Chapter 1 #2
Admittedly, it hurt, not getting an invite when everyone else did.
Far worse than I expected it to. I thought my happiness for the two people I love most in the world (my parents excluded)—and who loved me more than anyone (again, other than my parents)—would outweigh the bitterness of them starting a life together.
Because I always imagined that their life would still include me.
Even though I know I’m not meant for them. Matt knew it. Allie knew it. But I was the one in denial. Matt made that decision for us. Now he and Allie have a life that’s theirs, even though I always made room for Allie in the life I had with Matt.
But I’ve processed and accepted their choices. I support them and their relationship, and I wish them nothing but love and light and happiness.
“You should still go though!”
“What?” That’s not what Mom was supposed to say.
“You should go!” Mom says with forced nonchalance. “They’re your best friends! It would mean a lot if you went. I know things have been awkward since… Well, you know.”
Since my boyfriend of eight years broke up with me and almost immediately started dating my best friend? Yeah, it’s been awkward.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to make their wedding awkward.
” I shrug, fighting the urge to hug myself.
More so, I don’t want to feel awkward at their wedding.
All of their guests my age are Matt’s friends, a few Allie’s.
None of Matt’s friends have bothered to keep in touch, unless not kicking me out of their group chat counts as keeping in touch.
To Allie’s friends, I was just her weird and quiet roommate, or worse, their professor’s kid.
“Blakey-poo, you won’t make their wedding awkward.
Their families are going to make it awkward!
Mattie is like a son to us, but boy, I am really glad you’re not marrying into that family.
You dodged a fucking bullet!” Mom sighs dramatically.
“If I didn’t think they’d clutch their pearls so hard they’d choke, I would give them some of our fun candy in a heartbeat.
I’ve never met anyone who likes having a stick up their ass as much as the Jacobsons do. ”
My parent’s “fun candies” are psilocybin chocolates Mom gets from one of her students at Sigurdsson College.
Dad’s homegrown strain of weed, perfected over decades to help Dad manage his pain and Mom’s anxiety, is popular with the Siggys.
As a philosophy professor (obviously tenured), Mom believes it’s safer to supply the student body with something trustworthy, so they don’t turn to shadier sources.
She barters instead of selling, and only off-campus, as if that makes it somehow more acceptable.
The Jacobsons would lose their shit if they knew their hippie neighbors—who don’t mow their lawn, and let their chickens run loose, and support their queer kid—are potheads.
Even though that should be obvious. Dad has the weird, scraggly, middle-aged man ponytail and wears cargo vests.
And Mom is literally Ms. Frizzle, if Ms. Frizzle taught philosophy at a private liberal arts college.
A calendar notification dips across my mother’s hair, a reminder that I have an excuse to get off the phone (the necessary first step when it comes to ending phone calls with my mom, or she’ll keep talking for hours). “Oh, gotta go, Mom. Need to get ready for brunch.”
“Oh yeah! Where are you going?”
“Umm…Some diner.” The fewer details, the better.
I’m actually going to a drag brunch in Boystown, and while my mom is cool, she’s not that cool.
She understands the bisexual thing, and supports me no matter what (which I do not take for granted), but drag seems to rub her second-wave feminist principles the wrong way.
Same reason I don’t push her to compliment my increasingly masc presentation, even though she bends over backwards looking for anything femme to gush about.
And why I tell her that she/her pronouns don’t bother me that much (even though they do).
My mom is not ready to unpack her gender essentialism, and I’m too much of a people pleaser to push her.
If I tell her I’m going to a drag show now, she’s going to want to have a Long Conversation about it.
“Well, I’ll let you get going then, I just wanted to call and see how you’re doing.”
Step two: the summary of what we already talked about. “Yeah, just busy studying.” As usual.
“And you’ll think about going to that wedding?”
“If I get an invitation, I’ll think about it.” I wish I could stop thinking about it.
“Call us back when you’re free. Your dad texted that he saw some new bird this morning, and we all know you’ll appreciate that story more than I will.”
It was a cerulean warbler. Earlier this morning, Dad sent me a blurry picture of a tree branch, along with a string of barely coherent texts littered with f-bombs.
I know better than to call him when he’s bird-watching.
He doesn’t like to talk much in the first place, but especially not when it might scare the birds away.
Still, I’m sure he’d love to debrief about it with someone who understands the excitement of seeing a new species.
Especially a bird that’s hard to spot, and whose old-growth deciduous canopy habitat is in decline thanks to Minnesota’s history of overharvesting timber—
A dingdong “doors closing” from the train station reminds me I’m trying to get Mom off the phone. “Yeah, I’ll call when I can.”
“You’re so busy! I’m so proud of you! My babygi—adult person, a lawyer! You’re gonna save the world from climate change one day!” Step three: the shower of love—the longest part of her goodbye if I let her keep going. At least she’s getting better about the gendered pet names in this part.
“Thanks, Mom.” I’m not busy, nor will I save the world from climate change.
I mean, I keep busy, buried in books and case studies.
Exams are next week, marking the unofficial completion of my Juris Doctorate.
The bigger time suck has been studying for the bar exam in July, after which I start as an associate attorney at the environmental law firm where I did an internship last year.
I won’t be hired officially until I get my results, so I can’t afford to slack off.
What matters is passing the bar, not the degree. That’s the end goal. That’s when I can start my life again. Until then, I can’t afford distractions. These monthly brunches are the only social activity I’ve allowed myself since moving here.
Mom makes that hum again, and I panic for a second that she’s going to say something else, but it’s just the final step of our goodbye. “I miss you, and I love you, and I hope you have a wonderful day!”
“Love you too.” I make myself smile for her sake. “Say hi to Dad for me.”
Mom makes kissy noises until I finally hang up.
I love her, but I’m definitely my father’s kid.
Luckily, she doesn’t take our lack of enthusiastic affection personally.
She knows I’m more reserved, albeit not as much as Dad.
His excitement for birds is far more exuberant than his love for us, even as devoted as he is. We all meet each other halfway.
My tiny, cluttered studio feels enormous without Mom’s voice coming through the phone. The quiet aches; I can never fill a space the way she so effortlessly does. Mom is a lot, and not always everything I need, but I miss her and Dad and home and Matt and Allie more than I could ever have imagined.
Which makes the charming pink envelope on the coffee table all the more jarring, a siren song beckoning me back to a life that’s no longer mine.
I should get ready to leave. If I’m too late to brunch, I’m gonna get stuck sitting next to Eris, instead of someone capable of pleasant conversation, and I’d rather enjoy my only social excursion for the month.
I should get up, change into something cooler and gayer than my tank top and joggers, and not think about this damn wedding.
But what if Mom was right? What if this invite is sincere, and not a gesture of disingenuous pity, like I assumed when it arrived four months after everyone else’s? What if Matt’s parents (or, more likely, Allie’s bitchy sister) quietly removed my invite from the stack?
Matt and Allie both still text daily in the group chat that’s just the three of us. Ever since the wedding invites went out to everyone but me, I’ve only responded when they ask me something directly.
That they announced their engagement via group text after the holidays, a mere week after I returned to Chicago, was painful enough.
I tried not to take it personally; they’re conflict avoidant, like me.
I rationalized it as them giving me room to process the news in private.
But not even getting an invitation? That cut deep.
What else could I do, when they apparently didn’t want me in their life anymore? I pulled away.
If Matt and Allie thought they already sent an invitation, what have they thought about me these past four months? Do they think I’m pulling away from them because I’m upset? Because I don’t want them to get married? Because I don’t love them anymore?
With a heavy sigh, I pick up the envelope, tearing an ugly gash through the pretty, perfect, pink paper.