“I’m disappointed I won’t meet him today.”
“I am too. We packed a lot into this week and couldn’t justify losing so many days of wedding planning.”
My Gram’s eyebrows knit together. “Dear, it’s still five months away.”
“Yes, but all the lists said we’re beginning six months late.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Those timelines are for old fuddy duddies. Booking venues and vendors are the only thing you need to do ASAP.”
“Also guest lists,” I point out. “Something we overlooked because we struggled with a theme.”
“A theme,” Gram snorts. “In my day, we didn’t talk about fancy themes. We just planned a wedding. No complication necessary.”
Dad gives me a pointed look. I chuckle.
“Okay,” Mom says. “Let’s talk about lists. Here’s what Gram and I worked out, though we’re still thinking about it. We don’t want to forget anyone.”
The front door opens. There’s really only one person it could be. Half a minute later, my sister walks into the dining room. I glance up long enough to meet Edna’s eyes, but then turn myattention back to this list. I don’t have enough time to fight with herandattend to the guest list on this trip.
“Who’s Michael Fusco?” I ask.
“Your cousin,” Mom answers.
“Oh yeah? Why have I never heard of him?”
“I went to their wedding when you two were still in strollers. Eddy cried the entire wedding.”
I smirk. “Have we seen them since?”
“No.”
I cross the name off.
“Etna!”
“I’m not inviting someone I’ve not seen in the last twenty-four years, Ma.”
“He’s family,” she insists.
“I had to ask who he was!”
We have this same argument three more times with some distant cousins or long-lost great aunt’s nieces or some shit.
After an hour, I pass the list to Gram. “Don’t let Ma add random names. I’m going to refill our drinks.”
Gram winks at me. “I’ll try.”
I grab her mug and my mother’s glass and head into the kitchen. Gram was drinking tea, so I put the teakettle back on the burner. I pull out another mug from the cabinet and then add tea bags to both.
After filling Mom’s glass with sparkling water, I fill another with tap before turning to look at my sister, who’s been standing in the kitchen door since I walked in. I watch her as I drink.
“I’m sorry,” Edna says.
I take another sip.
“I acted like a jerk at Christmas.”
“You did,” I agree. “Why?”
