by Jenny Han
“Ha ha,” I said. “Very funny.” It wasn’t like I really cared what he wore. I just wanted him to figure it out and let me know so I could check it off my list.
Drumming his fingers on the table, he said, “I was thinking white shirts and khaki shorts. Nice and simple, like we said.”
“Okay.”
Jeremiah gulped his beer. “Hey, can we dance to ‘You Never Can Tell’ at the reception?”
“I don’t know that song,” I said.
“Sure you do. It’s from my favorite movie. Hint: we had the soundtrack on repeat in our frat house media room all semester.” When I still stared at him blankly, Jeremiah sang, “It was a teenage wedding and the old folks wished them well.”
“Oh, yeah. Pulp Fiction.”
“So can we?”
“Are you serious?”
“Come on, Bells. Be a sport. We can put it on YouTube. I bet we’ll get a shit ton of hits. It’ll be funny!”
I gave him a look. “Funny? You want our wedding to be funny?”
“Come on. You’re making all the decisions, and all I want is this one thing,” he said, pouting, and I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. Either way, it pissed me off. Plus, I was still pissed he hadn’t made it in time to help me at Michaels.
The server came by with our food, and Jeremiah dug right in to his lobster roll.
“What other decisions have I made?” I asked him.
“You decided that the cake was going to be carrot,” he reminded me, mayonnaise dripping down his chin. “I like chocolate cake.”
“I don’t want to be the one making all the decisions! I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“Then I’ll help more. Just tell me what to do. Hey, I’ve got an idea. What if the wedding was Tarantino themed?” he said.
“Yeah, what if,” I said sourly. I stabbed a scallop with my fork.
“You could be the Bride like in Kill Bill.” He looked up from his plate. “Kidding, kidding. But this whole thing is still gonna be pretty chill, right? We said we just wanted it to be casual.”
“Yeah, but people still need to, like, eat.”
“Don’t worry about the food and stuff. My dad will hire somebody to take care of all that.”
I could feel irritation start to prickle beneath my skin like a heat rash. I let out a short breath. “It’s easy for you to say don’t worry. You’re not the one planning our wedding.”
Jeremiah put down his sandwich and sat up straight. “I told you I’d help. And like I said, my dad will take care of a lot of it.”
“I don’t want him to,” I said. “I want us to do it together. And joking about Quent Tarantino movies doesn’t really count as helping.”
“It’s Quentin,” Jeremiah corrected.
I shot him a dirty look.
“I wasn’t joking about the first dance,” he said. “I still think it would be cool. And Bells, I have been doing stuff. I figured out what to do for music. My buddy Pete deejays on the weekends. He said he’d bring his speakers and just hook up his iPod and take care of the whole thing. He already has the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, by the way.”
Jeremiah raised his eyebrows at me comically. I knew he was waiting for a laugh or at least a smile. And I was about to give in, just so this fight could be over and I could eat my scallops without feeling angry, when he said innocently, “Oh, wait, did you want to check with Taylor first? See if she’d be okay with it?”
I glared at him. He needed to quit with the jokes and start acting a lot more appreciative, because Taylor was the one who was actually helping, unlike him. “I don’t need to check with her on this. It’s a dumb idea, and it’s not happening.”
Jeremiah whistled under his breath. “All righty, Bridezilla.”
“I’m not a Bridezilla! I don’t even want to do any of this. You do it.”
He stared at me. “What do you mean, you don’t want to do any of this?”
My heart was beating really fast all of a sudden. “I mean the planning. I don’t want to do any of this stupid planning. Not the actual getting married part. I still want to do that.”
“Good. Me too.” He reached across the table, plucked a scallop off my plate, and popped it into his mouth.
I stuffed the last scallop into my mouth before he could take that, too. Then I grabbed a bunch of fries off of his plate, even though I had fries of my own.
“Hey,” he said with a frown. “You’ve got your own fries.”
