The Wedding People

Chapter 19

Lila’s mother is sober by the time they get to the Breakers.

“Honestly, I’m ready for a nap,” Patricia says to Phoebe.

In the Great Hall, the wedding people are all lined up in order of importance, as decided by Nancy, the events planner for the Preservation Society. First there is Gary’s cousin Roy, the officiant for the wedding, likely the only family event at which he has been deemed the least important. Then the groom’s parents. The flower girl, the ring bearer. The bridesmaids. The maid of honor. The mother of the bride and her grandmother. And, then, of course, the bride.

“Do not touch the walls. Do not touch the windows,” Nancy says. “Do not touch anything here but your spouse! I find that’s generally a good rule for life, and also the Breakers.”

Everyone laughs.

“I’ll be back,” Nancy says. “And when I come back, be ready.”

As soon as she leaves, people slacken. Marla walks over to introduce her son, Oliver, to Phoebe, because Phoebe is a professor of literature. Oliver gets excited about this in a way a twelve-year-old child normally does not.

“I’ve read all the Percy Jackson books,” Oliver says. “My favorite by far is The Titan’s Curse . Have you ever read it?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Phoebe says.

Oliver looks disappointed but then runs off with Juice to see who can get closest to the walls without touching them.

Bootsie starts pointing out the things she finds most objectionable about the Breakers to Lila and Patricia, while Phoebe gets a phone call from her husband. She puts her phone on silent. She doesn’t want to hear his voice tonight. Not here, in this Great Hall, which feels more like a courtyard. Not now, not tonight. Phoebe is already confused enough. She drops the phone back in her purse, and Marla pulls out hers.

“I sent my last sext to Robert before he got on the plane this morning,” Marla whispers to Phoebe. “He hasn’t responded since, and now I’m worried it’s weird.”

“Why would it be weird? Isn’t he right there?” Phoebe asks, looking at a tall, thin man who has walked over to get the kids away from the walls.

“Yeah, that’s why it’s weird. I told him that my tiny little pussy is wet and waiting for him, and then we just greet each other at the Breakers with dry kisses on the cheek,” Marla says. “I mean, shouldn’t we be beyond this stage now? We’ve been married for fifteen years.”

“Maybe it’s the right place to be,” Phoebe says. “If you’re starting over, you’re starting over.”

Then Nancy returns and says, “Go, go, go!” as if they are kids entering a soccer field for the big game. When Phoebe walks past Nancy and through the door, she waits for a slap on the ass that never comes.

Outside, the sun is bright. She takes slow steps toward the pergola. She pauses in front of it, in front of Gary. She looks at Gary’s face, but the sun is too bright behind him. She keeps her eyes low, focused on Jim’s shiny shoes. She wonders if they were the same ones he wore to Wendy’s funeral.

Phoebe walks to the left, completes the line of women that will stand at Lila’s side. From there, she watches Lila walk slowly up the aisle in her white reception dress. Lila beams at Gary so brightly, it feels like the moment in the barbershop is long forgotten. It feels like all of the moments that came before this one are irrelevant. This is what the wedding ritual does to Phoebe—even just the rehearsing of it: Nothing can compete.

“Okay, then we’ll cut the music and you stand here and look deeply into each other’s eyes,” Nancy says, and she turns to Roy. “Then you will say whatever meaningful thing it is you are going to say.”

“And then we’ll be married and hooray,” Lila says.

They kiss, just for good measure.

It is over, and they walk out, one by one, each woman pairing up with a groomsman. Phoebe links arms with Jim. His arm feels good in hers. It is solid, the arm of a man who probably balances well on a ridgeline.

Maybe tonight I’ll sleep with Jim, Phoebe thinks.

She’s surprised by the thought. Jim feels more like a brother to her. But maybe they both need to redirect their desire. Have a night with each other. She’s never had sex with a younger man before. Something about spending too much time around students. Their youth was appalling to her. How much they didn’t know. How little they thought about the Battle of the Bulge.

But Jim is a good man. An engineer. He is building a seaplane.

“You ever finish that speech?” Phoebe asks him as they turn the corner back into the Great Hall where they started.

“I did, actually,” Jim says, and he sounds proud.

B ACK AT THE hotel, the patio has been transformed into a magical fairy-tale forest for the rehearsal dinner. Oak farmhouse tables, set up in rows, torches lining the border of the stone floor. White roses hanging from the balconies above. And right in the middle of it all stand Lila and Gary, staring at the giant painting of Patricia naked.

