We Can't Keep Meeting Like This

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  “Quinn, hey,” Corey Esposito says, staring down at me with these sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes. “You look… really cute.”

  I offer a meager wave. Clearly I’m being haunted by the Ghosts of Hookups Past. First Jonathan, then the shitshow with Tarek, and now Corey. There’s something about a rule of three, right? This has to be it, even if Tarek isn’t technically an ex.

  Corey and I hung out for a while junior year, a few back-seat make-outs and a homecoming dance before I started obsessing over his texts and wondering if he was thinking about me when we weren’t together as much as I was thinking about him. It freaked me out, so I told him we had to stop seeing each other. The guy you broke up with because he made you feel an emotion is how Julia refers to him, which is not only an attack but also false. If it was an emotion, it was frustration with myself for not ending the relationship earlier.

  The only emotion I feel when I see him now is that he looks really cute tonight too. And maybe that is exactly what I need to erase Tarek from my mind.

  “And you sound really thirsty,” I say, giving him what I hope is my flirtiest smirk.

  He holds a hand to his heart, mock-offended. “Be my beer pong partner? For old times’ sake?”

  “Only because I’m feeling nostalgic.” And then a hiss to Julia before we take our places on opposite sides of the table: “She’s glad you’re here!”

  “Glad we’re here,” Julia says. I refuse to placate her when she’s being impossible.

  Corey turns out to be excellent at beer pong, and when we beat Julia and Noelle, he wraps me in the kind of hug that deserves to be capitalized and italicized. It is a Hug, filled with suggestion, that makes me feel things in more than a couple different places. He’s been bumping my hip the whole game, winking at me, gazing at my mouth. It’s the kind of attention I’ve always liked—people making it so obvious they’re into you that you don’t have to drive yourself wild with anxiety trying to decipher their feelings.

  So when Julia and Noelle head off to talk to a few of Noelle’s friends from the volleyball team and he asks if I want to go upstairs, I say yes.

  I’m perfectly sober when we start kissing in the Sawickis’ guest room—photos of Alyson with braces, at Disneyland, on a beach—and I was right: it takes away, just a little, the stress of B+B and the question mark that is college. The best way to turn off my brain. I am the one in control as I push Corey onto the bed and wrap my legs around him. It’s great. Corey is great. Exactly what I wanted.

  Sure, I swore off boys a couple hours ago, but since we’ve already hooked up, this doesn’t count. It’s just an encore.

  “I missed this,” Corey says with his mouth on my neck, and it’s not I missed you, which is okay. Because I didn’t miss him, either.

  And yet it waters the seed of doubt at the back of my mind. Makes it bloom into a doubt garden with little doubt topiaries. He didn’t miss me. Tarek didn’t miss me. Jonathan is… whatever Jonathan is.

  I don’t understand how what’s happening between us grows into something that makes you spend five hundred dollars on a chocolate fountain. And suddenly my anxiety-brain is intent on making me think it’s because there’s something wrong with me.

  That must be what makes me slide off his lap, still fully clothed, desperate for air. I smooth down the skirt of my owl dress, search search search for something in the room to anchor myself. Photos of Alyson. Okay. I can focus on those. Deep breaths in through my nose, out through my mouth.

  And it must be what makes me ask, “What if we went to a movie sometime?”

  He looks at me like I’ve asked him if we can play Kidz Bop as mood music. “I… didn’t realize you were a movie kind of girl.”

  I put more space between us, unsure of the implication and immediately drawing the worst conclusion. “Because there’s no overlap between girls who like fooling around and girls who appreciate cinema?”

  “You’re funny,” he says. He leans in to kiss me again, but I pull back so violently I nearly topple off the bed. “No, I mean—I didn’t realize you dated.”

  “I haven’t, not really, but that doesn’t mean I don’t date.”

  He beckons me closer, lowers his lashes to half-mast in that way he must know is catnip to me. “Sure,” he says. “We can go to a movie.”

  It won’t happen. I’m sure of it.

