Lauren leaned toward me, and stage-whispered, "She has wedding fever."
"I do not have wedding fever," Andy said, holding out her glass for a refill. "I happen to enjoy weddings, and all the beautiful things that go into them. It's the one time that people are completely fanciful in their decision-making, and I dig that shit."
"Oh, you'll love this," Lauren said, dropping her hand on Andy's arm. "One of the teachers at my school is getting married over the summer, and the whole thing is Harry Potter-themed. I saw the mock-up of her invitations today. So cute. I didn't tell her that you'd want to steal it because brides want everything to be unique to them, but I wanted to snatch a copy for your super-secret wedding pin board."
While Lauren and Andy discussed the details of a wizarding wedding, I pushed back my panic once again. I knew I wouldn't be able to conquer any of it until I cut the strings on my up-and-down relationship with my parents. To be fair, it was mostly down, but my father made a point of calling and sending regular emails, and I counted those gestures as ups.
Even if they were loaded with passive-aggressive guilt trips.
My first instinct was to pass on the Thanksgiving invitation. I wanted to interpret it as a lukewarm peace offering, but I knew it was nothing more than an inspection. My parents wanted to get a look at my fiancé, and it didn't matter whether he was Gandhi, JJ Watt, and Bill Gates rolled into one incredible package because they'd find fault somewhere. As the polish dried on my toes and Andy continued gushing about the fun she'd have planning a Harry Potter wedding, I started wondering whether I had it all wrong.
Years of self-preservation taught me that I was better when I had some distance from them. I doubted myself less, and their dismissive comments owned less real estate in my mind. But I was beginning to believe it was time for me to go home and turn in my Disappointing Daughter card.
After Lauren, Andy, and I parted with promises to meet for lunch soon, and devised some aggressive plans to get Shannon out of the office, Sam and I grabbed a late dinner at a trendy taqueria that we loved. Though I knew he was itching to ask whether we were headed to New Jersey later this month, I didn't want to discuss it in a crowded restaurant. Our best conversations were the ones we had in bed. It wasn't about sex; it was the shelter of intimacy that we'd created, and I craved our cocoon.
"How was class today?" Sam asked.
We were tucked close together at the bar, our elbows bumping as we traded pots of guacamole, chimichurri, and tomatillo salsa. Somewhere in recent months, we adopted some new eateries and watering holes as our favored spots, and redefined our preferred activities. We still enjoyed plenty of live music, but I didn't feel as though my soul was withering if we missed a few shows anymore.
I shrugged and took a bite of my taco before responding. "Good."
He peered at me over the rim of his glasses, his eyebrow raised and his lips twitching into a smile. "Seriously, Tiel. Turn down the enthusiasm."
I avoided Sam's eyes, instead busying myself with the guacamole.
I truly believed that I was going to grow into my new role any day. It was everything that I wanted: days spent teaching and researching music therapy at the collegiate level, and a respectable salary and benefits. It was a sensible, stable job.
But that sensible, stable job forced me to cut way back on private music sessions with my little buddies, and the pressure to get tenured was suffocating. My YouTube posts had slowed to a trickle. There were days when my violin workouts—I was deep into Bach's solo repertoire, a body of work that was so rich and transcendent that I often found myself discovering new nooks and crannies with each attempt—felt uninspired. Where I once had an endless well of research topics in mind, the pail was now coming up empty. I figured I'd get the hang of it all before the fall term ended, and if I didn't, there was always time to reboot during the spring term.
It was nothing more than an adjustment period. After many years spent in grad student mode, my brain was still trying to catch up to tenure-track professor mode. I was going to get through this, I knew it.
Sam pressed his knee into my thigh, and said, "Talk to me. Total honesty, remember?"
"Itwasa good class," I conceded. "We discussed interventional models, and I love getting into the different structures available because students at this level tend to think therapy is a never-ending prescription, which is clearly ridiculous because any treatment should succeed intreatingand remedying the issue."
"If it's ever not a good class, you'll tell me. Right?"
"Definitely," I said. "And how was your day, darling?"
Sam cringed, and laughed as he handled the bill. "I told you about Matt's engineering episode. Aside from that special moment, I'm looking forward to this project. It's a beautiful Second Empire-style Victorian property out in Brookline. It's the perfect chunk of land for sustainable design, and now that Riley's running the entire Turlan restoration with minimal supervision, I can focus on this."
I swirled my straw around my water glass. "Why are you guys so hard on him?"
"Riley?" Sam asked, and I nodded. He frowned, scratched his chin, and stared at the bottles of tequila lined up on the bar. "We're notthathard on him."
"Maybe you don't notice it," I said. "But it's no fun being the fuck-up, and I'm speaking from experience."
"We don't…" His voice trailed off and he frowned again, deeper this time.
"Think about it," I said, running my hand over his shoulders. "I know that busting each other's balls is in your DNA and it's all hate-love with you guys, but Riley gets it the most."
Sam tapped his credit card on the bar for a few seconds before nodding and replacing it in his wallet. "Do you think he's…"
"Hurt? Emotionally damaged? Suffering from low self-esteem?" I asked. "No. None of the above. He doesn't let much bother him—at least I don't think so—and he's really laid back. But he doesn't have to reprise the role of black sheep every day, either."
"Good," Sam murmured. "Emotionally damaged is my shtick. There's no room for him in this corner."
"Your humor is remarkably dark," I said. "Now take me home. I need some snuggletime."