“Who brought this painting here?” Lila asks when Phoebe and Jim join them. “I did not ask for this to be brought here.”

“It was your mother’s idea,” Gary says. “She wanted to surprise you. She knows how much it means to us.”

“Right,” Lila says, and nods slowly. “But there are children here.”

“Technically only two,” Jim says.

“Juice has seen this painting a million times,” Gary says, confused.

“And Oliver seems… advanced,” Phoebe says.

Phoebe looks at the painting of Patricia for the first time. There stands the cubist abstraction of a naked mother in the bright sun of a hyperrealistic garden. If the mother didn’t look so fragmented, or if the garden didn’t look so dead, it wouldn’t work. But it does. It’s beautiful. And sad. Beautiful because it’s sad or sad because it’s beautiful.

“I’ll grab us a drink,” Gary says to Lila.

When he walks away, Lila says, “I just don’t understand why my mother must make even my wedding about her naked body.”

Jim walks closer to the painting as if he might figure it out.

“Please do not get so close to my mother, Jim,” Lila says.

He points to the book that Withers painted in Patricia’s hand.

“Is the title of this book really No One Gardens Alone ?” he asks.

“Wait, seriously?” Lila asks. She bursts out laughing. She looks closer at the painting. “I bought my mother that book for her birthday. I thought she might like, need a hobby or something.”

Jim looks at her. “See? In that way, this painting actually is all about you.”

“From one bullshitter to the next, that is some serious bullshit,” Lila says.

He laughs.

“But thanks for trying,” Lila says.

She stares at Jim tenderly, and Phoebe looks away as if she is witnessing a private moment she shouldn’t. Something about the exchange, the meeting of their eyes. An uncanny moment when the universe is presenting the right order of things, or at least another possible order of things. If Lila’s father had chosen a different doctor. If Jim hadn’t brought Gary to the gallery that day.

But in this universe, she watches the two of them walk away from each other. Lila headed for her drink at the bar, Jim looping arms with Gary’s mother. She wonders what will become of Jim, and worries that losing Lila might set him back another decade. Imagines he might become a man who finds it easier to build a seaplane before he builds a family. The kind of man who lives alone for so long, he ends up treating his own house like a country, carrying everything he needs as he walks the perimeter, his loud laugh the anthem the neighbors hear from afar. But maybe one day, he’ll finally scrub the oil off his hands for the last time and think, Where did everybody go?

And Lila—where will she be by then? Ten years into marriage with Gary. Perhaps with two children. Already on her second sleeping pill in the upstairs bedroom. Starting to understand why her mother day drinks.

“ S O , WHAT DID it actually feel like to be a sniper?” Phoebe asks Roy by the appetizer table. Maybe she’ll go for Roy instead, she thinks. Roy is the only man here seemingly not in love with someone else. And he is big, tall, like some action hero who is too large for every suit in the known world.

“It was phenomenal,” Roy says.

“Phenomenal?” Phoebe says. “You mean in the traditional sense of the word?”

“What do you mean, in the traditional sense of the word?”

“Like when people back in the day used to say phenomenal to describe something celestial made visible.”

“Huh?”

“Like a shooting star was phenomenal, because they believed it to be a sign from God.”

Roy gives her a long look like maybe he understands what she’s trying to say. But then he leans in and whispers, “Want to fuck?”

Perhaps it is not so strange of a request, two people at a wedding not their own. It happens in movies all the time. It probably happens to Roy all the time.

“Do people fuck you just because you ask?” Phoebe asks, genuinely curious.

“The ones who look me in the eye,” he says. “In Iraq, the only women who look men directly in the eyes are prostitutes.”

“That can’t be true,” Phoebe says.

“It is,” he says.

He thought it was weird at first but then got used to it and thought it was amazing what you could get used to over time. He says it’s really hard being back in the States.

“Women here have no problem looking you in the eye,” he says. “Like you, right now. You’re doing it. What does it mean ?”

He says he can never tell who wants to fuck him and who is just being polite.

“That must be really hard,” Phoebe says.