“Yours are crispier,” I said, but really it was more out of spite. I wondered—the rest of our lives, was Jeremiah going to try and eat my last scallop or my last bite of steak? I liked finishing all the food on my plate—I wasn’t one of those girls who left a few bites behind just to be polite.
I had a fry in my mouth when Jeremiah asked, “Has Laurel called at all?”
I swallowed. Suddenly I wasn’t so hungry anymore. “No.”
“She must have gotten the invite by now.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, hopefully she’ll call this week,” Jere said, stuffing the rest of his lobster roll into his mouth. “I mean, I’m sure she will.”
“Hopefully,” I said. I sipped on my iced tea and added, “Our first dance can be ‘You Never Can Tell’ if you really want.”
Jere pumped his fist in the air. “See, that’s why I’m marrying you!”
A smile creeped across my face. “Because I’m generous?”
“Because you’re very generous, and you get me,” he said, taking back a few of his fries.
When we got back to the house, Conrad’s car was gone.
chapter thirty-five
CONRAD
I would rather have had someone shoot me in the head with a nail gun, repeatedly, than have to watch the two of them cuddling on the couch together all night. After they went to dinner, I got in my car and drove to Boston. As I drove, I thought about not going back to Cousins. Screw it. It would be easier that way. Halfway home, I made up my mind that yeah, that would be for the best. An hour from home, I decided, screw them, I had as much right to be there as they did. I still needed to clean out the gutters, and I was pretty sure I’d seen a wasp nest in the drainpipe. There was all kinds of stuff I needed to take care of. I couldn’t just not go back.
Around midnight, I was sitting at the kitchen table in my boxer shorts eating cereal when my dad walked in, still wearing his work suit. I didn’t even know he was home.
He didn’t look surprised to see me. “Con, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He sat down across from me with his glass of bourbon. In the dim light of the kitchen, my father looked like an old man. His hair was thinning on top, and he’d lost weight, too much weight. When did he get so old? In my mind he was always thirty-seven.
My dad cleared his throat. “What do you think I should do about this thing with Jeremiah? I mean, is he really set on it?”
“Yeah, I think he is.”
“Laurel’s really torn up about it. She’s tried everything, but the kids aren’t listening. Belly ran off, and now they aren’t even talking to each other. You know how Laurel can get.”
This was all news to me. I didn’t know they weren’t speaking to each other.
My dad sipped from his glass. “Do you think there’s anything I can do? To put an end to it?”
For once I actually agreed with my dad. My feelings for Belly aside, I thought getting married at nineteen was dumb. What was the point? What were they trying to prove?
“You could cut Jere off,” I said, and then I felt like a dick for suggesting it. I added, “But even if you did, he still has the money Mom left him.”
“Most of it’s in a trust.”
“He’s determined. He’ll do it either way.” I hesitated, then added, “Besides, if you pulled something like that, he’d never forgive you.”
My dad got up and poured himself some more bourbon. He sipped it before he said, “I don’t want to lose
him the way I lost you.”
I didn’t know what to say. So we sat there in silence, and right when I finally opened my mouth to say, You haven’t lost me, he stood up.
Sighing heavily, he emptied his glass. “Good night, son.”
“Good night, Dad.”
I watched my father trudge up the stairs, each step heavier than the last—like Atlas with the world on his shoulders. He’d never had to deal with this kind of thing before. He’d never had to be that kind of father. My mom was always there to take care of the hard stuff. Now that she was gone, he was all we had left, and it wasn’t enough.
I had always been the favorite. I was our father’s Jacob, and Jeremiah was Esau. It wasn’t something I’d ever questioned; I’d always assumed it was because I was the firstborn that I came first with my dad. I just accepted it, and so did Jere. But as we got older, I saw that that wasn’t it. It was that he saw himself in me. To our father, I was just a reflection of him. He thought we were so alike. Jere was like our mom, I was like our dad. So I was the one he put all the pressure on. I was the one he funneled all his energy and hope into. Football, school, all of it. I worked hard to meet those expectations, to be just like him.
