"Really, guys. It's not necessary. Cal's not going to base the dowry on the flower boxes. It will be the size of the meatballs."
"Oh, okay. I'll have to make them bigger," Mom replied.
No one had ever been this serious about meatball size.
"Oh my god," I whispered. "That was a joke. I'm going to be thirty-six and dowries don't exist in today's society and the flower boxes do not matter at all. Sure, get the good wine because Sophia won't complain about it all night and yeah, make those meatballs as big as a planet because that sounds awesome but please don't do anything different on account of Cal coming to dinner."
There was a pause filled only by the distant sound of the eighties music my mother played in the kitchen. Then, "Stella Marie, we are not putting up with your comedy routine," she snapped. "Now, your father and I need to discuss the fuckin' front yard. We'll talk to you later. Love you. Goodnight."
And with that, my parents hung up on me. But I'd bet anything they were still talking on the phone, a dial tone vibrating between them as they spoke from inside the same house. Because I was a glutton for punishment and still confused about my parents' reaction to my guest, I opened a group text with my sisters.
There was no sense in calling them. Not unless I wanted to listen to dogs barking, children crying, and significant others yelling in the background.
No, I was maxed out on all counts.
Stella: Hey. I'm bringing a guy to dinner next weekend.
Sophia: Flinn is not a guy. He's the little boy who works for you.
Serina: What she said.
Stella: Not Flinn…why does everyone assume it's Flinn?
Serina: Because he's the only man who's been in your life for more than a hot second.
Sophia: Only one we've met since (ahem) you know who.
We didn't speakmy ex-fiancé's name. I wasn't sure when that tradition started but I liked it. I kept it going.
Stella: Right well it's not Flinn. His name is Cal.
Serina: Age/location/profession
Stella: Early 40s, Beacon Hill near Charles Street, cardiothoracic surgeon.
Serina: Winner, winner…
Sophia: How long?
Serina: She's not asking about penis length. You can give me that info in a separate text.
Sophia: Why do straight women mythologize the penis? It's the ugliest, most bizarre, unreliable organ.
Stella: This one's reliable. It's really reliable. It's pictured in the dictionary next to the definition of reliable.
Serina repliedwith a string of heart eyes, praise hands, and drooling faces. Thank god for emojis.
Sophia: I'm just going to say this. My strap-on doesn't get performance anxiety.
Serina: Oh my god stop talking about your damn strap-on.
Stella: Back to the topic at hand. It's been a couple of months.
That wasn'tthe most accurate accounting of our relationship but my sisters were tough nuts to crack. I didn't want them looking at my relationship with Cal as something new and insignificant. To them—happily married women going on years of wedded bliss—two months was nothing. And I couldn't bear it if they brushed off Cal as nothing.
Cal wasn't nothing. He was my—
Holy shit, Stellllllllllla.