P HOEBE MAKES HER way back to Jim at the bar. She passes Nat and Suz in floral dresses down to their ankles. Marla and her husband, picking at the olives, trying to talk in real life. Then Gary and Lila, who have become unreachable during the height of cocktail hour. They stand near the door, greeting new people, holding drinks that match the sunset. When Lila laughs, Gary puts his hand on her back like he did on the boat. They already look married. She remembers her own wedding, how just making all those decisions together in some way married them. Each handshake was a way of saying, I do, I do, I do.

Phoebe orders a margarita. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to drink gin and tonics again. She watches the bartender squeeze the lime.

“You finish your speech?” Jim asks.

“I did,” Phoebe says. “And I learned never to write a speech after I’ve had two weeds.”

Jim laughs so explosively, it seems like there’s a good chance he might die before the end of it. Even Gary and Lila look over as he holds his chest. They all watch as it trickles out like exhaust from a tailpipe. But he survives. He puts his arm around Phoebe, and Gary looks over. They meet eyes, but then comes another wedding person to shake Gary’s hand.

“You make me laugh,” Jim says. “Sit next to me tonight.”

“I think we have assigned seats,” Phoebe says, picking up the card with her name on it. Phoebe feels proud to be at Table 1 for the first time in her life, assigned to the seat directly across from the bride and groom. Jim is seated beside her.

“It’s fate,” Jim says.

Lila picks up her glass, clinks a spoon against it. Gary raises a champagne flute.

“We can’t tell you how grateful we’ve been for your support and your community this week,” Gary says. “It’s wonderful to be here, in this beautiful hotel, with you all.”

When talking to his guests, it feels like the Gary who was sitting next to her in the barbershop is truly gone. This Gary is beardless and has nothing to do with Phoebe at all. But when Gary turns around to gesture at the magnificent ocean behind them, Phoebe sees it: the tiny spot of blood where the barber nicked him earlier.

“The dinner will be a five-course meal,” Lila says. “With a palate cleanser in between. And then after, we’ll go down to the beach to enjoy the fireworks and s’mores for the kids. So please enjoy and take your assigned seats.”

As they all sit down, Gary’s mother stands up.

“Let’s hold hands and say grace,” Gary’s mother says.

Phoebe holds hands with Patricia, whose hand is as smooth and dry as a stone, and she worries about crushing it for some reason. On the other side is Jim.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord,” Gary’s mother says. “Amen.”

While half of the room does the sign of the cross, Juice reaches out for Jim’s wine.

“Can I have a sip?” Juice asks.

“No,” Jim says.

“But everyone else is drinking,” Juice says.

“When you’re older, you’ll have time to drink more drinks than you’ll ever want. Trust your uncle on this one.”

Gary is just watching all of this, always a little stunned by Juice’s attempts to get older. Or maybe he is just studying Jim, who is leaning into Phoebe now, very obviously, whispering something in her ear.

“What the fuck is a palate cleanser anyway?” Jim whispers.

“A lemon thing on a spoon,” Phoebe says.

“Oh, right, that makes perfect sense.”

Phoebe laughs, and in this space so close to Jim, it feels safe to return Gary’s gaze. But Gary has already looked away, and it’s so strange to Phoebe that humans have learned how to do that—how to look away just in time.

“But what if I die? Not everybody gets their time,” Juice says.

“You will not die,” Gary says.

“You don’t know that,” Juice says.

“Yes, I do,” Gary says.

“Are you God?”

“He’s an adult human,” Jim says. “Statistically, most children in America live to see their own drinking age.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m an adult human! I know things,” Jim says.

Every so often Marla and her husband talk to each other by asking Oliver to do something completely inappropriate, like publicly conjugate a Latin noun, which makes the table supremely uncomfortable, though everybody does a good job of not showing it.

“Your second course,” the waiter says, and Gary’s mother stands up.

“Let’s hold hands and say grace,” she says.

Lila looks at Phoebe, and Gary and Marla glance at each other, like they’re not sure if it’s the early signs of dementia or the late-stage Catholicism that is making her insist on saying grace before each course. But nobody stops her.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty,” Gary’s mother says.

Jim runs his finger alongside Phoebe’s palm.

“Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

After, Jim doesn’t let go of her hand. Gary and Lila just stare at the two hands, while Phoebe tries to make jokey conversation about when and how often people should say grace in a five-course dinner.

“It’s a good question,” Jim says. “Which one is the real meal? Which one is the actual dinner for which we must be the most grateful, Professor Stone?”

