Chapter 13
chapter
thirteen
A cosmic switch has flipped. Laws of the universe have been rewritten.
My phone is buzzing off its metaphorical hook.
What do you think of this tablescape? Pen texts me an AI-generated image from Pinterest. It’s intriguing, I guess, though it seems physically impossible given a candle is sitting inside a flower arrangement. How’s your cursive? she asks later.
I like the taffeta as an accent table runner, I tell her. And, It’s passable—why?
I have to turn my laptop’s camera off so my CEO doesn’t see me texting constantly during our standup meetings.
What do you think of these goblets for the ceremony? Pen shares links to two Michael Aram kiddush cups, one with olive branches weaving through the stem, the other with pomegranates.
Those are kiddush cups, I correct gently.
I like them. I pause, considering whether my next comment would be overstepping.
But she did say she wanted my help given it’s a Jewish wedding.
But does Josh’s family have any kiddush cups you could use?
Usually it’s a chance for meaningful family heirlooms. My cousins have all gotten married with the same kiddush cup our great-grandparents brought from Poland.
They have a couple, Pen writes, but they’re super ugly. I told him I’d just buy new ones. We can use these in our apartment for Shabus dinners.
I can hear Penelope butchering the Yiddish for Shabbat. Shabbos*, I attempt. She doesn’t respond.
I think monofloral is the way to go. Pen’s text wakes me up before my alarm.
She sends a reel of an influencer talking to a camera while she changes from her ceremony dress into her reception dress, which has five hundred thousand likes.
That number doesn’t feel real. Instagram reduces it to four characters, 503K, in an attempt to make it more palatable.
Imagining five hundred thousand people witnessing my existence makes my skin itch.
The wedding content is a real opportunity for me, she writes after. Can you make sure you’re documenting on the wedding day?
When I was five, I dreamed of growing up and following my friend around with an iPhone on her wedding day. The AGENTED WRITER marquee letters glow brighter, as they do with every outlandish request or question. Of course, I write back.
Suit atelier had a cancellation so we have our fitting tomorrow, Eitan texts me one Thursday.
Surprised you know what an atelier is, I say.
Found it reading a luxury wedding blog.
I have to cover my mouth to hold in a laugh at the image of Eitan intently reading a luxury wedding blog. I imagine a pencil in his mouth, steno notebook next to him, filled with notes.
Any tips? he asks, a minute later.
Go for powder blue, I reply. The more ruffles, the better.
Haha, he writes. No.
I do a quick Pinterest search. This is a classic. I send a picture of a vintage tuxedo. And I’m always partial to a slimmer fit pant.
Noted :) I think the conversation will end here, but a few minutes later, he asks, Had any good conversations with strangers lately?
Even though our agreement is purely practical, and Eitan is not my actual coach, I still feel like I’ve been caught skipping the homework.
Had a riveting conversation with my monstera the other day.
Ruby, Eitan writes. He’s not even speaking my name, and I’m still fighting goosebumps. Every day. Have faith in your coach.
I never agreed to call you a coach.
Too late to change it. That kind of request needs to be submitted in writing, two weeks in advance.
I roll my eyes.
Talk to someone. Interact with the world, he commands over text.
I send back a saluting emoji and put down my phone. Mostly because, if I didn’t stop myself, I could text him all day.
That night, I go to my favorite Vietnamese restaurant, on Argyle. I normally listen to music so I don’t need to sit in silence in public. But this time, I keep my earbuds in my pocket. As I wait for my vegetarian pho, I resolve to try talking to the lone girl working as cashier, host, and server.
She’s wearing a large six-petaled flower pendant on a ribbon cord, which immediately catches my attention.
“I like your necklace,” I say.
She lights up. “Thank you! I just got it, it’s from this native artist on Instagram who makes everything by hand.”
“That’s so cool, who’s the artist?” As I wait for my takeout, she shares the Instagram with me and I follow the artist. To my surprise, the conversation isn’t all that difficult to sustain because there isn’t any pressure.
It’s just a passing chat, with nothing riding on it.
We keep talking about crafts until my food is ready, and she waves me goodbye, a warm smile on her face.
The passing conversation energizes me so much that, as I slurp my pho back at my kitchen table, I successfully make it through rereading my entire, twenty-page first chapter.
That felt good. Which is unfortunate because that means Eitan was right.
