I’m fine. You don’t have to do that,” Matthew calls apologetically after my father, who has already taken off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Jack, don’t use the pepperoni in the cold cut drawer, that’s for when the Terzers come over next week. There’s a baggie with some leftover pepperoni next to the milk, use that.” My mother chases after my father. “You know what, let me get it. You’ll use the wrong one.” My father has never done one right thing in his life without the assistance of my mother. How he survived before her is one of life’s big mysteries.
I face Matthew. “Well, you’ve met my parents. Can we go now?”
“Did I meet them?” Matthew’s face is puzzled. “What just happened?”
What just happened was Peggy and Jack.
“Just remember that you love me, and please promise that you still will once this visit is over. Okay?” I take a step forward and stop. “Oh, and that the Olive Garden has wine, but you’re the one driving home.” To deal with this day, I’m gonna need wine. I’ll stop at three. Buzzed enough to get me through the visit, but not to the point where I’m too drunk to try on wedding gowns.
“Holly, Matthew, come on, chow time.” My dad returns to the hallway holding a paper plate with the pepperoni.
“I’m not gonna lie, Holl, I’m a little scared right now,” Matthew whispers, following me down the hallway to the living room.
“I’m not gonna lie, Matthew, you should be. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.” I should probably offer to drive home, let him be the one to have a few drinks today. “If you want, I’ll—”
“Holly, you haven’t even said hello to Michael yet.” My mother’s bellow interrupts.
“I’ll be the driver next time.” I finish my sentence in a different direction than intended. But as I reabsorb my childhood home, I know that today I am gonna need to be a little selfish. I’ll make it up to him later. Actually, after today I’ll probably be making it up to him all month.
The small back living room is still decorated for Easter, even though it was two weeks ago. Most likely the decorations were left up so that my father can give Matthew a “tour” of his springtime village. Matthew is gonna love that. I roll my eyes. He thinks I have too much bric-a-brac; well, he’s about to meet the king of bric-a-brac.
“Matthew, why don’t you come with me. I’ll give you a tour of my village, and we can let the women talk.” My father extends the invitation before we’ve even had a chance to sit. Matthew graciously accepts, choking down a thick piece of salty meat, and feigns enthusiasm at the ceramic display my father is ushering him toward. As they head off to the other side of the room, I hear my father inform him that he livened the display up this year with some moss he got from A.C. Moore. Matthew looks back, and I blow a kiss for luck in his direction before following my mother over to the sofa.
“Michael, say hi to your sister,” my mother instructs my little brother, who is sprawled out on the love seat. The asshole completely ignores me. My mother said he was sick when we spoke. He looks fine to me.
“Hello, Michael,” I say, because I know if I don’t, I’ll be labeled the rude one.
Michael gives me a bored look and lifts his leg to take big long laps at his private area. This pampered little shit has been around forever. Are cat years like dog years? ’Cause if so, he has to be like a hundred by now.
“Michael Martin! Don’t you do that!” My mother opens up a bag of treats and starts flinging them at the black cat to try and deter him from going to town on his butthole. My mother loves everything about cats except fur, shedding, meowing, claws, purring, rubbing up against you, going to the vet, the litterbox, and the fact that they clean themselves. So basically, she hates cats, she just doesn’t know it. Me, however, I know I hate them.
“He looks like he’s doing well.” On the phone my mother informed me that Michael had undergone surgery and been put on a slew of meds for a heart condition. I’d expected to him to look half-dead when I saw him, but he looks… normal.
“It’s been a rough road, but knock on wood, he’s doing much better now.” She reaches over and raps her knuckles on the oak coffee table. Her voice even cracks with a tinge of sadness for the little fur ball and I feel a bit guilty. I’m being too harsh. Deep down my mother is a good person, and her concern for Michael actually reminds me how I manage to get past all of her craziness. I think I’m just super on edge today because Matthew’s here.
“Well, I’m glad he’s doing good.” Michael licks his paw, then uses it to scrub his scrunched up face. It’s almost cute. I guess he’s not all that bad. Maybe I don’t actually hate cats.
My mother stretches out her fingers and studies the backs of her hands. “Holly, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Sure, what’s up?” I sink back on the couch and cross my legs.
“The vet is very expensive. Medical bills aren’t covered like human ones are.” She zeroes in on one finger and starts picking at the nail. “We weren’t planning on you getting engaged so soon. You kind of just sprang it on us.” A very bad feeling creeps in. Where is this leading? “With Michael being so sick, we had to dip into our savings. The account we had put aside for your wedding.”
“You did?” I gulp. Michael stands up on the couch and stretches.
“And Michael still needs follow-ups, and his medicine is very expensive.”
“So?” I make it a question.
“I’m sorry.” My mother shakes her head.
I was wrong. I do hate cats. I fucking hate them. Michael, you stupid fucking piece of shit. I hate you. If looks could kill there would be fur and guts all over the room.
“We didn’t think you’d be getting engaged anytime soon,” my mother says defensively.
“I told you how serious we were.”
“Yes, but you also said the same thing about Tyler, and well….”
Gah. Sucker punch from Mom.
“My ex? That was a completely different situation. Matthew is nothing like Tyler.” Annoyance overtakes me that my mother would even compare the two. Tyler was an asshole. She knows that.
“You’re all the way out in Pennsylvania. We hardly see you anymore. How would we know how serious things are?”