“Sorry, I don’t do philosophical inquiries,” Phoebe says. “If you want to debate the categorical nature of a meal, you’ll need my ex-husband for that. He’s the philosopher.”

They laugh and let go of each other.

“We don’t need Socrates to tell us that this isn’t a meal,” Gary’s father says. “This is just frou-frou soup. And why’s it cold?”

“It’s gazpacho,” Lila says.

“Gazpacho?” Bootsie says. “Who is Spanish here?”

Gary hands Bootsie’s Tupperware to the waiter. “Can you put this in a nice crystal?” he asks.

Then they eat in relative silence, which stretches too long. The clinking of spoons against bowls becomes unbearable, the acknowledgment that the families have nothing to say to one another, except for Phoebe and Jim.

“I can’t believe I haven’t asked you this yet,” Jim says, “but where are you from again?”

“Missouri,” Phoebe says. Phoebe is acutely aware that everyone is listening. “You?”

“Pawtucket, Rhode Island,” Jim says. “The last place in America to make its own socks.”

“What do you mean?” Phoebe asks.

“Factory closed, and now America doesn’t make any of its own socks,” Jim says.

“Nowhere in America?” Phoebe asks. She finds this both hard to believe and not at all surprising.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Lila says. “Jim just likes to say that for some reason.”

“Because it’s unbelievable,” Jim says. “What can we say about a superpower that doesn’t make its own socks?”

“Something about frostbite,” Phoebe says.

“Death traditionally starts in the feet,” Gary finishes.

“That’s a little morbid, Gary,” Lila says.

The waiter puts down the next course. “Filet mignon.”

They all wait to see if Gary’s mother wants to say grace again, but she is already cutting into her meat. The platter of tiny steaks seems like a mistake next to the linen suits, the white lace trim of their lives. Some of the blood pools at the ridges of the serving plate, and Jim asks, “We’re supposed to be doing the speeches after the fourth course, right?” But Lila shushes him.

“Let’s just make sure we get through the meal first,” Lila says.

Phoebe notices the lost button on Patricia’s blouse. The yellow on Gary’s mother’s teeth. Oliver, who shows too much white of his eye when he speaks. Juice, who smells faintly of wet grass and booze. The food in Lila’s teeth.

“Lila,” Phoebe says, trying to get her attention.

But Lila is worried about the time. “Is the fourth course on its way?” she asks the waiter.

“Yes,” he says.

Lila expresses concern about missing the scheduled fireworks at nine, and the waiter assures her he will put in an order to speed things along. And he does. The fish fillets arrive almost immediately, and Gary’s mother stands up again.

“Jesus Christ,” Patricia says. “Once is fine, expected. Three times, I can’t. Enough God! Did God pay for this meal? Did God buy all these tiny steaks? No. I did.”

“Actually, Dad did,” Lila says.

“Yes! And we should be thanking Henry,” Patricia says as she stands up.

“Does this family ever tire of talking about the Trash King?” Bootsie asks, and takes a sip of her gimlet.

“Thank you to the Trash King of Rhode Island,” Patricia says to everyone. “And of course, the American people for producing so much trash, for never recycling properly, they have made it possible for all of us to be here tonight.”

“Mom,” Lila hisses. “This is not about you.”

“I know that, Lila,” Patricia says. “Nothing is about me. I’m aware!”

Gary’s mother is still standing, confused, so Gary gets up to join her.

“Let’s all hold hands,” Gary says, and Lila rolls her eyes. But they all hold hands and say grace one last time.

“Now we’re going to be late to the fireworks,” Lila announces after.

“Can we really miss the fireworks?” Jim asks. “We can see the whole sky from up here.”

“Yes, Jim, one can miss the fireworks,” Lila says. “Because there is a setup down on the beach with a bonfire and blankets and a guy who is probably already making s’mores for everyone.”

“Isn’t the fun of s’mores that you make them yourself?” Marla asks.

Lila looks like she might explode, but instead she turns to Phoebe and Jim.

“Actually, I think we might have to cut your speeches,” Lila says.

“Cut the speeches?” Gary asks.

“Jesus Christ, Lila,” Jim says.

“What?” Lila asks.

“Jim worked hard on his speech,” Gary says, visibly disappointed by Lila’s decision.