Will you come with me to the next meeting with Louise on Thursday? Pen asks one Tuesday, a few weeks later. We should totally get manicures after. Maybe even a latte?
Of course! I write. No matter that I don’t do manicures (chemicals) and try to avoid big hits of added sugar, but these are minor details.
It will be nice to do something together that doesn’t revolve around the wedding.
Eitan and Calliope are coming too. Aunt Lou offered to pay for Camp Goldberg, so they’re running through the plan with her before they make reservations.
Eitan. My primate brain traces his name over and over again, an echo of his voice reverberating between my ears. Beach Girl.
Camp Goldberg? I text back.
OMG! I totally forgot to mention—that’s what we’re calling the joint bachelor/bachelorette weekend. It’s September 22nd–25th.
I check my calendar, knowing it will be empty. Except—
That has to be a mistake. Yom Kippur is the 24th, I tell Pen.
Oh, if you need to pray or anything you don’t have to come. It was the only weekend that worked for my publishing tour schedule.
No, it’s no biggie, I reassure her. I’ll just explain to my mom that I’m missing the holiest day of the year because we have to party in the woods. No biggie.
Okay, great! I’ll see you on Thursday, at four o’clock.
On Thursday, at two o’clock, Pen calls me.
I make a hasty retreat from my meeting to answer the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi! I’m so glad you picked up.” Behind Pen’s voice, a P.A. announcement says that Gate C13 is boarding to New York City. “There’s been a change of plan.”
I don’t like where this is going.
“I have to fly to New York to meet Alice and visit my publisher. Would you be able to cover for me? I’m obviously going to gab about you to Alice—we’ll be together the whole week.
And you’re so good with Louise, you don’t even need me!
We just need to agree on the smaller vendors and finalize the floral installations. ”
I don’t know what to say. Literally. A vague noise of confusion and concern hums out of me.
“We had to add a DJ.” Pen groans, like this development is still causing her pain.
“It’s a friend of a friend of a nephew or something, but it’s important to Josh that this guy is a part of the wedding.
Apparently he plays cello. We need to verify that.
I’m not having some middle school band cellist play my processional.
” Pen sighs. “Josh wants him to play during the ceremony and be MC for the cocktail hour.”
“Okay, um—”
“Can you give Louise the download on the DJ, pick a photobooth vendor, hair and makeup vendor, and finally convince her to do my monofloral hydrangea dance-floor ceiling?” The way Pen says this last item, it sounds like something I’m delinquent on.
“Are there options for the photobooth and hair and makeup?”
“Not yet. I trust you, though. Just pick a couple, and then you and Louise can decide.”
I’m silent, my lips squeezing together. How, exactly, is this bridesmaid territory?
“Oh!” Pen squeaks. “The photobooth needs to have a champagne sequin background. That’s the one thing I feel strongly about.”
“Got it,” I say slowly, my frustration dipping into my voice.
“You’re the best, Rubes. Thank you!” Something rustles on Pen’s side of the phone. “I gotta go. Flight’s boarding. Let me know how it goes!” Pen hangs up.
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. I feel angry, but I know in some ways, this is what I agreed to. Regardless, the meeting with Louise is in two hours, and I apparently need to find at least two options each for photobooth and hair and makeup.
I begin with a furious Reddit scrub, looking for any highly upvoted vendor recommendations.
For hair and makeup, it’s easier, since I see a couple companies being recommended often.
Blushing Bride is known for subtle, lightweight but camera-ready makeup, and Beautysquad is known for showgirl makeup.
One might go so far as to say, clown makeup.
But they’re both highly recommended, so I copy and paste reference images, plus a summary of their specialties from their websites, into the original planning document Pen shared with me.
I need to catch my bus to the train to get to Louise’s, so I bring my laptop with me and Google Chicago wedding photobooth while I’m on the Metra.
I’m finalizing my two picks for photobooth so intently that I don’t notice the ominous shade of blue gathering in the sky until I step off the train.
If that didn’t clue me in, the subtle change in air pressure does.
I hustle toward Louise’s mansion, ready to repurpose my tote bag as an umbrella.
The sky shifts from blue to yellow, which is really a bad sign.
Yellow sky means electricity is crackling somewhere.
Fortunately, I make it to Louise’s house before any rain begins.
“Welcome back, Ruby!” Alma greets me. “Tea is almost ready. Louise is going to meet you all in the parlor.”