Chapter 8 Now
Now
“Sebastian. Fucking. Nikolaou. Back from the dead,” says Maren.
It’s Friday night, and we’re about five minutes away from her parents’ house.
I’d sent her a vague WhatsApp message that morning, warning her that the Sebastian Situation had some new developments I wanted to discuss in person.
After work I drove to Newark airport to pick her up, and less than a minute after getting in my car she’d cut the small talk and demanded an update.
Thirty minutes later, I’m about to finish relaying the gruesome details.
Claire had been delighted to receive an email from me yesterday, letting her know I was interested in featuring her and Sebastian’s wedding in my column.
She’d replied that same day with an array of links and attachments, including a vendor list, an hour-by-hour wedding day itinerary, a Pinterest mood board and a band set list. I felt nothing as I reviewed the files, then downloaded each to a folder on my desktop.
After six years, I’ve come to see these once alluringly romantic details for what they really are: pillars of the wedding industrial complex.
Once you’ve written about enough weddings—and seen “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles listed as the recessional song at least two dozen times—you realize how impersonal and interchangeable it all actually is.
Only the final attachment—the invitation proof—momentarily tripped me up.
Together with their parents,
Sebastian Alexander Nikolaou
&
Claire Elizabeth Cunningham
request the honor of your presence at their
marriage ceremony
Saturday, the Thirty-First of August,
Two Thousand Twenty-Four
Five o’clock in the evening
I hovered my cursor over the ampersand. How many times had I pictured Sebastian’s name on a wedding invitation, but with mine below?
I pushed that thought away as quickly as it arrived and got back to business.
Claire and I emailed back and forth about wedding details a few more times that day.
I’d asked if she and Sebastian would be available for a three-way call or Zoom soon—my best stories were ones that really captured the couple, not just the event, and I knew next to nothing about their relationship.
She let me know that her busy schedule as the marketing lead for a celeb-backed beauty brand made it difficult to find time.
“So then she sends me this,” I say, handing Maren my phone. “Open Outlook.”
I smile when Maren successfully taps in my password on the first try. It’s the date I got my first AIM screenname, a combination of numbers I’ve been using for every digital footprint since then.
Maren perches her designer sunglasses atop her sleek blond blowout—she got in the habit of taming those wild curls into submission sometime after college, but I have a feeling they’ll be back after a day or two at home—and clears her throat dramatically.
“‘Lina—fast follow,’” she reads in her best corporate voice.
“‘Thoughts on joining Sebastian for a few appointments next week? I’ll keep playing calendar Tetris but don’t want to hold up the story in the meantime.
I’ve cc’d him here—will let you two take it from here!
’ Oh my God, it’s like she’s his manager. ”
“Cringe, right?”
“Completely cringe.”
I pull into the Murphys’ pebble driveway, finding comfort in the familiar sound of tiny rocks crunching beneath tires.
“So what happens now?” she asks as I put the car in park.
“We drink wine with your parents and pretend you’re staying forever?”
“Duh. And then what happens with the Sebastian Situation?” She looks a little wary.
I wave to a beaming Mr. and Mrs. Murphy, who are coming outside to help with their daughter’s luggage. I feel like I’ve gone back in time.
But then again, I’ve been feeling like that a lot lately.
“Let’s worry about that tomorrow,” I say, popping the trunk.