Phoebe is disappointed, too. She didn’t have a speech, but she was still looking forward to getting up there, speaking in front of the crowd, saying nice things about what Lila has meant to her this week, and really taking her place as Lila’s friend. But maybe this is why Lila has no real friends, Phoebe thinks. She doesn’t know how to keep them. She keeps trading them in for something else.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Lila says. “We’re paying a thousnd dollars a minute for those fireworks. And we’re late already. You can email me the speech tomorrow if you like.”

For a moment, Jim looks bereft, as if he might cry, as if this moment has become the moment he feared. He really will get cut out of the family’s scheduled programming. But then he smiles to himself, as if he’s just learned something vital. He folds his napkin, puts it on the table, and goes up to give his speech.

“Jim!” Lila hisses. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull out a piece of paper. He just begins talking.

“Well, Gary,” Jim says, “we’ve been through a lot.”

He begins by listing all the things they did together over the years, like riding horses in Wyoming and building a sandbox for Juice in the backyard.

“But the biggest thing we did together,” he says, “was watch my sister”—and that’s where Jim gets stuck.

He can’t finish the sentence without crying. Lila holds her dessert fork tightly in her hand. Gary looks down at the table. Phoebe feels suddenly nervous for Jim, the way she felt when an unprepared student gave a presentation. Jim bites the side of his fist to keep from crying, and each time he seems ready to speak, he starts to cry again. Eventually, Gary’s father stands up and starts clapping and says, “We’re here for you, Jim.” Then everybody starts clapping, everyone stands up, and this makes Jim cry and laugh at the same time. Finally, when Jim has composed himself, he finishes.

“I know I’m not supposed to stand up here and talk about my sister,” he says. “But I don’t know how else to talk about Gary. I’ve never known the kind of love that Gary has shown both me and my sister over the years. I never watched a man endure something so painful with so much grace. And on top of all that, he still has time to answer all your questions about whether the colors of your shits are normal—”

Everyone laughs. Lila blushes. Juice takes a sip of Jim’s wine.

“I mean, the man even asks follow-up questions,” Jim says. “‘Would you say it’s more of a mauve? Or a maroon?’”

The room laughs even harder.

“Gary is the best. We all love Gary. Everybody loves Gary. Gary is good. But the one thing he’s not good at? Being a wingman,” Jim says. He looks at the painting on display. “Because when we were at the gallery that day, I thought I was the one who was hitting on Lila.”

The crowd laughs. They hear all of this as a joke—but Lila freezes. Lila seems to know it’s not a joke.

“I thought, Who is this enchanting woman? Because that is one thing we know about Lila. She’s enchanting. She has such a big personality. So many ideas. The most particular person I know, you know? Lila knows exactly what she wants. I mean, look at this place—look at these centerpieces, look at how amazing it all is.”

The first firework of the evening goes off. It explodes behind Jim with a big red burst, but Lila does not see it. She’s transfixed by Jim’s words.

“Listen to that firework,” Jim says, and the crowd laughs. “Who else would have had fireworks? Who else could have made this happen? Who else would have asked us to stay here for an entire week?”

“Six days, Jim,” Lila corrects, and the crowd laughs again.

“Not including the travel days,” Jim says.

They are good together. A comedy duo.

“See? Lila’s bold—God, I really do love it. That’s her great gift. That’s what is going to make life with Lila so fun. So much bigger than the rest of us could dream for ourselves. And I’m so grateful to have been brought here, after a really dark time, to be given this chance to be included in that dream, to play my small part, to come together. It’s what I’ve missed more than anything.”

Another firework. Jim pauses, as if he’s waiting for the lights to burn out of the sky. Then, he raises his glass. The whole room is moved, and Phoebe can feel it, too.

“A toast, to Lila and my brother Gary,” Jim says.

Gary’s eyes are bright red with tears. Everyone claps, and Gary stands to hug Jim. Juice takes another swig of Jim’s wine just before he takes his place back next to Phoebe.

“You going to finish your fillet?” Jim asks.

“No,” Phoebe says.

Lila just stares at Jim in silence as he finishes the fillet.

“That was so wonderful!” Suz and Nat say, and another firework goes off in the distance.

Phoebe looks at Lila. Points to her own teeth.

“Oh,” Lila says. “Excuse me.”

“ W AS J IM SERIOUSLY just hitting on me during his best man speech?” Lila asks as soon as they are in the bathroom. “Why is he like that?”

“Because he loves you,” Phoebe blurts out.

