“Not in this neighborhood,” I said.
Brea went over to the trunk and carefully opened it, revealing the writing desk and several drawers. “Look at that patina on the leather,” she said reverently. Then she sighed. “I literally don’t have anywhere to put it.”
“You know,” I said, rocking on my heels, “you could always move in with me. The penthouse is feeling awfully empty without you there.” I held up a hand against her protests. “I know you think it’s weird to move in together, but I have a convincing argument.”
Brea raised an eyebrow. “Let’s hear it.”
“One: this is New York City, and you go on two dates and move in together because rent is so expensive. It’s culturally acceptable. Two: you wouldn’t move in tomorrow, because I know we need to decorate. My mom just did my cousin Grant’s apartment, and it was a six-month ordeal—mainly because of Mrs. Patel’s complaining, but still. Three: I’m lost without you. You make life fun and enjoyable. And the most important and most convincing argument is that four, I love you.”
Brea smiled at me. “I love you too. And that is a very convincing set of arguments.” She wrapped her arms around me. I bent down to kiss her, feeling myself relax and sink into how right it was that I was with Brea.
“Just one thing,” she said, resting her head against my chest. “My parents are going to want me to take several antiques and three of the Roombas with me.”
“That I can agree to.”
“We have to have a special place of honor for that trunk,” Brea continued.
“Yeah, and out of Beowulf’s chewing distance. I paid almost a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for that thing.”
Brea sank to the floor, and I pulled her up.
“What the hell, Mark? You severely overpaid. I am not taking you to estate sales with me ever. You suck at antiquing.”
* * *
The cocktail hour stretched on,and we snacked and drank as Brea had to retell the story of the almost-birth to multiple people.
The reception kicked off with a short speech from Uncle Walter. Then came the food. Grace had a videographer on her team, and Ivy directed everyone to give their speeches to the camera so Liz and Wes could watch it later.
Without the bride and groom there, it felt more like a casual party than a wedding reception. The two of them were a hot topic of conversation. It also sparked many of the women attendees to start swapping war stories about their childbirth experiences. After hearing how my mom’s sister’s uterus fell out of her and onto the floor, I was about done.
“Definitely not eating any smoked salmon after that story,” Brea said as we fled from my family. The smell of spicy cheese wafted over to us as we walked past the buffet stations.
“I can’t believe you put the nacho station all the way over here,” I joked to her.
“It could not be in the wedding pictures,” she said. “Besides, look at the type of person it attracts. It’s only been like four hours since the ceremony, and someone has already changed into sweatpants!”
As we approached, I blinked in the low light.
“What the fuck?” Brea exclaimed before I could say it.
There was Liz at the nacho station. She had stuck her whole plate under the nacho cheese fountain and had a spoon in hand, ready to eat. In addition to the loose sweatpants, she wore a T-shirt that said KISS THE BRIDE.
“Oh my God, Mark,” she said around a mouthful of chips and queso. “I take back all the terrible things I said about the nacho station. This is literally the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I am starving. Also, yes to canned cheese. Fondue cheese would not have been as satisfying.”
“Uhhh, Liz?” Brea said, sounding as stunned as I felt.
“Oh gosh,” Liz said, cheese sauce dripping down her chin. “The baby came right as I got to the hospital. Apparently I have wide birthing hips. I always hated my big ass, but then who knew the baby would just slide right out? I begged to leave because of my wedding. They tested her, then they were just like, ‘Yeah, you can go.’ I told you I was not missing my reception! I just have to go back for some follow-up care tomorrow.”
“I’m shocked that you’re up and walking.”
“I’m very food motivated,” Liz said, spooning more cheese into her mouth. “It was like I was telling Wes. He tried to argue with me about leaving, but they tried to give me dried toast, and I was like, ‘Fuck that.’” Liz gestured with a chip to her new husband.
Wes was huddled in a corner, a small baby strapped to his chest in a colorful sling. He looked shell-shocked.
“Dude, congrats,” Grant told him, loping over with the rest of Mark’s family.
“You’re an uncle,” Wes said weakly.
