Chapter 28
28
I swore I wouldn’t be that woman who wallows after a breakup. And this wasn’t even a breakup. How can you end things with someone when you were never really together?
And yet, I wallowed. After a few weeks, my mom started sending me on errands, assigning me chores like a kid again. I knew she was just trying to help get me out of the house. And it did help, a little. Gave me a reason to change out of pajamas and brush my hair. Hit more than two hundred steps a day.
Today’s task is a grocery run. When I turn down the street on my way home, I see my sister’s minivan parked in my parents’ driveway. I don’t remember my mom mentioning that they were visiting today, but the past two weeks have been a blur and it’s possible that it slipped my mind.
I press my hands to the window, peering inside the van. At first glance, I don’t see anyone. But then I hear a rustling sound from the back seat and spot the reflection of a blond mane. I pull open the passenger door, and truly nothing could prepare me for the sight before me. Sarah is sprawled across the floor, her back slumped against the opposite door. Her normally immaculate hair is unbrushed and her clothing is rumpled. Most shocking of all, she’s surrounded by fast- food wrappers and nibbling on what appears to be a fried chicken sandwich.
I blink twice, not sure I can trust what I’m seeing.
“Sarah?” I ask tentatively, since I’m not certain the woman in the car is really my sister or some kind of lab-made duplicate. Like the time the government produced a Will Byers body double on the first season of Stranger Things. She locks eyes with me before peeling back the paper wrapping and taking an enormous bite of her sandwich.
“Are you okay?”
“Yep,” she says through a mouthful of food. There’s a mayonnaise-soaked piece of lettuce stuck to the corner of her lips. “Never been better.”
“Hmm. That’s interesting,” I say as I crawl into the van and attempt to squeeze my butt into one of the tiny booster seats. “Because last time I checked, you had strict policies against processed foods. And eating in the car, for that matter.”
She takes a long sip from her enormous soda cup before letting out a loud belch. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” she says.
“Sarah.” I reach into one of the grease-soaked paper bags on the floor and extract a french fry, popping it into my mouth. “What’s going on?”
She lets out a defeated sigh. “I think I’m having a nervous breakdown.”
I survey the interior of the van. Admittedly, if Sarah was going to have a psychotic break, this is what it would look like. It’s sloppy and out of character, but still contained and relatively unobtrusive. Only Sarah could do a nervous breakdown responsibly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Sarah groans, burying her face in her hands.
“Jordan took Benny to get a haircut.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“I’m always the one who takes him. But I double-booked myself this morning because the twins were doing a lemonade stand to raise money for gymnastics, and I hadn’t finished baking the cookies yet, and I couldn’t be at both places at once, so Jordan took him. Only… he went rogue.”
She reaches into her purse, scrolling through her phone for a moment before handing it to me. There’s a photo of Benny on the screen, wearing a barbershop apron with a dinosaur print. But instead of his usual classic cut, the sides of his head have been closely shorn, the remaining curls on the top of his head styled into a mohawk.
“Well,” I say, cocking my head as I study the photo. “It’s a look.”
Sarah lets out a watery sob.
“It’s a disaster. ”
“It’s not a disaster,” I reassure her. “ Mean Girls 2 was a disaster. This is just a haircut. It will grow back.”
Sarah hiccups.
“I know everyone thinks I’m a control freak.”
I raise an eyebrow, but don’t say anything. Still, she takes my silence as confirmation. She sniffles as a fat tear rolls down her cheek.
“It’s true. I am a control freak. But it’s only because I feel like I have to be. Everyone is counting on me all the time. I can’t let go of the helm because steering the ship is the only thing that keeps me from sinking.”
I study her for a moment, flabbergasted by this confession.
“Sarah, you can’t put that kind of pressure on yourself. You can’t let the whole world rest on your shoulders. It’s not healthy.”
Sarah’s gaze drops to her lap. “Welcome to my entire life. Sometimes the pressure feels like it could crush me. But I never want to ask for help or tell people when I feel stressed out because I don’t want them to worry about me. I never want to let anyone down.”
A lightbulb goes off in my head as I make a connection. As sympathetic as I am to Sarah, I’ve punished Graham for doing the same thing. I’ve been furious with him for allowing his obsession with not letting other people down interfere with his own choices. Too blinded by my own pain to notice how much he’s like my sister, who I am so much more willing to forgive.
She lifts her eyes to look at me. “But I feel like I’ve let you down.”
“Me?” The thought is incomprehensible. Sure, she can be an insufferable perfectionist, but I’ve never felt like Sarah’s let me down. Sarah never lets anyone down. It’s kind of her thing. Although now I can see how the weight of that role is starting to crush her. Heavy is the crown and all that.
“Sarah, you have never disappointed me. You’ve always been an incredible sister.”