  I want to leave him here. Every feminist cell in my body is urging me to. But even though I’m sure it won’t calm me completely, I let him kiss me slow and almost sweet, then unbuckle his belt and reach my hand inside. I hate myself while I’m doing it, but I don’t hate the way he fists a hand in my hair. And right now that is enough to make me stay.

  After we’re done—after he’s done, because I’m nowhere near it after the conversation we just had and yeah, I’m bitter—the sense of something clawing inside me is even worse.

  * * *

  I find Julia on the back porch with Noelle after refreshing myself in the bathroom, thumbing away the crumbs of mascara and reapplying the lipstick I left on Corey’s face. When I checked my phone, I had a half dozen texts from her. I can’t tell if she’s giving off ~vibes~ or if we’re just gals being pals. UGH HELP.

  “Hey, Noelle!” I say, fully intending to give Julia some help, even if it’s not the kind of help she thinks she needs. I sit down next to them. “Julia and I usually go to the Ballard Farmers Market on Sundays in the summer. Her parents have a booth there.”

  “That sounds like fun. I’d love to come if—wait, was that an invitation?” She claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I thought for a moment you were inviting me, but you were probably just casually talking about your plans, and wow, I’m going to stop now.”

  “We were!” I say quickly to put her out of her misery. Noelle is anxious—whether it’s because of Julia or because of her brain chemistry, or some combination, I can definitely relate. “We were inviting you!”

  Noelle lets out a long breath and considerably brightens. “Then yes! I’m working a few days a week at a coffee shop in Wallingford, but I’m free aside from that.”

  “Great,” Julia says, and she nudges my shoulder in what I interpret as a thank you. “We’ll text you the details.”

  The sky darkens as we continue talking on the porch, and I notice how close Julia and Noelle are sitting. When Noelle tells a joke, Julia throws back her head to laugh, and every time, Noelle twists her mouth to one side, like she’s trying not to let on how much she enjoys Julia’s laugh. It’s the kind of thing that could almost make me believe in romance.

  Almost.

  5

  I know it’s a lot of work,” Asher says as she bends over her dining room table, calligraphy pen poised over a lavender invitation. “But this is so much more personal.”

  I flex my fingers. “I get it. Just don’t be surprised if your hundredth invite also contains the blood from my seventeen paper cuts and counting.”

  “Perfect. It’s more authentic that way.” Asher’s dark hair is loose, curling down to her shoulders, and we’re both in leggings and T-shirts. We might look more alike than we ever have.

  I slide a finished hand-addressed invitation for Margaret and Hal Chapin, whoever they are, to my right. Up next is Danielle Ladner, one of Asher’s high school friends. Asher and Gabe’s apartment is cute, a newer building in Ravenna with a view of the mountains. But she’s only fifteen minutes from our parents, which I can’t understand. If I had that kind of independence, I’d put at least a couple hours between us, maybe a flight.

  Asher so graciously gave my mom, who has the kind of penmanship studies associate with serial killers, permission to skip this, and my dad is off on a venue tour. The save-the-dates went out at the beginning of the year, but they still have to create a seating chart, go in for final fittings and meetings with vendors, and address about a hundred little details my sister handles for other couples on a regular basis. She’s had a vision board for this botanical garden wedding since she was fou
rteen.

  “It’s not too late to uninvite my cousin Moshe,” Gabe calls from the kitchen, where he’s cooking dinner. It’s six o’clock on a Tuesday, and he just got home from work. Asher always talks about how she loves her job’s flexible schedule, but her weekends are nonexistent. Meanwhile, Gabe works for an arts nonprofit downtown, is always home between five fifteen and five forty-five, and often gets free theater tickets.

  Gabe is Jewish too, though much more religious than we are. His family keeps kosher and observes Shabbat, which mine never did. There’s a mezuzah on his and Asher’s front door, family heirloom menorahs on display. We have to dig ours out of storage every year before scraping the wax off them, and I’m sure Gabe’s family never “forgets” to light the menorah on night six or seven. No one in my family has married someone who isn’t Jewish, though, and I’ve always wondered whether it’s assumed I’ll do the same if I get married.

