by Emily Giffin
I still think about Grant and the issue of paternity, but try to push away those lingering worries. Jasmine helps with that one night when we go out after work and I forgo wine and she guesses that I’m pregnant.
“Is it Matthew’s? Or Grant’s?” she asks, so casually—like the answer doesn’t matter in the slightest.
I immediately say it’s Matthew’s, but when she gives me a look, I break down and admit that I don’t know for sure. But I feel ninety-nine percent sure it’s not Grant’s.
She shrugs and says, “Well, either way. Love makes a family. So you’re good. And speaking of—I can’t wait to be this baby’s fierce auntie.”
“That’s so sweet,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says. “Every baby needs a fierce auntie.”
* * *
—
Finally the big engagement-party weekend is upon us, my parents, brother, sister, and Scottie all flying in to New York, landing on Friday evening. Although Scottie is staying with me, my family has booked two rooms at the Inn at Irving Place, a nicer hotel than the chains near Times Square they usually choose. My mom says they are splurging for the special occasion, but I can’t help but wonder (and worry) if they’re trying to fit in to Matthew’s world. It makes me feel protective of my family, and more determined than ever to keep our wedding low-key and comfortable for them.
In any event, I meet them in the lobby of their hotel, the six of us making a small scene as we hug and kiss hello. They all clamor to see my ring, gushing about how beautiful it is. My sister and mother take turns trying it on as my brother cuts to the chase, whistling, then asking, “How much did that rock set him back?”
“Jeez, Paul,” I say with a laugh. I adore my brother, but have long maintained that he is a case study in parents giving up on disciplining their youngest child.
“Yeah. Seriously, Paul,” Scottie chimes in, always treating my siblings like his own. “Don’t be so gauche.”
“Hey. It’s not gauche if you’re with family,” Paul says, then turns back to me. “So what do you think, Cess? How much?”
“I have no idea,” I say.
“Not to be tacky like Paul here, but I bet it was at least twenty-five thousand,” Jenna says. “Jeff paid eight thousand for my diamond and yours is three times as big. And look at the color. It’s so clear.”
I thank her, then change the subject to Jeff and Emma. “I wish they could have come,” I say, missing my niece so much.
“I wish you were coming for Thanksgiving,” my mom says. “I still can’t believe you’re not.”
“I know, Mom,” I say, feeling a little sad about it, too, thinking about being with Matthew’s family instead of mine. “But wouldn’t you rather have Christmas than Thanksgiving?”
My mom sighs, looking tortured by the question, like I’ve just asked her which child she loves the most (though that one is probably easier; everyone knows that Paul is her favorite). “If I had to pick, I guess Christmas,” she says. “But I’m just saying…”
My sister and I exchange a look, secretly mocking my mother for her favorite expression—I’m just saying.
“What are you ‘just saying,’ Mom?” I ask fondly.
“I’m just saying that you live here. In New York. So you can see Matthew’s family anytime.”
“True,” I say. “So does that mean…if we ever move to Wisconsin…we can spend all of our Thanksgivings and Christmases with the Capells?”
“You’re moving back to Wisconsin?” she says, her face lighting up.
“No time soon…but I’m just saying,” I say, smirking. “If and when we do, can we give the Capells all the holidays?”
“No, you certainly may not!” my mom says, never one to let logic get in the way. “The girl’s family takes priority. Except for when Paul gets married,” she adds, not even a little bit kidding.
“Okay, okay,” my dad says, putting his arm around her. “Let’s not worry about all of that. It’s worked out with Jenna and Jeff so far. This will work out, too.”
I give my dad a grateful look, then ask if anyone wants to get a bite to eat. My dad says a snack might be nice, and my brother requests a “watering hole.”
I suggest Pete’s Tavern, a nearby pub that is famous for being the oldest continuously operating bar and restaurant in New York City. My dad loves this kind of trivia and is especially excited when we walk in a short time later and I point to the black-lacquered booth where O. Henry allegedly wrote “The Gift of the Magi.”
As we get settled at our table in the back of the restaurant, then order our beverages, I have the most intense feeling of warmth for my people, and have to fight the urge to tell everyone my news. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to hold off, but I promised Matthew (who is working late) that I would wait for him.
Meanwhile, my mother launches right in with talk of wedding plans. I let her go on for a while before I work up the nerve to tell her about our change of venue, deciding that I can’t really mention the change of date, as she will want to know why.
“Hey, Mom. How would you feel if Matthew and I got married here?” I say as gently as I can.
“Here?” she says, looking around, bewildered. “In a bar?”
“Not here here…but in New York…you know…instead of Pewaukee?”
“Why would you want to do that?” she asks. “Brides are supposed to get married in their hometown.”
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug, then try to articulate the reasons that I can share—the ones that have nothing to do with the urgency of our wedding date and the convenience of having it here. “Because it’s where Matthew and I met…and where we live…and I love it here in so many ways.”
“You hate it in other ways,” she says.
“True…I do…but it’s become really special to me,” I say, finding it hard to put into words the feeling of fierce pride and loyalty I have for this city since 9/11—the way everyone has come together, showing the world what it means to be a New Yorker.Grant crosses my mind—it’s not possible to think of that day without also thinking of him—but I push those thoughts away. “Besides, I think it might be nice to do something different than what Jenna and Jeff did.”
