Chapter 12 Thursday
Thursday
(Twenty Days Left)
I place the last folded napkin on its corresponding plate and give the room a once-over:
Candlelit centerpieces. Check. String lights. Check. Interactive Guess Who?–themed seating chart. Check.
“You can let them in now,” I tell Tony, the restaurant manager.
He opens the door for my immediate family, who I insisted wait at the bar while I added the finishing touches to the space for tonight’s rehearsal dinner.
Mom, in her matching knee-length skirt and jacket, comes barreling in first, beelining for the nearest table.
She runs her fingers over the linen tablecloth, squinting at the fabric.
“It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” she mutters under her breath. I’ll take it.
“Phoebe, it’s perfect,” Jamie gushes, looking ethereal in her ivory silk slip dress. Even though she’d say the same if I decorated the room in cobwebs and fake blood, her approval fills me with pride.
“There she is.” Ethan barrels toward me, lifting me off the floor in a signature Ethan bear hug. “My favorite sister.” He chuckles to himself. Ethan has no sisters of his own, and thus finds this bit completely hysterical every time he does it. Which happens to be every time I’m with him.
“Good one,” I indulge him just this once.
He spins me around in a circle and then firmly plants me back on the floor, and it takes a second for my dizziness to subside before I can really appreciate the sight of him and Jamie before me.
Jamie towers over Ethan in her heels, and I’m reminded of why I love him.
He’s always insisted that the inches Jamie has on him are sexy.
According to Ethan, every single thing Jamie does is sexy.
Taking out the trash? Sexy.
Yelling at him for leaving his socks on the floor? Sexy.
Waking up from a nap with drool running down her chin? Sexy.
She could be all dolled up for a night out, or barefaced in her pajamas, and he’ll ogle at both versions of her with a look in his eyes that says I’m the luckiest guy in the world.
I make a motion with my index finger for him to turn around.
“Let me see what we’re working with.”
He complies eagerly with a slow 360-degree spin. His blond hair is parted to the side, and his suit is tailored immaculately.
“My god, those pants are tight,” I tease.
“I think all my working out is finally catching up to me.” He makes a dramatic display of flexing his biceps, and Jamie pats his arm lovingly before rolling her eyes in the direction of his pants.
“Aunt Carol’s gonna love those.”
“You really think so?” Ethan asks earnestly. Jamie swats at his shoulder, and he grabs her hand and presses a kiss to it. The action is so second nature that it makes my heart ache.
Aunt Carol is everyone’s worst nightmare, and Jamie’s always been the one with the most patience for her. Up until her graduation party, that is, when Aunt Carol had too many glasses of red wine and stuck her hand down Ethan’s back pants pocket.
“She kept it there for eight full seconds,” Ethan had told Jamie and me when he pulled us into the pantry, out of earshot of the rest of the partygoers. “I counted. And there was some definite”—he paused to find the word—“caressing.”
Jamie had one request for the wedding weekend: keep Aunt Carol away.
And that’s why she’ll be sitting in the back tonight, at a table with the Florida cousins. It’s the farthest spot away from Ethan and his pockets that I could manage.
—
As I suspected, the Guess Who? seating chart was a hit. And if it weren’t for Aunt Carol’s white slip dress, practically identical to Jamie’s, it might even have been the talking point of the evening.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Dad looking across the table at Jamie. In an effort to distract him from what would be his third time bursting into tears, I gesture to his plate.
“Eat your salad. I haven’t seen you eat one green tonight.”
“It’s rabbit food,” he whispers under his breath.
“It’s good for you,” I tell him, and he stabs at the pieces of arugula and radish like he has a personal vendetta against them.
I’m about to ask Jamie if she’s ready for the toasts when I’m distracted by an unbearably loud screeching sound coming from somewhere behind me.
I turn to see Aunt Carol dragging her chair across the floor with one hand and balancing her wineglass in the other.
A large red wine stain covers her left boob. She’s headed in our direction.
Jamie slaps my arm.
“Ow?” I rub my shoulder where she struck.
“Do something,” she pleads.
I turn to my father. I slap his shoulder.
“Ow!” He drops his fork, and I jerk my head in Aunt Carol’s direction.
“Do something.”
He turns to my mother, but it’s too late. And we’ve wasted too much time.
She’s here.
“Peebeeeee.” She slides my dinner plate over to make room for her glass of wine. Her bleach-blond hair is so fried it feels like sandpaper brushing across my shoulder as she squeezes herself between me and Dad.
“I didn’t want to say anything earlier….” The red lipstick on her teeth pairs well with the wine stain on her dress. “I didn’t want to embarrass you. But you put me at the wrong table.”
“Well—” I start, ready to recite my planned speech about how the Florida cousins had specifically requested her presence, and who was I to deny them after they came all this way.