The first time I realized my father wasn’t perfect was when he forgot my mom’s birthday. He’d been golfing all day with his friends, and he came home late. Jere and I had made a cake and bought flowers and a card. We had everything set up on the dining room table. My dad had had a few beers—I could smell it on him when he hugged me. He said, “Oh shit, I forgot. Boys, can I put my name on the card?” I was a freshman in high school. Late, I know, to figure out your dad isn’t a hero. That was just the first time I remember being disappointed by something he did. After that, I found more and more reasons to be disappointed.
All of that love and pride I had in him, it turned to hate. And then I started to hate myself, who he’d made. Because I saw it too—how alike we were. That scared me. I didn’t want to be the kind of man who cheated on his wife. I didn’t want to be the kind of man who put work before his family, who tipped cheaply at restaurants, who never bothered to learn our housekeeper’s name.
From there on I set out to destroy the picture of me he had in his head. I quit our morning runs before he left for work, I quit the fishing trips, the golf, which I’d never liked anyway. And I quit football, which I loved. He’d gone to all my games, videotaping them so we could watch later and he could point out the places where I’d messed up. Every time there was an article about me in the newspaper, he framed it and hung it in his study.
I quit it all to spite him. Anything that made him proud of me, I took away.
It took me a long time to figure it out. That I was the one who had put my dad on that pedestal. I did that, not him. And then I despised him for not being perfect. For being human.
I drove back to Cousins on Monday morning.
chapter thirty-six
On Monday afternoon Conrad and I were eating outside on the deck. He had grilled chicken and corn for lunch. He hadn’t been kidding when he said all he ever ate was grilled chicken.
“Did Jere tell you what he wants you and Steven to wear for the wedding?” I asked him.
Conrad shook his head, looking confused. “I thought guys just wore suits for weddings.”
“Well, yeah, but you guys are his best men, so you’re all dressing alike. Khaki shorts and white-linen button-down shirts. He didn’t tell you?”
“This is the first I’m hearing about linen shirts. Or being a best man.”
I rolled my eyes. “Jeremiah needs to get on the ball. Of course you’re his best man. You and Steven both are.”
“How can there be two best men? ‘Best’ implies only one.” Biting into his corn on the cob, he said, “Let Steven be it, I don’t care.”
“No! You’re Jeremiah’s brother. You have to be his best man.”
My phone rang as I was explaining to him what being the best man entailed. I didn’t recognize the number, but since the wedding planning had gotten under way, I’d been getting a lot of those.
“Is this Isabel?” I didn’t recognize the voice. She sounded older, like someone my mother’s age. Whoever she was, she had a thick Boston accent.
I said, “Um, this is she. I mean, her.”
“My name is Denise Coletti, I’m calling from Adam Fisher’s office.”
“Oh . . . hello. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Yes, hello. I just need you to okay a few things for your wedding. I’ve selected a catering service called Elegantly Yours; they do events around the area. They’re doing this very last-minute for us; this caterer books months in advance for parties. Is this all right with you?”
Faintly, I said, “Sure.”
Conrad looked at me quizzically, and I mouthed, Denise Coletti. His eyes widened, and he gestured for me to give him the phone. I waved his hand away.
Then Denise Coletti said, “Now, how many people are you expecting?”
“Twenty, if everyone can come.”
“Adam told me more like forty. I’ll check with him.” I could hear her typing. “So probably four to five appetizers a person. Do we want a vegetarian option for the meal?”
“I don’t think Jeremiah and I have any vegetarian friends.”
“All right. Are you going to want to go and do a tasting? I think you probably should.”
“Uh, okay.”
“Wonderful. I’ll book you for next week, then. Now for seating arrangements. Do you want two or three long tables or five round tables?”
“Um . . .” I hadn’t even thought of tables. And what was she talking about, forty? I was wishing I had Taylor next to me to tell me what to do. “Can I get back to you on that?”