“He does not love me. He’s had about fifteen girlfriends since I met him,” Lila says. “He doesn’t love anyone.”

“That’s not true, and you know it. Jim’s actually a pretty good guy.”

Lila turns to the mirror.

“God, why do I always get food stuck in this one little spot,” Lila says. She blames this on her mother, too. Her teeth are too crowded in her mouth. Too big and white and shiny. She picks at her teeth, and the gesture is so familiar, it makes Phoebe feel like they are back having their first conversation in the Roaring Twenties.

“Well, you just don’t say things like that in a best man speech,” Lila says. “He never knows what’s appropriate. He’s like, feral or something.”

“But isn’t that what you like about him?” Phoebe asks.

“What do you mean?”

“That he just says things. That he calls you on your shit.”

“My shit? What shit?”

“I mean, he tells you the truth. Makes a stupid joke about your mom’s painting and makes you laugh.”

Lila turns to Phoebe. “If he loves me, then why is he hitting on you, too?”

“Because you’re getting married tomorrow!” Phoebe says. “I’m his backup plan. His consolation fuck.”

“Wait, are you going to fuck Jim?”

“There’s a decent chance I might, yes.”

“So something really is happening between you two? I kept telling Gary that I couldn’t picture it.”

“Why not?” Phoebe asks.

“You’re like, so not his type.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re just very brainy. In a really lovable kind of way. But you’re not a cheerleader type, you know? You’re a little… well, suicidal.”

Phoebe is shocked by how casually she says it. As if it’s no big deal to be suicidal. To have shown up here wanting to die. As if this is just another one of Phoebe’s lovable quirks.

“Yeah. And did you ever wonder why I was suicidal?” Phoebe asks. “Did you ever once ask me, Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Well, I didn’t want to pry.”

“No,” Phoebe says. “You just wanted to talk at me. You don’t care what I have to say.”

“That’s not true,” Lila says. “I literally asked you to stand up and give a speech at my wedding.”

“Yeah, and then you cut it.”

“I really don’t have time for a fight,” Lila says. “This is my rehearsal dinner.”

So perhaps they aren’t going to be friends. Perhaps they are back where they started, Lila obsessed with making sure that nothing ruins her perfect wedding, and Phoebe, always just about to ruin it. Perhaps there really is no such thing as friendship, just as Phoebe thought on the darkest nights back at home.

But Phoebe can’t let herself fully believe this. It seems truer to say that friendship is just hard. It requires radical honesty. A kind of openness that Phoebe felt for the first time in her life that night she arrived at the hotel, so free and unburdened by anything. So ready to leave this world. But now she is no longer free—she is a person at this wedding, and the responsibilities of being a good friend have already started to change her. She can feel herself wanting to hide things from Lila. Nurture secret feelings in the dark of her mind, because total honesty is terrifying. It feels like it can ruin everything. And maybe this is what Patricia meant about saving yourself. What the Sex Woman meant when she said that Phoebe, for the rest of her life, would have to keep “checking in.” Look in the mirror and repeatedly ask herself, Am I being honest right now?

“Can I be honest with you about something?” Phoebe asks.

Phoebe doesn’t want to be like Mia. She doesn’t want to pretend that her feelings for Gary aren’t a real thing growing between them. But she doesn’t know what being honest in this moment means. Is telling the bride about her feelings for the groom the most selfish act or the noblest act? She doesn’t know. The only thing she can think to do is let the bride decide.

“I mean, when do you ever hold back?” Lila asks. “Isn’t that kind of your thing?”

“Is it?”

“The first time I met you, you told me you wanted to kill yourself.”

Phoebe nods. It seems unbelievable to her that she would have told a total stranger that, but now Phoebe can see it clearly as an act of desperation.

“I’m sorry I did that to you,” Phoebe says.

“It’s all good,” Lila says. “But I seriously can’t handle any more honesty right now after Jim’s speech. I really just need the night to go smoothly. And some floss.”

“But I thought you wanted to stop pretending.”

“And I thought you were my maid of honor.”

“I am,” Phoebe says.

“So help me.”

Phoebe opens her bag. “Here,” she says. “Use this.”

“Your table card?” Lila asks, but takes it. Starts using the sharp corner of the card to poke between her teeth. She gets it out. Victory. She reapplies her lipstick. Smacks her lips. Looks at Phoebe like she couldn’t be more grateful.