“Oh, I don’t think that matters,” my mom says.
“Well, maybe it matters to Cecily,” my dad says quietly. I give him another grateful glance as my brother clears his throat.
“Well, since everyone’s clamoring to hear my opinion,” Paul says, pint glass in hand. “I think it’d be pretty rad.”
“Same,” Jenna says. “So sophisticated and glamorous and…Sex and the City.”
My mom winces, likely at the word sex. “But that’s not Cecily,” she says to my sister.
“Excuse me?” I say with a laugh. “I’m not sophisticated and glamorous?”
“You know what I mean,” she says. “We’re Midwestern.”
“What do you think, Dad?” I ask. It’s a risky question—as he tends never to break with my mother on these debates. Then again, I’m his favorite child—so I’m hopeful.
“I don’t know, sweetie. That’s up to you and your mother…but you do realize that this beer is about…two dollars more than it costs in Pewaukee?” he says, clinking his knife against the side of his glass.
Of course I know what he’s getting at. “Yup, Dad,” I say. “A wedding would be more expensive here…but we would keep it really small and simple and intimate. And fewer Wisconsin people would make the trip—so that would keep the numbers down.”
“And that’s a good thing?” my mom says.
I bite my lip, take a deep breath, and say, “Anyone really important will still come. Just the peripheral neighbors and stuff won’t come….”
“Oh, so Aunt Jo is peripheral now?” she says, crossing her arms. “Who, I might remind you, is
on oxygen and certainly won’t be able to make the trip.”
I sigh and say, “So I should plan my wedding around Aunt Jo’s nicotine habit?”
“Yeah, Ma. That’s kind of ridiculous,” Paul says—which disarms her just long enough for me to drop my second bomb: that we may shorten our engagement.
“Shorten it?” she says. “You mean change your date?”
“Yes,” I say. “Move it up.”
“To when? The summer?”
“We were thinking more along the lines of…this winter.”
Before she can object, I sell it as hard as I can. “Picture it, Mom. Candlelight. Snow falling outside the church. Poinsettias and red roses…”
Mom closes her eyes, a slight smile on her face. Then she opens them again and shakes her head. “Sorry. All I’m picturing is a blizzard,” she says. “And flights being canceled.”
“Well, I love the idea of a winter wedding in the city,” Jenna says. “And I have to say—long engagements are the worst. That’s the most Jeff and I ever fought.”
“Yes. Because you’re a control freak,” Paul says. “Cecily isn’t like you.”
“Yes, but Matthew is,” Jenna says, laughing—which I have to say, is a little bit true, especially when it comes to logistics.
“Scottie, you’re so quiet. What do you think about all of this?” my mom asks, desperately trying to recruit someone to her side.
Scottie hesitates, then glances at me for the first time, though his foot has been on mine with various degrees of pressure throughout the conversation. “I want whatever Cecily wants.”
“Aww,” Jenna says. “That’s so sweet.”
“Well, I am pretty sweet,” Scottie says to her. “And just so you know, Ms. Matron of Honor, Cecily said I could plan her bachelorette party.”
“Oh shit! Look out!” my brother yells, laughing.
“Wait. Aren’t those for the ladies?” my father says.
“Dad,” I say under my breath.
“What?” he says. “Aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Scottie says, taking my hand under the table. “The ladies and, you know, the bride’s gay best friend.”
Everyone freezes. I glance at my mother, who looks predictably uncomfortable, shifting her gaze to my dad, who looks even more uncomfortable. Meanwhile, I squeeze Scottie’s hand, his palm sweaty, while my brother starts a slow clap that makes my heart swell.
“Bravo, my man,” Paul says, reaching over to punch Scottie on the shoulder, seeming to grasp how difficult this moment was for him.
Scottie sits up a little straighter, still gripping my hand, as he looks at my brother and mumbles, “Thanks, Paulie.”
“Of course,” my brother says, now raising his pint glass. “Everyone, come on now.”
We all raise our glasses, as my brother says, “To coming out.”
“To coming out,” Jenna and I echo while Scottie smiles a shy smile.
“I mean, you all already knew, right?” Scottie says, glancing around the table, his grip on my hand finally loosening.
“You were Richard Simmons for Halloween one year,” Jenna says with a laugh. “So yeah. That was a tip-off.”
Scottie looks straight at my mom and says, “Mrs. G?”
I give her a look, praying that she says the right thing—or at least not the totally wrong thing. “Well. It really wasn’t any of our business….Was it, Bob?”
“No, it’s not our business,” my dad says, now slapping the heel of his hand on the side of the ketchup bottle, intently frowning at his plate.
“But we still love you no matter what,” my mom continues. “Right, Bob?”
“Of course we love him no matter what,” my dad says. The ketchup is now freely flowing onto his fries, but he still doesn’t look up.
“Well, duh, guys,” I say, biting my lip and shaking my head. “Does it really need to be said that you still love him?”
“Did I say something wrong?” my mother asks.