Denise let out a little sigh, and I knew I had said the wrong thing. “Sure, but be as quick as you can so I can give them the go-ahead. That’s all for now. I’ll be touching base with you again later this week. Oh, and congratulations.”
“Thank you very much, Denise.”
Next to me, Conrad called out, “Hi, Denise!”
She said, “Is that Connie? Tell him hello from me.”
“Denise says hello,” I told him.
Then she said mazel tov, and we hung up.
“What’s going on?” Conrad asked me. He had a corn kernel stuck on his cheek. “Why is Denise calling you?”
I put my phone down and said, “Um, apparently, your dad’s secretary is our wedding planner now. And we’re inviting forty people instead of twenty.”
Blandly, he said, “That’s good news.”
“How is that good news?”
“It means my dad is okay with you guys getting married. And he’s paying for it.” Conrad started to cut his chicken.
“Huh. Wow.” I stood up. “I’d better call Jere. Wait, it’s the middle of the day. He’s still at work.”
I sat back down.
I probably should have felt relieved that someone else was taking over, but instead I just felt overwhelmed. This wedding was getting a lot bigger than I had imagined it. Now we were renting tables? It was all too much, too sudden.
Across from me, Conrad was buttering another ear of corn. I looked down at my plate. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I felt sick to my stomach.
“Eat,” Conrad said.
I took a small bite of chicken.
I wouldn’t get to talk to Jeremiah until later that evening. But the person I really wanted to talk to was my mother. She would have known how to configure the tables and where to seat everyone. Denise wasn’t the one I wanted to swoop in and tell me what to do, and not Mr. Fisher either, or even Susannah. I only wanted my mother.
chapter thirty-seven
CONRAD
It didn’t really hit me how hard of a time Belly was having until I heard her on the phone with Taylor later that week. She had her door open, and I was brushing my teeth in the hall bathroom.
I heard her say, “Taylor, I really appreciate what your mom is trying to do, but
I promise you, it’s okay. . . . I know, but it would just feel too weird with all the adults from the neighborhood at my wedding shower and then my mom not being there. . . .” I heard her sigh and say, “Yeah, I know. Okay. Tell your mom thanks.”
She closed her door then, and I was pretty sure I heard her start to cry.
I went to my room, lay down on my bed, and stared up at the ceiling.
Belly hadn’t let on to me how sad she was about her mom. She was an upbeat kind of person, naturally cheerful, like Jere. If there was a bright side, Belly would find it. Hearing her cry, it shook me up. I knew I should stay out of it. That was the smart thing to do. She didn’t need me looking out for her. She was a big girl. Besides, what could I do for her?
I was definitely staying out of it.
The next morning, I got up early to see Laurel. It was still dark out when I left. I called her on the way and asked if she could meet for breakfast. Laurel was surprised, but she didn’t ask questions; she said she’d meet me at a diner off the highway.
I guess Laurel had always been special to me. Ever since I was a kid, I just liked being near her. I liked the way you could be quiet around her, and with her. She didn’t talk down to kids. She treated us like equals. After my mom died and I transferred to Stanford, I started calling Laurel every once in a while. I still liked talking to her, and I liked that she reminded me of my mom without it hurting too much. It was like a link to home.
She got to the diner first—she was sitting in a booth waiting for me. “Connie,” she said, standing up and opening her arms. She looked like she’d lost weight.
“Hey, Laur,” I said, hugging her back. She felt gaunt in my arms, but she smelled the same. Laurel always had a clean, cinnamony smell.
I sat down across from her. After we ordered, pancakes and bacon for both of us, she said, “So how have you been?”
“I’ve been all right,” I said, chugging down some juice.
How was I even supposed to broach this subject? This wasn’t my style. It didn’t come naturally to me, the way it would for Jere. I was butting in on something that wasn’t my business. But I had to do it. For her.