“When we get back there, I want you to give your speech,” Lila says. “I’m sorry I cut it. I really want to hear it. I just get so worked up sometimes, you know?”

“I know,” Phoebe says.

B UT WHEN THEY return to the patio, they find it nearly empty.

“I told everybody to head down to the fireworks,” Gary says. “We’ll meet them there.”

“But Phoebe hasn’t given her speech!” Lila cries. “And we didn’t even eat any of the palate cleansers, did we?”

“You don’t eat palate cleansers, you have palate cleansers,” Marla corrects.

“Jesus Christ, Marla, who cares?” Lila says. “We didn’t eat or have any of them, am I right?”

“I do not recall a palate cleanser, no,” Gary says.

“For the best,” Jim says. “I’m stuffed.”

He rubs his belly like it got bigger during dinner, which it didn’t.

“But we paid for them,” Lila says.

Lila signals for help, but it’s not the waiter who comes over. It’s Pauline.

“Yes, I’m so sorry,” Pauline says. “The waiter came to me with your concerns, and we made the decision to omit the palate cleansers so we could get you all to the fireworks in time.”

“You omitted the palate cleansers?” Lila asks.

“I am afraid we did omit them, yes,” she says. “The meal was taking a little longer than planned, and we made an executive decision.”

“Oh! As long as it was an executive decision,” Lila says.

“Lila,” Gary says. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay! This is unacceptable. We ordered one hundred and sixty palate cleansers!”

“I hope you’re donating them,” Marla says.

“Do people donate palate cleansers?” Phoebe asks. “That just seems… cruel.”

“Oh my God, can someone just tell me what a palate cleanser is?” Juice asks.

“Like a lemon thing on a spoon,” Jim says.

“A lemon thing on a spoon?”

“I don’t know. Ask the professor,” Jim says.

“It’s just what they always are,” Phoebe clarifies.

“Pauline, thank you,” Gary says. “We’ll take it from here.”

Pauline nods, leaves, and in her absence there is a lot of discussion about whether the hotel had the right to do that—to omit the palate cleanser, to make an executive decision without consulting the bride and groom.

Gary seems to think it is his responsibility as a kind person to forgive the waiter for whatever choices he made, because he was just a man with no good options, and Lila seems to think it is her responsibility as the bride to not have her dead father’s money wasted on food they were denied.

“We paid a lot of money for this meal,” Lila says.

“Okay,” Jim says. “Here we go again.”

“What do you mean, Here we go?” Lila asks.

“I mean, we know how this is going to play out, because this is how it always plays out, so why don’t we just skip over it all and head down to the fireworks to enjoy our night?”

“How does this always play out?” Lila asks.

“You really want to know?”

“I don’t think we want to know,” Gary says. “Jim, I think you need—”

“No, I really want to know,” Lila interrupts.

So does everyone else watching.

“You get upset about something very small and minor,” Jim says. “And Gary takes deep breaths and says, Okay, okay, we’ll fix this, and then he is going to fix it, and then you’ll feel better, until tomorrow when you find something else pointless to melt down about.”

“It’s not pointless,” Lila says.

“It’s a lemon thing! On a spoon!” Jim says. “Who cares?”

“I care!” Lila screams. “I care! What is so wrong about caring? What is so wrong about wanting things to be done right? That’s how you make big dreams happen, Jim. That’s how you actually build a seaplane. You have to order all the parts and then make sure you get all the right parts, because if you are missing even just one, the seaplane doesn’t work!”

“What does any of this have to do with my seaplane?” Jim asks.

“You don’t even have a seaplane!” Lila says. “For two years, you’ve been talking about it like you have this seaplane, but you don’t! You haven’t even ordered the frame! Because you don’t take anything seriously, not even your own dreams. You just sit around and talk about all the shit you’re never going to do and all the people who aren’t here, and I’m sorry your sister is dead, but you seriously have to move on and start building your seaplane! All of you do.”

The family looks at Lila, a little stunned.

“This is tiresome,” Jim says. “I’m tired of this.”

“Tired of what exactly?”

“I’m tired of you overreacting like this,” Jim says. “Yelling at everyone. And Gary just standing there. Look at him. He’s just standing there.”

They all look at Gary, and Gary clears his throat. But he doesn’t speak. He just continues standing there.

“You’re both better than this,” Jim says.

