The next few weeks of my life are swept away by cake tastings and wedding invitations and caterer menus. As predicted, Alex takes the lead on most of it. I’m just along for the ride and to prove that a real live groom actually does exist.
But it doesn’t bother me.
I don’t have much of an opinion on cake flavors or calligraphy styles anyway. I’m happy to let Alex just be Alex in this. Especially upon seeing how she lights up whenever she’s ordering people around and calling all the shots.
That’s how good relationships flourish. Letting people be who they are and not trying to change them. I’ve stopped hoping Alex will turn into someone else. Stopped hoping she’ll magically wake up one day and not want to be in control of everything. I know who she is. I’ve known for eight years. And I accept it.
Maybe that’s what my mom doesn’t get. Maybe because my dad left without a fight, she doesn’t understand that when you love someone, you make it work. I don’t expect Alex to change or be perfect. I recognize her flaws and I love her anyway.
It’s Friday night and I’m horizontal on Alex’s couch, watching a Walking Dead marathon, enjoying the one night we have off this week from wedding planning. Alex emerges from her bedroom looking jaw-droppingly gorgeous in a black cocktail dress. Her glimmering brown hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and her lips are painted a vibrant shade of red.
I let out a low whistle and she grins and twirls. But then she takes in my ensemble—cargo shorts and a T-shirt—and her grin collapses. “You can’t wear that.”
I glance down. “I don’t think the zombies care what I’m wearing. They look like hell.”
She rolls her eyes. “You can’t wear that to the restaurant.”
“We’re going to a restaurant?”
This is news to me.
“I told you about it days ago. My boss and her husband are taking us out. This is huge for me. I’m pretty sure she’s grooming me to take her place. There are rumors that she may be leaving to take a job with one of our competitors.”
“But why do I have to be there?”
I can tell right away that this is the wrong thing to say. Her bright red lips sink into a pout. “I’m so sorry. I was under the impression that you’d want to be there. That you want to spend time with me and support my career. Just like I support your career.”
The career you chose for me.
The thought invades my mind before I can stop it. I quickly bat it away like an annoying fly.
“You’re right,” I say, pushing myself off the couch and zapping the TV off with the remote. “I’ll go change. Just give me five minutes.”
Alex sighs. “God, I wish I were a guy. This look took me two hours.”
I kiss her cheek as I walk by. “And it’s worth every second.”
Alex is in one of her moods. I can tell from the moment we get into the cab. It’s probably because we’re late. I want to point out that she usually has no problem making people wait but I’m smart enough to refrain.
“First Avenue and Houston,” she tells the driver.
“I thought you hated going to the Lower East Side.”
She grimaces. “She picked the place.”
The cab takes off. Alex pulls her compact out of her purse and checks her make-up. I’m not really sure why, since she just checked it two minutes ago in the apartment and again in the mirrored walls of the lobby.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she says, pursing her lips at her reflection. “I talked to my dad today. Lia sold the restaurant.”
My stomach plummets to the floor of the cab. “What!?”
Alex nods. “I know, right? It’s about time. I thought she’d never give that place up.”
My throat goes dry. “Do you know who she sold it to?”
She fishes her lipstick out of her bag and paints on another coat. “Some real estate developer here in New York. Hemworth. Hellsley.”
“James Hallenworth?” I ask.
She points at me. “Yeah, that’s the one. You know him?”
I nod. “He’s a client at Whitfield.”
Alex pops the cap back on her lipstick. “Oh, well anyway. Dad says Lia plans to move away for a while. She wants to work on her cartoon.”
“Graphic novel,” I correct.
Alex rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Either way it’s a waste of time. You can’t make a living drawing pictures of girls in go-go boots and leotards. I told my dad she should get a real job but no one in this family ever listens to me.”
I want to ask more questions, reach into her brain and pull out every last detail of the conversation. But before I can even think of what to ask next, Alex has already moved on. “Oh, and that caterer we like emailed over some menu options. I’ll forward them to you, but I want the duck.”
There’s a voice in the back of my mind warning me not to do it. Screaming at me to just let it go. But for some reason, I’m not smart enough to listen. And before I know it, I hear myself say, “I was thinking that maybe I would cater the wedding.”
She closes her compact with a snap. “You?”
I shrug. “Why not? I like to cook. I’m pretty good at it.”
“You can’t cater your own wedding. Why don’t I just buy a sewing machine and make my own dress?”
I can feel myself getting sucked into the argument. That same voice is telling me to drop it. Nothing good can come of this. But again, I’m somehow unable to heed the advice.
“I’m sure a lot of brides do make their own wedding dresses,” I reply.
“You’re not catering our wedding,” she says with a finality that grates on my nerves.
“Because you don’t think it’s appropriate, or because you don’t like my cooking?”
Her face is one giant glower. “This doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not I like your cooking.”
“Then why don’t you ever let me cook for you?” I challenge.
I should definitely pull back, reel it in, stop while I still have my ear drums intact, but something is fueling me forward. Some unseen force. A dying flame that fights to burn on.
She scoffs. “Because there’s no point in dirtying up dishes when you can just walk fifty feet and find ten restaurants.”
“But I like cooking.”
“And I liked finger-painting when I was five. But you don’t see me smearing up the walls of my apartment.”
Her argument is so preposterous that I have to laugh. “How is that even close to the same thing?”
Alex shoots me a dirty look. “You know what? Let’s talk about it later. I have to focus on this dinner. I need to bring my A game tonight. And you’re stressing me out.”
“I’m stressing you out?” I ask in amazement.
