Chapter 10
10
“I think you’re really going to like The Natty Beaus.” It’s the second Sunday in October, and I’ve invited Claire and Graham to stop by the tail end of another client’s reception to hear their band and see if they would be interested in hiring them. With such a short planning timeline, it’s a simpler strategy than meeting with multiple performers. Plus, I’m excited to show off the affair we’ve planned for Miguel and Jeremiah, two English teachers who met in their Teach for America cohort. The Peabody Library is the perfect venue for a pair of book lovers. And of course, it’s undeniably romantic.
Claire’s bobbing her head to a Dua Lipa cover when her cell phone vibrates in her pocket. She frowns at it. “Hang on, I need to take this.” She slips past us, disappearing through the doorway. Since Asha is otherwise engaged, making sure that departing guests receive their favors, that leaves me and Graham. Alone.
Graham jams his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
“I, um, wanted to thank you for what you did with the wedding menu. The way you came up with something that would foster our rebranding without explicitly letting on that you knew about it. That was kind of you.”
I shrug. “Always receptive to feedback on my general awesomeness, but I’m just doing my job.” I shift my weight between my feet. “Also, I left your sweater at the hotel’s front desk.”
I neglect to mention that I slept with it for three consecutive nights, pressing my nose against the soft fabric until I could no longer detect his citrus scent. That is classified information, known only by me and God.
“Oh. Thanks,” Graham says. “I had completely forgotten about it.” But he’s staring at the ground when he says it, and my gut tells me he’s lying.
The awkward tension in the air thankfully dissipates as Claire skips back over to us, her cheeks pink with excitement.
“Okay, that was one of the producers for Cash Castillo, and get this,” she says, her words pouring out in a rush. “They want a writer with improv experience to perform in a couple of sketches with Cash, and they asked me. I need to get back to New York ASAP to start writing and filming a few pre-recorded segments for the upcoming season.”
She pauses, biting down on her bottom lip before confessing the next part. “Since it will mean putting extra hours on top of my regular day job, I’m going to have to stay in New York for the next few weekends.”
Graham’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything. True to form, I jump to fill in the silence.
“I mean, wow. That’s amazing, but… what about planning? Your wedding is only twelve weeks away,” I protest.
“I know it’s not ideal,” Claire says. “But this is an incredible opportunity. Besides, you guys will be fine. I mean, you were such a dynamic duo during the tasting the other day. You’ve got things under control here.”
Realization finally dawns on me, turning my blood cold. With Claire gone, Graham and I will be planning this wedding alone. No, not alone. Alone together. This can’t be happening.
“How many weekends are we talking?” Graham finally asks, and I’m not sure which of us is more afraid to hear the answer. My brain is already spiraling. But I mean, how long can filming a few skits take? A weekend? Two, tops? We’ve already scheduled most of our appointments on Saturdays and Sundays to accommodate her time in New York. I’m sure we can push back a couple of our upcoming meetings until she returns. It won’t be ideal with such a short timeline, but we can make it work.
Claire grimaces again. “Four.”
No. Absolutely not. There is no way I am going to spend the next month alone with Graham. Well, not completely alone, I guess. Thank goodness for Asha.
Graham pales. He seems as disconcerted as I am to lose the buffer Claire has unwittingly provided during our previous meetings. Or maybe he’s just upset to be apart from his fiancée. Four weeks is a long time to be apart from the love of your life. Plus, Claire is cool as hell; I wouldn’t want to spend time away from her either. At the same time, I can see that he’s reluctant to discourage her from an opportunity she’s clearly thrilled about.
Still, he manages a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Congratulations,” he says finally. “This is going to be great.”
“Thanks, Teddy.” A wide grin stretches across her face as she throws her arms around him.
I turn away to give the two of them privacy, my chest tightening at the memory of Graham holding me like that in the freezer. Pulling out my phone as a distraction, I see there’s a new message in my group chat with Lexi and Chloe. Chloe’s sent us a link to an article about a new reality dating show called Ready to Mingle that features a gaggle of D-list celebrities. I grin when I see her least favorite client’s handsome face at the top of the page.
Chloe: Over/under odds that Chad is the first to be voted out?
Lexi: Depends on how soon he whips out his scrotum piercing
Chloe: Thanks for unearthing that repressed memory
Lexi:
Lexi: Or maybe he’ll find true love at last, like an Ashley on Bachelor in Paradise.
Chloe: …
Chloe: I could work with that.
Ali: Please don’t ask me to plan the wedding.
I grin as I drop my phone back into my purse. I can’t help but love Chad, a former Bachelorette contestant and the bane of Chloe’s existence. There’s so much vacant space in the man’s brain I’m surprised a Spirit Halloween hasn’t moved in. His heart’s always in the right place, though.
I turn back to my clients and notice Graham is standing there alone, staring intently at his phone.
“Where’s Claire?” I ask.
Graham glances up and looks around, brow furrowed as though he’s just noticed she’s no longer beside him.
“Oh, uh. She headed out so she could start packing.” The air feels tense, and I can’t decide if it’s because he’s upset with Claire for taking so little interest in their wedding, or he’s worried about the extra solo time he’ll now spend with me.