I smile, but tell her the truth, out of loyalty to Scottie. “Well, yeah. Kind of, Mom.”
“No. Nobody said anything wrong,” Scottie interjects, his foot back on mine again. “It’s all good.”
“Yes. It is all good,” Jenna echoes.
“So anyway,” Scottie says. “The point I was trying to make—is that there is more than one way to do things.”
My dad winces, I think taking the point a little too literally, as my mom just looks confused. “More ways to do what?”
“I’m saying—boys can go to bachelorette parties…and Cecily can get married in New York. It doesn’t really matter when and where—it’s all going to be perfect. Because she’s marrying a man who truly loves her.”
* * *
—
“Thank you for that,” I say to Scottie later, once we’re alone back at my apartment.
“For what?” he says, putting his feet up on my coffee table.
“You know what,” I say. “For having my back. For distracting my mother with bigger news than my wedding details.”
“Oh. You mean my little announcement?”
“It wasn’t little.”
He nods, looking so serious, especially for him.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“I feel good, I guess,” he says, taking a deep breath. “But did you see your dad’s face?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But did you also see that the world didn’t end?”
He nods, and I can tell what he’s thinking.
“It won’t for your dad, either,” I say gently.
“Yeah. Maybe. It’s different, though. I think your dad might be more upset if Paul were gay….Then again, I guess my old man can’t be any more upset than ol’ Karen was when you told her you want to get married in New York.” He laughs, shakes his head, then adds, “You may as well have told her you’re gay.”
“No doubt,” I say. “Although she might actually prefer I marry a woman as long as the ceremony was in Wisconsin….”
“You’d have to go to the Netherlands for that.”
“No. You and Noah will have to go to the Netherlands for that,” I say.
Scottie gets a little grin on his face, the way he always does when I bring up Noah. “Maybe we will,” he says, flipping the channels even though the television is muted. “And hey, maybe I’ll even let you plan my bachelor party.”
“Wow. You really can see yourself ending up with him?” I ask.
“Oh, who knows. It’s way too early for that. But I can’t stop thinking about him….” He gives me a funny look, then says. “Is that how you felt?”
I stare back at him, frozen, unsure whether he’s talking about Matthew or Grant. The truth is I wasn’t like that with Matthew, even in the beginning—not like I was with Grant. I admit this to Scottie now.
“Yeah,” he says. “You were obsessed. But you have to remember—obsession isn’t love. It just feels like love.”
“I know,” I say, feeling a wave of sadness.
Scottie looks at me as he puts his hand on my arm, jostling me a little. “Hey. Remember what I said at Pete’s. Okay?”
“What’s that?” I ask, looking at him.
“You’re marrying a guy who loves you.”
The following day, Scottie, my mother, Jenna, and I set out to shop for wedding dresses. Amy was able to secure only one appointment—at Vera Wang. But she tells us to start our day in Brooklyn at the legendary Kleinfeld, which offers a huge selection at bargain prices and requires no appointment.
Even though we arrive early, just a few minutes after their opening, the shop is already swamped, with hordes of brides grabbing dresses from racks. The whole experience is stressful at best, downright unpleasant at moments, especially when I’m overcome with another dizzy spell that I try to hide from e
veryone. The worst part is I don’t love a single gown; they all make me feel like I’m playing the part of a bride in a movie. So I throw in the towel.
From Brooklyn, we take the subway to the Upper East Side, then walk over to Vera Wang on Fifth Avenue. The second we walk in, I see a glass case of the most gorgeous crystal tiaras and get unexpected goosebumps. This is the stuff of fairy tales, I think, or at least wedding fantasies. These dresses will be far too expensive—but I tell myself to enjoy the experience.
“Oh my God. This place is the bomb,” Scottie says under his breath as we check in at the front desk. We wait for our bridal consultant, a woman named Linda, who instantly recognizes our Midwestern accents and tells us that she, too, is from the Heartland.
Linda leads us upstairs, and a moment later, we are getting settled in the most lavish dressing area, being offered mimosas and champagne. Everyone accepts, including me—with plans to give Scottie my glass—and we begin to peruse the gowns. Linda asks me to point out anything I love, but encourages me to keep an open mind about all styles. “You really have to try things on,” she keeps repeating.
For the next two hours, I try on more than a dozen gowns in every style, from chic, simple sheath dresses to the most poufy Cinderella ball gowns with freakishly long trains. I try chiffon, silk, crepe, satin, organza, lace, tulle, and even ostrich feathers. Every dress is beautiful, but, like at Kleinfeld, nothing stands out to me. That is, until I get to the very last one—a simple silk empire waist gown (just as Amy predicted) in a Regency style that reminds me of something straight out of a Jane Austen novel. As Linda zips me up, my mother gasps, my sister tears up, and Scottie reads my mind, calling me a modern-day Elizabeth Bennet.
“What do you think?” Linda says. She’s looking at me intently, the way she has with every gown so far, poker-faced until I’ve stated my opinion.
“I love it,” I say under my breath, thinking that the dress, with its cut, would definitely still fit in January, maybe even February or March.
“Oh my God,” my mom says. “You have to get it. I don’t care how much it costs. Your dad and I will make it work.”