“Because.” I stop and take a deep breath, searching for an excuse. Fuuuuuuck. There is none. I hate to admit it, but she’s right. This is my fault. I made a million excuses as to why we could never come visit. I should’ve made more of an effort. They’re my family, and Lord knows we see enough of Matthew’s family on a regular basis. I’m sure the news of our engagement did come as a surprise. But they drained my wedding fund? For the cat?
Now what? Fucking Michael, that stupid fat bastard.
Deep breath, Holly. Calm down. You’ll figure something out.
It’s just means it’s time for a plan B, that’s all. But what the hell is plan B? And what if that doesn’t work out either? Plan C? D? How many plans will I need?
Thank God the alphabet has twenty-six letters.
HOLLY BUCKLES HERSELF into the passenger seat and relaxes her head back on the headrest. She shuts her eyes and heaves out a long sigh.
“Drive,” she says weakly. “Get us away from here.”
I hit Home on the navigation and follow the route guidance toward the Turnpike. Six hours have never gone by slower in my entire life. I never knew that you could receive a “tour” of a display set up on a six-foot folding table. But I got one. Jack Martin has a story behind every piece. “Ya see, Matthew, I used an index card to make it say ‘Martin’s Springtime Farm.’ Pretty clever, huh?”
At the Olive Garden, the Martins, true to their word, asked for refills on breadsticks and salad so many times that I was thankful to be in another state where I didn’t know anyone. And the amount of parmesan cheese that the poor waiter had to grind onto each salad refill was borderline insanity. Though, Mr. Martin seemed unaware as he glommed down his overcheesed salad and continuously asked me for medical advice on things like how to lower his cholesterol.
“I’m sorry.” Holly turns her head and stares out the side window. She’s quiet, downtrodden.
“For what?”
“Today. My family.”
“Stop. I’m glad to have finally met your parents. I liked them,” I say. It’s the truth. Sure, they’re a bit strange and the day was long, but I’m marrying their daughter. Meeting them in person was long overdue. I’m sure their quirkiness will grow on me. “Did you get a dress?” I know I’m not allowed to see the dress, but I can ask about it. Right?
“No.”
Oh. That must be why she’s upset.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find one next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.” She turns her head back to face me. I keep my eyes on the road, nervous about where this conversation is heading.
“What are you talking about?”
“Matthew, how do you feel about eloping?”
“Eloping?”
“Yes, running off and getting married. A small ceremony. Just me and you. That’s all that matters. Isn’t it?”
“Are you serious?” I chuckle. “What happened to the big wedding plans?” Every night, Holly climbs into bed with a stack of bridal magazines and her laptop opened up to wedding sites. Her phone clicks continuously, screenshotting the onslaught of dresses and bouquets she finds. “Did something happen today?”
“No.” I know she’s lying. I don’t know if it was an argument or a financial issue or shit, did her parents not like me?
“Holly, obviously something must have happened. Did I do something?”
“Oh please, they loved you. Free medical advice from a PA. I think they like you more than me.”
I can’t help but grin at the ego boost. They did seem to like me. See, look at that, they’re growing on me already. “Then what is it?”
“It’s just… nothing.”
What does that mean? What do girls mean when they say nothing when it is so clearly something? How do I respond to this?
The radio shuts off and my cell phone rings through the speakers. A quick glance at the caller ID shows my sister-in-law is calling, and I’m beyond grateful for a way out of “nothing” territory.
I press the button on the steering wheel. “Hello?”
“Matty, it’s me, Ashley. Did you and Holly set a date yet?”
“Not yet. Why? What’s up?”
“A friend of mine who works at the Chateau just called me; they have an opening on June 17th. I told her to hold it. I know it’s soon, but… ah, the Chateau in June, can you imagine how amazing that would be?”
I glance over at Holly; her eyes are bulging and her mouth gapes open. Ashley has overstepped. She tends to do that often.
“No, don’t have them hold it. Holly and I were just discussing the possibility of a smaller—”
“We’ll take it.” Holly cuts me off. “Ashley, it’s Holly, I’m in the car with Matthew. Call your friend and tell them we definitely want it. Oh my God, the Chateau in June,” she sings. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know!” Ashley squeaks.
“Oh my Gawwwwwd!” Holly squeaks back.
Squeak. Screech. Squawk. Squeak.
I go deaf from the pitch of their squeals. It’s as if I’m picking up a conversation between dolphins on a radio transmitter.
What just happened? Two minutes ago we were discussing running off for a small ceremony. Now we’re booked for a June wedding at one of the priciest venues in Pennsylvania? Can we even afford the Chateau? One of the doctors I work with had his son’s Bar Mitzvah there. As I recall, it was a tediously long night, although lavish, and the food was spectacular. They had an elaborate raw bar at the cocktail hour. I remember thinking it must have cost a fortune. What is our budget? We’ve yet to discuss it, but I still have school loans to pay, and my five, possibly ten-year plan includes going back to medical school to become an MD. And what about a house? The apartment is good for now, but surely we’ll want to start house hunting in the next few years. Fucking A. I should’ve known better than to answer a call from Ashley on speaker phone.
Holly disconnects the phone and dances, wiggling her butt in the passenger seat. “We have a date and a place. And not just any place, the Chateau.”
I hate to burst her bubble, but I have to say it. “That place is expensive. Can we afford it?”
“No, we can’t.” Holly smiles even though she is delivering bad news. “But I don’t fucking care. We’ll figure out a way and we’ll make it work.” Her feet stomp and she clasps her hands together. “The Chateau!”
“But… Holly, how?”
She ignores me. “The Chateau!”