“And you’ll think about going to that wedding?”
“If I get an invitation, I’ll think about it.” I wish I couldstopthinking about it.
“Call us back when you’re free. Your dad texted that he saw some new bird this morning, and we all know you’ll appreciate that story more than I will.”
It was a cerulean warbler. Earlier this morning, Dad sent me a blurry picture of a tree branch, along with a string of barely coherent texts littered with f-bombs. I know better than to call him when he’s bird-watching. He doesn’t like to talk much in the first place, but especially not when it might scare the birds away. Still, I’m sure he’d love to debrief about it with someone who understands the excitement of seeing a new species. Especially a bird that’s hard to spot, and whose old-growth deciduous canopy habitat is in decline thanks to Minnesota’s history of overharvesting timber—
Adingdong “doors closing”from the train station reminds me I’m trying to get Mom off the phone. “Yeah, I’ll call when I can.”
“You’re so busy! I’m so proud of you! My babygi—adult person, a lawyer! You’re gonna save the world from climate change one day!” Step three: the shower of love—the longest part of her goodbye if I let her keep going. At least she’s getting better about the gendered pet names in this part.
“Thanks, Mom.” I’m not busy, nor will I save the world from climate change. I mean, Ikeepbusy, buried in books and case studies. Exams are next week, marking the unofficial completion of my Juris Doctorate. The bigger time suck has been studying for the bar exam in July, after which I start as an associate attorney at the environmental law firm where I did an internship last year. I won’t be hired officially until I get my results, so I can’t afford to slack off.
What matters is passing the bar, not the degree. That’s the end goal. That’s when I can start my life again. Until then, I can’t afford distractions. These monthly brunches are the only social activity I’ve allowed myself since moving here.
Mom makes that hum again, and I panic for a second that she’s going to say something else, but it’s just the final step of our goodbye. “I miss you, and I love you, and I hope you have a wonderful day!”
“Love you too.” I make myself smile for her sake. “Say hi to Dad for me.”
Mom makes kissy noises until I finally hang up. I love her, but I’m definitely my father’s kid. Luckily, she doesn’t take our lack of enthusiastic affection personally. She knows I’m more reserved, albeit not as much as Dad. His excitement for birds is far more exuberant than his love for us, even as devoted as he is. We all meet each other halfway.
My tiny, cluttered studio feels enormous without Mom’s voice coming through the phone. The quiet aches; I can never fill a space the way she so effortlessly does. Mom is a lot, and not always everything I need, but I miss her and Dad and home and Matt and Allie more than I could ever have imagined.
Which makes the charming pink envelope on the coffee table all the more jarring, a siren song beckoning me back to a life that’s no longer mine.
I should get ready to leave. If I’m too late to brunch, I’m gonna get stuck sitting next to Eris, instead of someone capable of pleasant conversation, and I’d rather enjoy my only social excursion for the month. I should get up, change into something cooler and gayer than my tank top and joggers, and not think about this damn wedding.
But what if Mom was right? What if this invite is sincere, and not a gesture of disingenuous pity, like I assumed when it arrived four months after everyone else’s? What if Matt’sparents (or, more likely, Allie’s bitchy sister) quietly removed my invite from the stack?
Matt and Allie both still text daily in the group chat that’s just the three of us. Ever since the wedding invites went out to everyone but me, I’ve only responded when they ask me something directly.
That they announced their engagement via group text after the holidays, a mere week after I returned to Chicago, was painful enough. I tried not to take it personally; they’re conflict avoidant, like me. I rationalized it as them giving me room to process the news in private. But not even getting an invitation? That cut deep. What else could I do, when they apparently didn’t want me in their life anymore? I pulled away.
If Matt and Allie thought they already sent an invitation, what have they thought about me these past four months? Do they think I’m pulling away from them because I’m upset? Because I don’t want them to get married? Because I don’t love them anymore?
With a heavy sigh, I pick up the envelope, tearing an ugly gash through the pretty, perfect, pink paper.
Two
Brunch
PuttingmyIDaway,I scan the crowd for Adrienne. Tucked away in a courtyard behind the bar, the buzzing patio is bright with late-morning sun. The scar tissue in my bum knee aches, I’m hot, and I can’t quite catch my breath after walking so fast in a binder. Or perhaps the anxiety sitting heavy in my chest, made worse by the sinking dread that I’m late to brunch, is what’s really restricting my breathing.
Both the pain and the panic are my own damn fault. After opening the envelope, I spiraled, staring into the middle distance for far too long, then practically ran here after throwing on jeans and a plain black t-shirt (neither cool nor particularly gay). Being late was inevitable; I shouldn’t have rushed.
Spotting Adrienne’s shiny scalp on the far side of the patio, I curse myself for opening the damn envelope. I’m technically early; the show always starts fifteen minutes late. But I’m late enough that there’s only one open seat left at the table.
Right across from Eris fucking Garcia.
It shouldn’t matter. It’s only a few minutes of painfully awkward small talk with the only weirdo I don’t click with. We’re outside, and there are only six of us; I could sit quietly and listen to Dream, the resident extrovert, talk. But Eris is like an accident on the freeway that I can’t keep from rubbernecking as I pass.
I linger at the edge of the patio, squinting in the sunlight, peeking under the umbrellas that never provide enough shade. The temptation to say I didn’t see them is strong. Then I could run home and finish my existential crisis in peace. Or better yet, bury it in case studies. That’s worked well enough the last two years.
But Adrienne spots me first. “Blake!” She waves an unfairly buff arm, gold bangles gleaming against her deep ebony skin. “Over here!”
I wave back, forcing a smile as I make my way to the table. “Hey everyone!”
“Everyone” consists of one extrovert, Dream, and the five shut-ins she’s collected. The first is Dream’s wife, Adrienne, my friend from law school who immediately clocked me as a fellow queer and sat by me in every class. She claims to have social anxiety, but she’s more my security blanket than I am hers. If I hadn’t been heartbroken when we met, and she hadn’t immediately dropped a “my wife” into the conversation, I probably would have fallen for her real quick. She’s buff as hell, shaves her head to the scalp, wears a lot of pretty jewelry, and always has on these high-neck tank tops that make her shoulders look massive. She’s all-around gorgeous.