“Yes.” The cab pulls to a stop and she kicks the door open, stepping onto the curb.
I guess I’m paying.
I toss a ten-dollar bill at the driver and follow Alex into the restaurant. The minute she lays eyes on the couple we’re here to meet—Cynthia and Shane—she becomes an entirely different person. This Alex is gracious and accommodating, and she waits for entire sentences to be spoken before interrupting.
I sit silent through most of the first half of the meal, letting her shine, smiling at her cleverness, laughing at her jokes, and rubbing her arm supportively when she talks about an ad campaign at work that she’s particularly proud of.
But by the time the entrées are delivered, I’m more than ready to leave. I pull the phone out of my pocket and sneak a peek at the time. Alex catches me and gives me a swift kick under the table.
The only thing that makes me feel better is the fact that Shane, Cynthia’s husband, seems equally as unhappy to be here as I am. He’s just less skilled at hiding it. Either that, or he simply doesn’t give a shit.
Cynthia, like Alex, does most of the talking, while Shane downs glass after glass of high-priced Scotch. We share a few sympathetic glances across the table. Looks that say, “what are you gonna do, am I right?” But whenever I peer at him, I can’t help but notice a distinct melancholy in his eyes. A hollowness. Like someone carved all the light out of him with a spoon.
It makes me think that his unhappiness goes a lot deeper than simply missing his favorite TV show tonight.
“Shane,” Alex says, turning to him, “what is it that you do?”
He takes a sip of his drink and mumbles something about being a lawyer.
“Honey,” Cynthia admonishes him with a tight-lipped smile, “no one can understand you when you mumble.” She turns to Alex and translates. “He’s an entertainment lawyer.”
“And I play bass in a band,” Shane adds.
Cynthia rolls her eyes. “He’s just an entertainment lawyer. He hasn’t played with that band in over four months, and they’ve never booked a gig.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Shane reminds her, an edge to his tone.
“Am I wrong?” She glares at him, the winning grin still plastered on her face.
Shane grumbles something unintelligible and returns to his drink.
“Wait a minute,” Alex says excitedly, pointing at Cynthia. She’s either completely oblivious to the tension on the other side of the table, or she’s a master at knowing exactly when to change the subject. “We haven’t even talked about your new baby! How old is she now?”
These two have a child together?
Cynthia beams and tosses back the remainder of her Martini before shaking the empty lass in the direction of the waiter. “Eight weeks. What a delight! I hope you guys are planning to have kids. It’s such a rewarding experience.”
I look to Shane for confirmation of that assessment, but his face is as blank as this white tablecloth.
“Oh, we are,” Alex says, interlocking her fingers with mine.
“You have an eight-week-old baby?” I ask. “How are you even able to go out?”
Alex shoots me a look. Obviously this was the wrong question, and I find myself wondering if there’s such a thing as a right question if it’s coming out of my mouth.
Cynthia leans across the table. “The secret is to hire a really great nanny. Ours is a godsend.”
“Cynthia’s been back at work since the baby was two weeks old,” Alex explains and I detect a distinct pride in her voice. “Now that’s dedication.”
My mouth drops open. “You left your two-week-old baby with a stranger?”
Bam!
A blinding pain shoots up my leg as Alex gives me another kick under the table. This time, I’m pretty sure she used her pointed heel.
Fuck, that hurt.
“Well, she’s not a stranger,” Cynthia replies, looking slightly insulted.
“Of course not!” Alex defends, trying to cover for me. “I’m sure you interviewed and screened extensively. Just as I would.”
Just as she would?
We haven’t even finished planning the wedding and already Alex has made all the major decisions on childcare?
I turn to her. “I don’t remember talking about nannies.”
She narrows her eyes at me and speaks through gritted teeth. “Well, I’m not giving up my job, if that’s what you expect.”
“No,” I start to argue, “I don’t expect that but—”
“Then, there you have it,” Alex resolves.
End of discussion.
Cynthia smiles at Alex—her little protégée—and then glances impatiently around the restaurant. “Where the fuck is that waiter? My buzz is dying.”
The night wears on as more drinks are consumed, more subjects are broached, and I start to feel like I’m in some kind of wind tunnel. Everything is rushing past me and I can’t slow it down. Everything is making noise and I can’t understand any of it.
Who put the world on fast-forward?
Who ripped the floor from under my feet?
As I watch Cynthia prattle on and Shane suck down Scotch after Scotch, I have this sinking feeling that I’m looking into a mirror. A mirror that gives me a glimpse of my life…five years in the future. When those dead, hollow eyes are sunken into my face and those five Scotch glasses were emptied by me. When Alex and I sit at this same table, entertaining some rising young hotshot from the ad agency she runs while our twenty-something nanny kisses our kids goodnight.
And then suddenly the walls are closing in on me and I can’t breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe!
Something inside of me is trying to claw its way out, ripping at my muscles, banging against my ribcage. The universe is on mute and all I can hear is the pounding of my own heart deep within my chest.
Everything feels wrong. My skin is misshapen. My vision is blurry. I feel like I’m trapped inside a body that doesn’t fit, gazing out at the world, waiting for someone to notice that I don’t belong in here.
God, I have to get out of this place.
I’m going to drown in this restaurant. Suffocate on its bitter air. Choke on these fake smiles.
Alex’s shrill laugh breaks through my sound bubble and sends my flying over the edge.
I fling her hand from mine and launch out of my seat. Ignoring the calls and shouts from the table behind me, I sprint into the street. I stagger to the first trash can I see and I vomit up my high-end, overpriced dinner.