She sniffles again. “I let you down with Graham. You trusted me when you told me about him, and I made you feel awful about it. I let my own insecurities get the best of me instead of listening to what you were saying and showing up for you. And now you’re depressed and lonely and I’m poisoning myself with phosphates, and my baby looks like Mr. T and everything is a disaster!”
She lets out another loud sob, and I slide to the floor, putting my arm around her. She leans her head on my shoulder, her tears soaking through the neck of my T-shirt. After a moment, her tears die down. She grabs a tissue from the cupholder and blows her nose.
“I think I was jealous,” she hiccups. “That’s why I discouraged you so much.”
I would have been less shocked if Sarah had sprouted wings.
“Jealous?” I manage. “Of me ?”
She sighs. “Mom and Dad wanted another kid so badly. It took them years, and when they finally had you, you were a lot. They were exhausted and overwhelmed, and I didn’t know how to help other than to be a perfect angel, to do everything right and never give them any trouble. And that became my role. I was the responsible one, the one who didn’t rock the boat, the one who made everyone happy and never asked for anything. But you? You always got to be a kid. You got to try new things, make mistakes, scrap plans and reboot. You don’t think I would have loved to run off to New York for a few years, go on endless dates and try out a new career?”
“The dates weren’t really that enviable,” I point out. “But you could have gone to New York. You’re the most capable person I know. You can do anything.”
Sarah shakes her head morosely.
“I was always trying to set a good example for you, steer you on the right path, because Mom and Dad wanted me to. But you were never interested in anyone else’s path. You’ve never wasted a second worrying about what other people think. You live your life for you. You’ve always followed your passions and charted your own course. I wish I could be that fearless.”
A confusing mix of adoration and sadness washes over me. Sarah has always been like a second mother to me, and I’ve spent my whole life looking up to her. But I placed her on such a high pedestal that I never imagined she’d feel envious of me.
“You know I’ve always admired you,” I say. “But our relationship doesn’t have to be a one-way street. I’m back at home now, and I’m here to help you in any way you need. I can babysit and make you meals, or just hang out with you and be your friend.”
Sarah looks up at me with watery eyes. “I would love that,” she sniffs. “I would love to be your friend. You’re the coolest girl I know.”
I give her shoulder a squeeze, and a feeling of contentment washes over me. After spending my life being the wild child, the hippie, the directionless little sister, the idea of Sarah relying on me for once feels good.
“So, I say this not as your big sister, but as a friend,” Sarah says, putting emphasis on the last word. “I think you made a mistake letting Graham go.”
“No, I think you were right about that one,” I say. “It’s time for me to grow up and stop chasing unavailable men. I feel like I finally know exactly who I am. I don’t need a man to make me feel whole. But when I am ready for a partner, I don’t want to play games. I want to be someone’s first choice.”
I can tell Sarah wants to say something else, but to her credit, she doesn’t, stuffing another fry in her mouth instead.
“Okay,” she says after a beat. “I have to clean all of this up before I go home. My kids will turn feral if they smell saturated fat.”
“Counter idea,” I say. “We hide the evidence, but instead of going home right away, we go out for pedicures together.”
Sarah gives me a watery grin. “I’d love that.”
As party planning goes, I do believe that Bubbie’s ninetieth birthday celebration is my best event to date. I’ve transformed my parents’ living room into a replica set of The Price Is Right, complete with a Contestant’s Row. Sarah helped me recreate the bidding lecterns with construction paper–covered shoeboxes and dry-erase boards. After lunch, we’re going to play a simulation game, where contestants will guess the price of household items from 1935, the year Bubbie was born. We’ve even hired a Bob Barker impersonator, who, according to my time check, is currently running late.
I find Bubbie over by the buffet table, nibbling on a potato chip from a bowl I labeled Plinko chips. All the party guests are wearing yellow sales tags with their names printed across the front, just like contestants on the show.
“Hey, birthday girl,” I say as I sidle up to her. “Are you having a nice time?”
Bubbie’s face lights up as she reaches forward to squeeze my hand. Someone must have cleaned her glasses, because for once, both of her lenses are clear. Her gray-blue eyes sparkle behind them.
“Ali, I’m having the time of my life. Everyone that I love is here. What more could I ask for? And the very cute party planner has outdone herself.”
I grin back at her. “The best is yet to come. We’re going to start playing the game in a few minutes. Although my dad might be running it if our hired host doesn’t show up soon.”
Bubbie gives me a smile and a conspiratorial wink. Before I can read into it, Sarah comes over and squeezes my shoulder.
“Fake Bob Barker just arrived. I set him up in the kitchen,” she says. “You ready to get started?”
I grin. “Let’s do this.”
Turning back toward the living room, I cup my hands around my mouth. “Attention contestants! If you would please take your seats, our game is about to begin!”