I clear my throat. “Will this be okay? Working together without her?”
“Of course.” Graham nods quickly but doesn’t meet my eye. “Besides, we still have Asha.” He drops his eyes back to his phone screen.
“Listen, I’ve got a client call soon, so I’ve got to run. Shoot me a text to let me know when our next meeting is?” And with that, he departs, leaving me alone at the edge of the dance floor.
“Now remember this order: sweet, sour, seal, and sticker.”
Two nights later, my mom, grandma, and I are gathered around the navy-blue island in my sister’s immaculate transitional-style kitchen, candy and packing supplies arranged in tidy piles in front of us. Sarah summoned us here to stuff favor bags for Jackson’s Bar Mitzvah, and true to character, she has plotted out the task with military precision.
“Back up: what comes after sour again?” I ask.
My mother tsks. “Ali, leave your sister alone.”
“No can do,” I shrug. “As the youngest child, it’s my duty to be as annoying as possible at all times.”
I attempt to shoot a good-natured grin at Sarah, but she’s bent over the countertop, brow furrowed as she surveys the rainbow-hued stash. My sister can normally handle anything without breaking a sweat, but tonight, her shoulders seem uncharacteristically tense.
“You know, you could have hired a party planner to do this. Saved yourself some trouble.” I put a hard emphasis on the words “party planner,” since I’m still annoyed that she declined to hire Antoine Williams Events, or anyone for that matter. My big sister thinks she can do everything herself, and normally she can. But she’s only one person, and she already has a lot on her plate. I sometimes worry that she’s going to crack under all the self-imposed pressure. Besides, I want to help her. It would be nice if for once, she wanted my support, instead of the other way around.
“Give me one more second to set up. I want to film this for TikTok,” she murmurs. She reaches up to fiddle with the ring light on her tripod, then swings her full attention back to us.
“Okay, I’m going to model this one more time.” She holds up one of the game controller–shaped treat boxes like she’s a flight attendant performing a safety demonstration.
“First, sweet.” She dumps a spoonful of jelly beans into the box. “Then sour.” She adds a scoop of sour gummy candy. “Then seal and sticker.” She folds the box closed, tucking the lid into the base, and sealing it with the sticker that reads “I Leveled Up at Jackson’s Bar Mitzvah.”
“There you go. Easy peasy.”
“Sour, seal, sticker, sweet. Got it,” I say.
My mom shoots me a warning look as she picks up a box.
“Are you sure it doesn’t make sense to work as an assembly line?” she asks my sister.
Sarah shakes her head. “I think it will look better on camera to have our hands crisscrossing. Intergenerational activities are very trendy right now. Besides, everyone works at their own pace, and I’m sure I’ll pack faster than the rest of you. This is the most efficient way.”
She twists the camera in our direction, positioning the screen over the countertop.
“Okay, you guys can start. Make sure your hands look enthusiastic,” she directs.
My mom opens her mouth. Then, thinking the better of it, snaps it shut again. With a resigned sigh, she starts filling her box with a spoonful of jelly beans.
“So, Ali,” she says, turning her attention to me. “You never told us how your date with Brad went the other night. Are you going to be seeing each other again?”
I swap the sour and sweet piles, then tug a sticker off the sheet and adhere it to the center of my forehead.
“Sadly, that relationship bit the dust,” I say. “Gone and buried. A total dead end.” My sister groans, then switches the piles back without skipping a beat.
“It never gets easier,” Bubbie laments. “I had a date with a fellow last week, and he stood me up!”
My mom looks aghast. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Bubbie shrugs. “I was mad at first. But he turned out to have a good excuse. Poor schmuck dropped dead.”
“Mom!” My mother looks horrified. “That’s awful!”
Bubbie shrugs. “Eh, we’re old. It happens.”
I give Bubbie’s shoulder a conciliatory rub. “Men. Just when you thought you’d heard all the excuses.”
Bubbie nods in agreement. “It’s his loss. Now he’s going to miss my big birthday blowout.”
Bubbie is celebrating her ninetieth birthday in March, and unlike some people (*cough* Sarah), she asked me to plan the event for her. The details are still hazy since my mom nixed Bubbie’s suggestion of having the party at a casino. But I’m excited to start planning as soon as I put Graham and Claire’s wedding behind me.
I switch the sticker and jelly bean piles before beginning another box.
Sarah steps behind her phone to replay what she’s filmed and lets out a disgruntled sound.
“Mom, you have to stop moving at glacial speed,” she laments. “Ali, take that sticker off your forehead. And Bubbie, quit eating the inventory.”
Bubbie shrugs as she pops another jelly bean into her mouth. “I’m starving. There’s nothing to eat around here.”
“I assembled a vegan charcuterie board,” Sarah protests, gesturing toward the untouched platter of olive tapenade and gluten-free crackers.
Bubbie glances dubiously at the spread. “Like I said.”
“Oh shit,” I say. “Turns out I’ve been doing sour before sweet this entire time. I’m going to have to start all over.”
Sarah presses her fingertips to her temple. “You guys are the worst.”
I peel another sticker off the sheet.
“You know what they say,” I tell her as I stick it to the front of her shirt. “You get what you pay for.”