Another firework goes off in the distance. “Good night,” Jim says, and then leaves like this was the real speech he had been writing inside his head all week. All year.

Phoebe half expects Lila to yell for Jim as he walks away, but she says nothing, as if she’s already trying to be her better self.

“Did you know that shrimp eat themselves from the inside?” Juice asks, holding a glass of wine in her hand.

“Are you drinking ?” Gary asks.

Marla puts up her hand. “I’ll handle it,” she says.

“Juice,” Gary says. “Why are you drinking?”

“I’ll handle it,” Marla says. “Go down to the Cliff Walk and enjoy the fireworks with your fiancée. That’s an order.”

Lila and Gary look at each other, a kind of helpless look, as if they have no idea how to enjoy the fireworks now. But they leave, and Oliver looks distressed, like he just realized that something is deeply wrong with the adults in his life. Phoebe remembers sensing the same thing as a child, seeing her father walk a woman to the door after dinner. Never inviting her to stay. Never allowing anyone into his life after her mother. He said goodbye to the woman, whoever she was, and Phoebe could feel him making a mistake, could feel that sometimes doing nothing was the biggest mistake of all.

But Oliver is just pointing at the nude painting of Lila’s mother.

“Is that you ?” he asks Patricia.

“That’s me,” Patricia says.

It’s Juice who explodes, all over the table. Red vomit everywhere.

“Oh my God,” Marla says, hand to forehead.

Marla looks at Phoebe.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t,” Marla says, and takes her husband’s hand for the first time since he arrived. “Vomit makes me vomit.”

J UICE WALKS SILENTLY under the wing of Phoebe’s arm, all the way into the elevator.

“I’m so sorry,” Juice says.

“I know,” Phoebe says.

“I mean, I’m so sad.”

“I know.”

“I miss my mom.”

“I know.”

“I wish she could be here.”

“I know.”

Phoebe feels powerless to help. She imagines this is what mothers often feel. Powerlessness is part of the package. So she does what she can: She brings her to the room Juice shares with Gary. But at the door, Juice just cries.

“I don’t want to be in my dad’s room,” Juice says, and it sounds like she is about to hyperventilate. Like she almost did that day at the wharf. “I just want my mom.”

Phoebe feels Juice’s cry deep in her heart—she feels it as her own.

“Let’s go to my room,” Phoebe suggests.

Inside, Phoebe gets her a glass of water. She takes off Juice’s gold shoes. She puts a blanket over her. She sits at the edge of the bed and thinks, I would have been a good fucking mother, and then strokes Juice’s hair.

“I’m sorry your mom isn’t here anymore,” Phoebe says. “But that doesn’t mean you’re alone.”

Juice cries, curls herself into a ball, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Phoebe hopes Lila will grow into the role of mother. She hopes Lila will at least be stepsisterly. That the two of them will bond while watching shitty movies and eating cookies late at night.

“You’ll be okay,” Phoebe says. “I know you don’t believe that now. But you will.”

“How do you know, though?”

“Because I didn’t have a mother, either,” she says. “And I’m okay.”

“You’re okay?”

“I am okay,” Phoebe says, and it feels true. I am okay. I am alive. I am here.

When Juice falls asleep, Phoebe looks at her phone. Three missed phone calls from her husband. He has lost control, she thinks. She starts to listen to the first message but is interrupted by a knock on the door.

“I couldn’t just sit there watching the fireworks,” Gary says. “Is Juice okay?”

“She’s okay now,” Phoebe assures him.

“I mean, clearly, she’s not okay,” Gary says.

“This is hard for her.”

He sits down on the love seat. “I kept thinking that at some point it would be easier for her. Maybe as the engagement went on, this would all feel right. I thought my getting married again would be good for us.”

The fireworks are loud outside, but Juice doesn’t budge.

“She must be really drunk,” Gary says.

They watch the green and red and blue explosions in the sky.

“Jim was right,” Phoebe says. “There’s no missing the fireworks.”

“Jim is often right.” He sighs. “Life is never what you think it’s going to be, is it?”

“No,” she says. “It’s been a very surprising week.”

He looks at her. “I certainly didn’t expect you.”

“I didn’t expect any of you. Any of this.”

“Phoebe,” Gary says, like he is about to start up their conversation from earlier. “I think I’m making a terrible mistake.”

But then there’s another knock on the door. She can hear her husband’s voice asking very loudly, “Phoebe, are you in there?”