The small group of guests titters as they head back to their folding chairs. It’s not a huge crowd: my family, Sarah’s kids, Bubbie’s sister, Great Aunt Betty, a few of Bubbie’s neighbors, and the members of her mah-jongg league. Once everyone is seated, I dim the lights, then nod to Sarah. She grins back at me before pressing her lips to the karaoke machine microphone we borrowed from her twins.
“Barbara Rubin, come on down! You’re the first contestant on The Price Is Right!” she calls gleefully into the mix. My mom practically bounces from her chair as she makes her way down to Bidder’s Row. “Jackson Goldfarb, come on down!”
Jackson thrusts a fist into the air before sprinting over to the second space in Contestant’s Row.
“Elaine Reiser, come on down!” Bubbie’s face lights up and the unbridled joy in her expression makes my heart swell. We are so, so lucky to be able to celebrate her today.
Sarah clears her throat theatrically before calling the next name. “Last but not least: Ali Rubin, come on down!”
I freeze, my water cup halfway to my lips. I wasn’t supposed to be a contestant until the next round. My dad was meant to be the fourth player. I turn to Sarah, eyebrows raised, but she just smiles and waves me toward the front of the room. Shrugging, I head over to the empty chair next to Bubbie. She squeezes my hand as I slide into the seat beside her.
“And now, here’s the host of The Price Is Right: Bob Barker!”
There’s a long beat as the room goes quiet with anticipation. Sarah pulls back the tinsel curtain covering the entrance to the kitchen and whispers behind it. A moment later, a figure shuffles through the doorway, and my bones turn to jelly.
Because the man cosplaying Bob Barker in a white wig, pinstripe suit, and a goddamn pocket square is none other than Graham Wyler. He’s clutching a long, thin microphone that’s a perfect replica of Bob’s, and I notice it’s trembling slightly in his grasp. His eyes meet mine and my stomach bottoms out.
Speechless, I swivel my head toward Sarah. She gives me a small, triumphant smile before disappearing into the kitchen. That little sneak.
Graham is still standing motionless, his eyes locked on my face, seemingly oblivious to the crowd’s applause. It’s clear that he’s completely out of his comfort zone, and I can’t help but love him for it. But also, what the actual fuck?
“Welcome,” he says, “to The Price Is Right. Who’s ready to get started?”
“Graham!” I hiss as I leap to my feet. “What the hell are you doing?” I fold my arms across my chest. “Oh my God. Are you trying to grand gesture me?”
“Of course I’m trying to grand gesture you,” he whispers back. “Now, would you kindly take your seat so I can get on with it?” Then he takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and plasters on an enormous smile. Slowly, I lower myself back into my chair. My heart is beating so hard I’m afraid it will burst out of my chest.
“Here is the first item up for bid today,” he declares.
Bubbie squeezes my hand. “You know, I’ve always been a sucker for a British accent,” she whispers. She gives me a knowing smirk and my mouth drops open. Was every member of my family in on this?
With a flourish, Graham lifts the cover of the silver cake dome I’d arranged on a folding table on our makeshift stage. When I’d set it up earlier, there was a five-pound bag of sugar underneath, its twenty-five-cent price hidden behind a yellow tag reading 1935. But now, the sugar has been replaced with a cookbook. Even from a few feet away, I can make out the title. Jewish Festival Cooking .
Graham sweeps his arm theatrically across the book.
“Straight from one of Hampden’s most charming used bookstores, it’s a cookbook with the ability to rekindle a decade-old love affair. Use it to prepare tried-and-true holiday classics like charoset and Hamantaschen, or gift it to a loved one. But whatever you do, don’t hide it in your car like a coward.”
“Graham!” At this point, my face is burning with mortification. “Seriously, get down from there. You’ve made your point.”
“I see the young woman in the front is eager to start the game,” he says. “But let’s start the bidding in the order our contestants were called.”
He turns to my mom. “Barbara, what do you bid?”
My mom pretends to mull this over. “I’ll go with two hundred dollars.”
“What?” I squawk. “You know that’s way too much!” My mom shrugs with a grin. “Whoops.”
Jackson is up next. “I don’t know, bruh? Six dollars?”
I shake my head. I can’t believe my own flesh and blood is doing this to me.
When it’s Bubbie’s turn, she grins conspiratorially at Graham.
“Pass.”
I gape at her. “You can’t pass! This game is for you!”
She smiles at me. “This game is for us, Bubbeleh. And right now, it’s your turn.”
Graham/Bob looks at me expectantly. “And what’s your bid, young lady?”
I let out a resigned sigh. Looks like we’re really doing this.
“Thirty-five dollars.”
Graham removes the label covering the book’s price. But underneath, instead of a figure, there’s just one word: “Ali.”
“Come on up,” he says gallantly. “You’re the next contestant on The Price Is Right!”