  In fact, Asher only ever dated Jewish guys, which is something of an accomplishment in Seattle. In elementary school, I was usually the only Jewish kid in my class, though there were a handful of others in middle and high school. And while of course there was BBYO Jonathan, I haven’t hooked up with any other Jews. Which is a weird thing to acknowledge, but there it is. It’s something I think about only when someone else’s Jewishness—namely, Gabe’s, and I guess Asher’s now too—is so clearly on display in front of me, and it makes me worry sometimes that I’m not quite Jewish enough.

  “What’s the story with your cousin Moshe?” I ask, placing Danielle’s invitation in the “done” pile.

  Across the table, Asher mimes stabbing herself in the eye with the calligraphy pen. “He’s in LA, trying to become a stand-up comic. Gabe is convinced that if he comes, he’ll find some way to turn it into a routine. And,” she says, twisting in her chair to call into the kitchen, “I promise you, I’ve dealt with a hundred cousin Moshes. We’ll be okay.”

  Gabe heads into the dining room, looking business casual in khakis and a blue button-down, his dark beard especially mountain-man-esque today. Asher wants him clean-shaven for the wedding, so he’s seeing how long he can grow it out before then. “And I’m just saying,” he says as he places his hands on my sister’s shoulders, “I’m not into the self-deprecating Jewish comedian act, and I don’t want him to be something you have to ‘deal with’ on our wedding day.”

  Asher and Gabe met in college. They kept seeing each other in their dorm elevator on the way down to the dining hall, and they’d exchange pleasantries, a bit of flirting. They Instagram-stalked each other for a while before they actually followed each other, and Gabe’s said he had to stop himself from telling her he was in love with her on their second date.

  I don’t want to believe their relationship is doomed, but I can’t help feeling jaded, thinking about our follow-up folder and the marriages that have ended in divorce. About my parents and the six months they were separated. It all looks saccharine when you see how easily something you thought was solid can shatter.

  “There’s just so much to do,” Asher says. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it. I wouldn’t be doing it for a living if I didn’t love it. But it’s a little overwhelming right now.”

  This makes me feel bad about being reluctant to step in. “I’m going to help out. You’ll have more time.”

  “Thank you for doing that.” She squeezes my hand. “Seriously. I always said I wasn’t going to turn into one of those brides who needed everything to be perfect, but…”

  Gabe isn’t a whatever you want, babe kind of groom—I can’t imagine Asher being happy with someone like that—but he’s known when to sit back and let her take control. Not because she’s the bride, but because this is her area of expertise.

  “It’s going to be perfect because it’s you and me,” Gabe says. Supportive Fiancé 101. “Everything else is out of our control to some degree. And we’re going to be okay with that.”

  I’m reaching for the next invitation when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting a text from Julia, and I nearly drop it when I see Tarek’s name instead.

  Hey. Just wanted to see how you’re feeling.

  I stare at the screen. He can’t just turn on his phone to text me and not see our last exchange. Ignoring it is a choice, and I guess I’m making it too. Ignoring his silence, ignoring our fight, ignoring all those swirly feelings I once had.

  Everything on my face is normal-sized again, I write back, and after a moment’s hesitation, add, thanks.

  He must be trying to earn back some decent-human points, but I’m not sure how much credit to give him. He’s always cared about me. The year my grandma died, Tarek found me crying in a photo booth, cheered me up by posing with an odd assortment of props—a feather boa, a rubber horse head, an inflatable guitar—until my dad reminded us the photo booth was for the guests and that they’d paid a lot of money for it.

  I still have that strip of photos, tucked away in the back of my nightstand drawer.

  I stare at the phone for a while longer, trying to decide whether I should write anything else. Wondering if he’s going to.

  Asher pokes me. “Less texting, more hand-lettering.”

  “Need I remind you, I am doing you a favor.”

  “I love you. Thank you. Put your phone away.”