“It’s fine,” she cuts in. “I’m not mad; it was an honest mistake.
Just please make sure you get everything sorted for tomorrow’s seating arrangements.
This is the last of the kids’ weddings.” She gestures toward all my married cousins and their significant others at the opposite end of the table.
“I want to make sure I don’t miss out on any of the family fun. ”
She takes a giant swig of her drink.
“Uh.” Dad clears his throat. “It’s not the last wedding, Carol. Phoebe hasn’t gotten married yet.”
“Oh yes, of course.” She turns to me. “Our Peebeeeeee. Are you finally seeing someone? Who’s the lucky girl?”
I don’t remember when exactly it was that Aunt Carol decided I was a lesbian. I’ve tried to tell her that the reason I don’t date is because I’m anxious; it has nothing to do with my sexuality. But she insists the only reason I’m anxious about dating is because I’m gay. There’s no point in arguing.
“Phoebe’s not a lesbian, Carol.” Mom rolls her eyes.
“But it’d be fine if she was!” Ethan shouts from across the table. Dad gives him a thumbs-up.
“Of course she is.” Aunt Carol shoos Mom away with her napkin. “And I imagine it’s very hurtful for your gay daughter to hear you say that.”
“Carol…” Dad starts.
“Actually…” This comes out louder than I intend, and I now have the attention of everyone on my side of the table. “I sort of have something happening with a guy back in LA.”
Aunt Carol claps her hands in amusement, and then turns to my parents. “A bisexual! How wonderful.”
“His name is Finn.” I keep talking, mostly in an effort to silence Aunt Carol but also because it feels good to finally have something to add to the love-life conversation. “And he’s the new fourth-grade teacher at work.”
“Phoebe!” My mother literally clutches her pearls. “This is fantastic. Tell us everything.”
I place a hand on Dad’s shoulder as I hear him begin to sniffle again.
“Well, I guess we’ve been flirting at work for the past week and then we met at Jeffery’s on Monday and—”
“You didn’t tell me any of this!” Jamie screeches. “Was it a date?”
“Uh, I—”
“How does Jonathan feel about this?” My father looks deeply concerned.
“He feels fine. Because we’re just friends,” I tell him, even though it might be a lie. I’m still confused about Jonathan’s feelings.
“Are you and Finn going to go out again?” Jamie grins beside me.
“Where’s he from? Where did he go to school? How old is he?” my mom chimes in.
“Uh—uh,” I stutter, realizing I don’t know the answers to a single one of those questions. I have no idea where Finn is from. Or where he went to school. I don’t even know if he’s younger or older than me.
“He lives in LA. Close by.” I offer them the only piece of information I have. “And I think he likes soccer.”
Why did I think this was anything worth bringing up? I’m shocked by how little I actually know about Finn. I have nothing to tell my family.
The reality of the situation strikes me like a bolt of lightning: my baby sister is about to get married and I just formally announced to my family that I may have flirted with a man last week.
Every shred of hope I’ve clung to, all the progress I thought I’d made, threatens to crumble at this moment.
“Sweetheart.” Aunt Carol puts a hand on my shoulder. Her long acrylic nails pierce my flesh. “You don’t have to pretend for their benefit.” My fingers curl into fists, my sharp nails impaling the soft skin of my palms.
Suddenly, I’m angry. It’s not that I care if people think I’m gay.
God knows I’ve wondered the same thing about myself on countless occasions.
I’ve even brought it up to Sandy. It would explain a lot, after all.
But the thing is…I’m just not. And Aunt Carol’s insistence that I must be, despite me opening up to her about my anxiety, makes me feel dismissed.
“I’m not gay,” I snap. Aunt Carol startles slightly at the edge in my voice.
“I’m anxious. My lack of dating experience has nothing to do with my sexuality.
I’ve told you that. More than once. And the fact that you keep insisting I must be a lesbian…
it makes me feel bad, Aunt Carol. It makes me feel like my anxiety isn’t a valid enough explanation for you.
Like something as trivial as anxiety couldn’t possibly be enough of a reason for my being single.
But it’s very real to me. And it’s been really hard.
I’ve been dealing with it for most of my life.
And I think…” I reflect back on the past few weeks, and the progress I’ve made with my list. “I think I’m doing a pretty okay job learning how to manage it. ”
Mom smiles smugly, nodding at me in approval.
Aunt Carol turns to Dad, muttering something under her breath about internalized homophobia. She picks up her wineglass and, without a word, begins dragging her chair back to her table.
“Well said, Pheebs.” Dad clinks his glass against my own.
“You did it!” Jamie throws her arms around my shoulders, loudly whispering, “She’s gone!”
Successfully exiled Aunt Carol from the family table.
My twentieth accomplishment.