Chapter 8
8
“So what are we doing for your birthday?”
Bryan grins wickedly at me over his morning cup of coffee. He’s on his first mug of the day, having just arrived at the office, even though it’s almost ten. Apparently the urgency of yesterday has already faded for him. Sasha started texting him at nine warning him to get his ass downtown, but Bryan cannot be hurried.
“Absolutely nothing,” I say, spreading a thick schmear of chive cream cheese on my everything bagel. One of our clients had dropped a platter off this morning. Since my days at Mercer they’re always packed with youth group retreats or family minicamp weekends or tie-dye-wearing artists on a creative retreat. But it turns out that if you beg the director long enough, you just might be able to schedule the Hanukkah wedding of your nerdy Jewish summer-camper dreams.
“Still!” Bryan says. “Tacky!”
“Yes,” Sasha agrees. “Tacky as hell.”
“Um, the whole wedding is Hanukkah-themed,” I inform them. “Candles on every table. Some sort of weird latke-vodka cocktails. I don’t think ‘tacky’ is something my sister is trying to avoid.”
“My God,” says Sasha. “Who has a theme for their wedding?”
“All the kids are doing it these days,” Bryan says knowingly, doubly smug as the sole married person in the room and the youngest among us.
“Oh really?” I ask. “What was your theme?”
“True love,” Bryan says, and we all groan. Then he lifts a brow. “Got a date yet, Evie?”
“She’s not taking a date to the Camp Hanukkah wedding,” Sasha snorts. But then, when I say nothing, her eyes go wide. “Eve! You didn’t!”
“Oooh, you didn’t tell her?” Bryan gasps.
“I told you not to RSVP with a plus-one!” Sasha says, and she seems genuinely upset. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s aspirational!” I say, rushing to my own defense since no one else will. “I am manifesting something good, see? I will manifest the perfect date for this wedding—”
“Don’t say that—” Sasha says, looking stricken.
“Manifesting? Must not be going well,” Bryan interjects. He turns to Sasha with a smirk. “Poor baby already asked me to go. I had to turn her down.”
“Asshole,” I mutter, wondering why I’m even friends with him.
“Yes!” Sasha says, without a trace of sarcasm. “That’s perfect! Bryan, go with her.”
“What? No,” Bryan says, making a face. “I hate weddings, I almost skipped mine.”
“I’m going to ask Hot Josh,” I say loudly.
And for half a second, this shuts everyone up.
But only for half a second.
“Sexy British neighbor guy?” Bryan grins. “Nice!”
“It’s Tuesday,” Sasha says. “You think this guy doesn’t have Saturday-night plans?”
“Do either of you have plans for Saturday night?” I ask.
“No, but I’m a boring old married guy,” Bryan says, before quickly correcting himself. “ Young married guy. But still boring. We never go out on Saturday nights. Too crowded.”
“And I hate going out, period,” Sasha says. Before I can remind her that wasn’t always the case, she adds, “And seriously, there’s nothing wrong with going alone—”
“Okay, I have to go do some actual work,” I say, roughly shoving my empty paper plate into our office compost bin.
“Aw, Evie, come on,” Bryan says. “We’re only teasing.”
Bryan is fake-pouting again and still looks playful. But Sasha is quiet, and there’s something unreadable in her expression. She doesn’t look like she’s teasing. She looks worried.
“Stay in here ’til I finish my coffee,” Bryan wheedles, taking a dramatically slow sip. “And we’ll talk about something else. Like, are we all about to get fired? Did I miss any updates on that, any emails, any morning meetings...?”
“No meetings this morning, but you should still get here on time,” Sasha says. “For real. This could be really bad—”
“Jesus Christ!” I interject, able to participate in the conversation again now that it’s not about my pathetic personal life. I’ve really started resenting the feeling that joy can be taken down as easily as holiday decorations, boxed up and tucked away for the season. I know I’m usually the one bringing the mood down, but maybe I should try to lift it up. “Enough with the doom and gloom. It’s the holidays. Let’s try to lighten the mood a little. Want to come over to my place tonight, drink some eggnog, watch some Christmas movies...?”
“I am loving the big Christmas energy from the Jewish girl,” Bryan says. “But obviously tonight is out.”
“Plenty of Jews like Christmas,” I say, wondering what he means by tonight is out .
Is there some event I forgot about? The stupid office cruise isn’t until Friday. Which is also when Rosie’s rehearsal dinner is, so I guess at least I’ll have a legit excuse to skip the frigid boat party.
“Not like you do,” Sasha mutters.
“Oh, come on, it’s basically just another American holiday. Besides, did you know that all the very best Christmas songs—”
“—were written by Jews,” Bryan and Sasha say in unison, since I have told them this a million times.
“I’m just saying, there’s precedent for Jews getting in on the Christmas cheer.”
“Not me,” Sasha says, returning to her laptop. “I hate Christmas.”
“See, now you’re a good Jew,” Bryan says, reaching over like he’s going to pat her on the head. She raises a hand in warning and he backs off. Instead, he sets down his mug of coffee, then claps his hands together in a bizarre parody of Barry from yesterday. “Anyway! Obviously we can’t do eggnog and movies tonight, because...”
“Because...?” Sasha echoes.
Bryan barrels on, mercifully not realizing her question is genuine.
“The Big Gay Christmas Concert!” Bryan crows, pumping the air with his fist.
Sasha and I lock eyes in a shared panic.
We both one hundred percent forgot about the concert.
Bryan is a proud member of the Chicago Rainbow Chorus, and their annual holiday concert is the highlight of his year. Which means it has become a nonnegotiable event on our December calendars, as well.
A few years ago it was just a handful of enthusiastic chorus members singing in a sparsely decorated Unitarian church basement. But now it’s become quite the extravaganza. Three-hundred-seat concert hall in Boystown, standing room only. Big Broadway numbers, a toy drive for the local children’s hospital, warm mugs of cocoa served either “virgin” or “a lady never tells.” If Bryan realized we actually forgot about his big night, he would murder us.
“Oh and I tagged you in the Insta post about it, but! Remember to wear your best ugly Christmas sweater for drink discounts. Or best Hanukkah sweater, whatever, as long as it’s tacky as hell, obviously.”
“Obviously,” says Sasha.
“Obviously,” I repeat, vaguely remembering an Instagram tag I’d ignored.
“Obviously what?”
Nancy walks in, garish in a yellow floral baby doll dress over thick white pantyhose paired with chunky heels. She’s wearing the stupid Santa hat again, too. I guess she’s still doling out invitations to the Freeze Your Ass Off River Cruise.
“Obviously, we should all get back to work,” Sasha says coolly, and we do.