I rise tentatively, coming to join him on the stage. I lean close to whisper to him.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?”
He gives me a placid smile, holding himself steady, but his eyes, brimming with emotion, give him away.
“What does it look like?” he whispers back. “I’m choosing you.” His words hit like an arrow, and my vision blurs as tears prickle behind my eyes. He’s choosing me.
Then he straightens and gestures toward the homemade Plinko board that Sarah and I constructed.
“Okay, ma’am,” he says, slipping back into Bob Barker mode. “Would you like me to review the rules for our audience?”
“Graham,” I try again, more urgently this time. I blink rapidly to keep the unshed tears from falling. “We should talk outside.”
“Let’s finish this round first, shall we?” he replies. “In fact, why don’t we see what we’re playing for?”
He takes a step backward and throws out his palms with a resigned sigh.
“The final prize is me. All of me. I know that we were never supposed to fall for each other, but we did, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. So, I’m offering myself, a man who is desperately in love with you and wants to give you every part of himself. After all that’s happened, I understand if you don’t want anything more to do with me, and if you want me to leave you alone, I will. But I came back here because I think you might feel the same way about me as I do about you. And I’m just wondering if you would consider being with me, out loud, in public, all the way? Because I sure as hell want to be with you.”
I stand there, staring at him in disbelief, and for the first time since he took the stage, it occurs to me how vulnerable he is. The man has spent his whole life avoiding a misstep and now here he is, risking a public rejection. For once, he’s going after something that’s just for him, even though there’s a possibility that he’ll walk away empty-handed. I’m proud of him.
The dam finally breaks. I let out a shuddering sob as streaks of hot tears cascade down my cheeks. Graham reaches forward to brush them away with his thumb.
“Either way, I’ll be staying here in Baltimore. So, I just wanted to give you a heads-up, in case we happen to run into each other in line for coffee.” His voice is softer now as he stares at me, his eyes searching mine.
I stare back at him, thoroughly confused. “What are you talking about?”
One corner of Graham’s mouth rises. “I’ll admit you’re not the only old love keeping me here. The Black-Eyed Susan is the second most important lady in my life.”
A thousand chaotic thoughts are swirling through my head. That can’t be right. I look around for Ashton, because surely, I’m being punked. “But I… I thought it was sold to a developer.”
“That was the plan. But he was outbid.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “The new manager has rudimentary business experience. He’s doing all he can to manage the financial aspect of things and has just enrolled in an online degree program for hospitality management.”
My mouth falls open. “You bought the hotel?” I ask slowly. It’s such an out-of-character move that I can hardly wrap my mind around it.
“Back up,” I continue. “The Graham I know wouldn’t just give up his career. What changed?”
Graham shrugs. “A very brave person once told me that I shouldn’t live my life always picking the safe choice. I wished I could be more like her, to stop living in fear of making a mistake and just pursue my dreams. So, I took a leap of faith. Running the Black-Eyed Susan is my full-time job now. It looks like I’m going to be hanging around here for a while.
“Although,” he adds. “Given the hotel’s recent success with themed events, I am in search of a partner with culinary and event planning experience. Someone who can enact my vision for a successful rebranding.”
My brow furrows.
“Wait. Is that why you’ve come here? Because you want me to be your business partner ?”
Graham shakes his head. He takes a step forward, closing the space between us.
“Of course not,” he says. “I could hire another partner. Sure, they’d probably make very dull charcuterie boards, and neglect to stock the freezer with Bagel Bites, but I’d make it work. That’s not what this is about.”
He takes another step closer, lowering his head until his face is inches from mine.
“I came here because I want you. Every part of you. I don’t want to live another day without you. You’re the key to my lock, Ali.”
I bite my bottom lip, weighing his declaration. But already, I feel the pull of my body toward his, the magnetism of our undeniable bond.
“Oh, honey, kiss him already!” Bubbie hollers from her chair.
I turn to the kitchen doorway and see Sarah grinning at me. “You know what they say about the sage advice of your elders,” she says with a shrug. “And it is her ninetieth birthday, after all. It would be wrong to deny her wishes.”
I roll my eyes. My family could power a football stadium with the energy of their guilt.
And then, without further ado, I grab Graham by his tie, yank him forward, and press his lips to mine.
In the background, the crowd has erupted into thunderous cheers, but I barely hear them. I’m hardly conscious of anything at all, aside from the weight of Graham’s hands circling my waist and the way his lips are molding to me.
When he finally breaks the kiss, he drags his fingers through my hair, tucking a rogue curl behind my ear. His thumb brushes my cheekbone as he stares into my eyes.
“I love you, Ali,” he says. “You’re it for me.”
“I love you too, Graham,” I say. “Now what do you say we make this commitment official with a second tattoo?”
Graham smirks as he presses his forehead to mine.
“Don’t bet on it,” he whispers.