Which is fine,obviously—that’s also all I want, but that means I have to be strong and hold the line and respect everyone’s boundaries and oh my god, it’s so hard to be a person sometimes.
I stare at the ceiling for another ten minutes, then get up, take my phone off my bedroom charger and go put it in the kitchen charger so I don’t have any more good ideas.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JAVIER
September
“I still don’t knowwhy we can’t just email these,” Madeline is saying, her voice a little distorted by speakerphone. “That’s perfectly good etiquette.”
“It’s notdone,” I say, mimicking my mom.
“It absolutely is.”
“Not according to her.”
“The only other person I know who sent snail mail save the dates also had a cotillion, and her wedding got featured inSouthern Bride,” Madeline says. “All the other commoners send email.”
“I didn’t know you mingled with high society.”
“I’m pretty fancy. Couldn’t you tell?”
“I thought it was just your couch,” I say without thinking as I adjust a font size for the zillionth time and then freeze because why am I bringing up her fancy couch? What the hell?
Over the past few weeks, we’ve managed to exchange texts and a few phone calls about our parents’ wedding without ever mentioning…anything else.
“Couches take on the characteristics of their owners. Like pets,” she says, breezing right past it, and I exhale.
“Okay.Please save the date for the wedding of Paloma Rivera to Gerald Williams, Saturday, February Seventeenth, in Virginia Beach, Virginia, invitation to follow.That’s all we need, right?”
I hear typing over the phone, followed by a moment of silence. “I think so,” she says. “That’s what all the save the dates on Google have.”
“I thought you were a fancy wedding expert.”
“Just fancy,” she says, laughing. “Though I was sort of my mom’s maid of honor when she got remarried, but it was at city hall, so it wasn’t the whole shebang. She didn’t even have flowers for me to hold.”
I snap a picture of my computer screen, because I’m lazy, and send it to her. Since I’m the one getting a degree in graphic design, I got nominated to graphically design all the invitation stuff, and Madeline volunteered to figure out the printing logistics.
It means we talk on the phone sometimes or text back and forth, and I ask her inane questions like which of two near-identical fonts she likes better. I tell myself that it’s all because I’m a helpful son who’s helping my mom. If I spend a significant amount of mental energy onnotthinking about Madeline, well, that’s my business.
“Looks good to me,” she says after a moment. “Not that I’m an expert or anything, but I like it. Once your mom gives the go-ahead, I’ll get them printed and sent.”
“Great,” I say.
“Great,” she says, and then it’s quiet for a moment. “So…”
There’s a brief pause, and the only thing I can think is:Not yet.
“When do we need invitations by?” I blurt out, even though I know it’s not for a while.
“Good question. Um, that giant crazy checklist I found says the wording and graphics need to be finalized eight weeks in advance and then printed at least seven weeks in advance so the bride has time to hand-address them all, and-slash-or get them to the calligrapher? Please tell me she’s letting us use mail merge.”
“I’ll ask,” I say. “What size are invitations supposed to be? Does your crazy list say that?”
“Google is free,” she says, but she’s laughing.
It’s another hour before we hang up.