  * * *

  After dinner Gabe takes off for the gym, leaving Asher and me alone with a few sleeves of cookies and a quarter bottle of wine.

  “Only because you’re not driving home,” Asher says as she pours a half inch of ruby liquid into a mug. Wineglasses are on their registry. I pout and she pours more. Our parents were never very strict about alcohol because we were around it so often, and they figured as long as we learned to handle it responsibly, we’d be okay. They were right—I’ve gotten buzzed but never well and truly drunk. And I can’t say it’s not nice to be able to share this with my sister.

  “To the most sophisticated of ladies,” I say, holding out my mug, and Asher clinks hers with mine.

  I settle back onto the couch in her living room and snag a cookie, trying not to think about how Tarek used to make the best salted chocolate-chip. The seven years between Asher and me sometimes feel like fifteen and sometimes like nothing at all. I was eleven when she went to college, and even though she didn’t go far, I cried myself to sleep in her room the night she left. When she came home on weekends with buckets of laundry because the machines in the dorm were never available, it didn’t feel the same. I’d finally been able to stop worrying on a daily basis that my parents were going to split up, but any minor disagreement—how to properly load the dishwasher, which of them would call back an especially hostile MOB—took me back to the place where our home without my mom in it felt so, so quiet. And now Asher was gone too.

  For the longest time, I wanted to do everything she did: wear my hair like hers, listen to the same music, hang out with her friends while they gossiped about things that made no sense to me, yet still made me feel extremely cool. Gradually, I realized there was this tremendous piece of her identity—her whole career—that I didn’t want, and sometimes it feels like an invisible barrier between us.

  Sitting here on her living room couch feels almost like those old times.

  “I can’t believe I’m getting married,” Asher says, using an elastic on her wrist to tie her hair up in what I’ve come to view as her wedding topknot. “I mean, yes, I’ve been thinking about it forever, but I can’t believe it’s almost here. You remember that vision board I had.”

  “The one that was ninety percent Chris Evans? How could I forget?”

  “Hey, he’s responsible for at least half of my sexual awakening.”

  “Who was the other half?”

  She levels me with a serious look. “John Oliver.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “I feel really comforted by the way he delivers the news!”

  “This explains so much about you,” I say, and she tosses a cookie chunk at me. I open my
mouth and try to catch it, but it hits my chin instead. “Can I ask you something without coming across like a total dick? I know you’ve wanted the fancy wedding for so long, and I’m just wondering… why?”

  As much as I want to linger in the sisterly nostalgia, it’s hard not to think about how Asher’s life is going to change when she’s married. I’m not sure where I’ll fall on her list of priorities. Most time we spend together these days is at work. We don’t have nights like this very often—not that we don’t want to, but when she has a free night from work, she’s with Gabe or with her friends. She’s been doing this slow drift since the separation, since I realized my family wasn’t the solid unit we’d always been.

  And if I left B+B, I’d be leaving Asher, too.

  Asher, to her credit, takes my question seriously, placing an entire cookie in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully before washing it down with a sip of wine. “It’s changed over the years. At first it was because I wanted the attention. I mean, I was a kid, and we grew up waiting hand and foot on brides and grooms. I wanted a massive party that would be all about me. And then I started getting emotionally invested in each couple we worked with. Being part of their day felt like the biggest honor, and I’ve always been so grateful for that. I’d see all the people who showed up because they cared about this couple so much, and that was what I wanted. Obviously, I wasn’t going to marry the first random who showed interest. And I didn’t start dating Gabe with the intention of getting married—at first it was just that I liked him, and then I loved him, and then I started picturing a future with him.”

  I wish her optimism didn’t sound so foreign to me. “Is it weird that I never had a vision board?”

  “Vision board or not, you don’t have to know right now if you want to get married,” she says. “Even with it being such a huge part of our lives. And you can change your mind at any time.”

  “I know that.” Apparently, I can have an eternity to figure out the kind of love I want, if any, but my career? That’s already been decided.