I’m clearly hallucinating. I pick up my coffee cup and look inside at the dark brown matter. Is coffee a hallucinogenic now? Did the DEA reclassify it in the last month? I take a sip anyway.
“Dad’s gettingmarried?” I ask finally. Dubiously.
My dad isn’t the kind of guy that goes and marries someone. I mean, that’s why he and Mom got divorced. It’s why they’re both perpetually single. Love is family. Sex is fleeting. Marriage is a sham.
It’s the Hutchinson way. We don’t find The One. We find family. And we find lovers. They aren’t ever the same person—and we’re better off for it. We’rehappy.
“Are you sure?” I ask, trying to muffle my laugh. I mean, last time I checked, hell had not frozen over.
“Yes, Ash. Next month,” she says, almost annoyed at my incompetence. And then, just like this is regular old news on par with the world getting warmer and corrupt politics, she adds, “You should have gotten the invitation.”
I look to Em. She can read my expression like the blurb of a book. She’s gotten the entire rundown of my brain in a simple eye-bugging stare. She grabs my hand on the counter and squeezes it. Reassuring me thatYes, I’ll be your date. Of course. And we can debrief this batshit crazy idea later. As the warmth from Em’s hand spreads from my fingers to my brain, warming me up, hell is alive and kicking. And I’m living in it.
“Right. Of course. The wedding invitation. To Dad’s wedding. Which I knew about, obviously.” I make a strange sound I hope comes off as a carefree laugh as I move my coffee mug off the pile of envelopes that I’ve been using as a coaster, the multiple dark-stained rings reminding me I’ve been avoiding this pile for a long time. I sift through envelopes I will never open until I find a cream-colored one addressed to me in hand-paintedcalligraphy. The one Mom gave me when I saw her last. It’s all becoming clear now.
“I thought I sent my RSVP weeks ago,” I say, continuing to play the game. There’s a long pause and I’m not sure she’s buying it. I don’t ask, and instead wait her out.
“I’ll just text your dad to let him know you’re coming,” she says and goes quiet for a moment. For someone so hip for her age, she’s the world’s slowest texter. Usually, this annoys me. Today, I’m grateful for the silence it provides.
I look up to see Emily busying herself in the kitchen, turning our breakfast into brunch with Bloody Marys. She is a good friend.
“Who are you bringing?” she says, still typing, I assume.
“Emily,” I say, without thinking twice. Mom laughs through the phone. That’s her way of confirming that of course she’s RSVPing for us both. Em gives me a thumbs-up.
“I’m flying solo,” she says, offering up this information like I asked for it. I didn’t. Because I know she’s going to say, “No need to involve anyone I’m involved with. I don’t need to be giving them any ideas about a future. Can you imagine?” I can hear her shudder on the other end.
Now that is the kind of reaction I expect from my parents. Not collecting RSVPs for table placements for weddings.
“Done,” she says, exasperated.
My phone pings seconds later. It’s from my dad. The time stamp on the prior message is from months ago.
Glad you’re coming to the wedding. Want money for a dress? Love, Dad and Keeley.
It hits me again.
My dad.
Is getting married.
To a random woman namedKeeley.
Marriage. Until mere minutes ago, I didn’t think my family bought into that institution anymore. I think back to fifteen years ago, when I was in high school and I caught Dad cheating on Mom, and how devastatingly heartbroken I was for those few days before Mom finally confronted me and I had to be the one to tell her. For a moment, she was eerily calm when she told me it was okay that Dad was “being intimate” with Alice, the receptionist (he’s so cliché, I know). She said she loved my dad with her whole heart. And that we’re family—we’ll always be family. Love is family.
Sex, she said, is about chemistry. And it’s fleeting.
She spoke so highly of my dad and their love—a love so unconditional, not even extramarital sex could ruin it. And when a love is as great as theirs, it’s beyond sex, she said.
I admit, I was skeptical as fuck. And with good reason because as it turns out, Mom’s compassion was also fleeting.
That’s when all hell broke loose in the Hutchinson household. And subsequently when Mom started writing her bestselling book. And the motto women across the world have adopted as their own. Myself included.
“Okay, I’ve got to run. Love you,” Mom says and hangs up.
“What the actual fuck?” I say, just as a Bloody Mary appears in front of me. I discard the half-drunken coffee and take a sip of the spiked tomato juice. Not strong enough. I reach my hand out expectantly and Em slides over the Tito’s bottle. I top mine up with more vodka.
“I did not have this on my bingo card for our summer,” Em says, sliding in the seat next to me and holding out her Bloody Mary. I top hers up as well. We each take a long sip in silence. Then another.
