“And even my support group didn’t get it. It was for ‘young women,’ but in cancer terms, that means under fifty. They had kids or they had already decided not to have kids. They’re married. They got to at least use their breasts before they lost them. I’ll never breastfeed. I won’t get to see my own cleavage at my own wedding, ifthatever happens. I’m pissed off. Furious.” Steam is probably billowing out of my ears.
Louise sits back, satisfied. “Very good, Gem.”
“You think this is good?”
“I think you have every right to be pissed off. It’s a shit deal.”
“It is,” I confirm, planting my hands on my armrests. “I have a list—it’s very simple. Three things I need to do to be able to move on, figuratively speaking.”
“A bucket list?”
“More of a Be Yourself list.”
“My counselor keeps badgering me about my bucket list.”
I fidget with my collar. “My group talked a lot about bucket lists. I never could bring myself to write down something dumb like,oh pretty please let me see the ocean one last time.”
Louise’s eyes narrow like she can see right through me. “Maybe you’re just scared of what it means to have a bucket list.”
“Oh.” I laugh: a flimsy, nervous sound. “I’m not scared. It’s just, why do I need a bucket list? I’m not dying.” At least, right now I’m not.
“My counselor tells me it’s more about living with intentionality. Making the time you’re here meaningful. However long it lasts.”
The air is heavy, laden with all the things I painstakingly avoid, lest I have a panic attack in a stranger’s mansion. Though, this would be the ritziest panic attack locale yet, that’s for sure. I suck in a breath, resetting myself into something happy and palatable. “When were you diagnosed?—”
“I’m here!” Penelope shouts from somewhere inside this cavernous mansion. “Sosorry I’m late, Aunt Lou,” she effuses as she flits into the parlor, carrying a Saks shopping bag.
“It’s okay, hun.” Louise smiles as Penelope arranges herself on the chair opposite mine.
“I’m here, too,” Calliope mumbles, following her sister in, giving Louise a quick peck on the cheek.
“Your friend and I were just getting to know each other.”
“Ruby’s the best, isn’t she?” Penelope says, genuinely sounding like she means it. My chest opens, puffing up with the praise. “I hope you started without me.” Penelope takes a long sip from an iced Starbucks the size of her face.
I look between Pen and Louise for a minute. “Start…?”
“The presentation, silly! Well, no worries. You wanted to wait for me. You can start now!” Pen watches me expectantly. I stare at her. Is she asking me tolead this meeting? I was invited two hours ago! Is this actually a nightmare in which I have to lead a meeting I didn’t know existed (in my underwear)? I play back our conversation, and can’t quite pinpoint a moment where she explicitly askedcan you lead this wedding planning meeting for me?But at the same time, she didn’t explicitlynotask.
Ruby’s the bestechoes in my ears. Iamthe best. I’m a great friend. I’ll be the greatest friend she’s ever had.
“Uh.” I gulp like a background fish in Spongebob. “Yeah…let’s see.” I pull my folded print out from my dress’s pocket and straighten the curling corners, flattening the sweaty crease. Well, if I had known this was what she wanted, I would have printedtwocopies of this. I slowly step toward Louise, half-heartedly handing her the document. She takes it and perches a pair of magenta reading glasses on her nose that hang on a beaded lanyard around her neck.
“Today we’re deciding on the photographer, band, and florist,” I read over Louise’s shoulder. There’s a bulletedexecutive summary at the top. Miri really did plan this wonderfully.
Louise hums.
“The photographer—” I prompt, gently turning the first page to the other side, where there are two options for photographers. “This first one…” Miri included three example photos for each and bullets on their specialties. “Is classic. Strong in artificial lighting, posing, and composition.” The wedding party posed on the bed of the bridal suite, petals exploding all around the lens. A perfectly staged extended family photo in front of the altar. The bride and groom framed in profile with a setting sun illuminating the space between them.
“The second one is a more artistic choice.” The images are full of movement, shadow, and interesting composition choices. A sly glance in a mirror while a bride gets ready. A first dance that lets you feel the movement of the twirl. A golden shadow dancing over the groom’s face as he sees his bride for the first time. “Background in fine art photography, documentarian style, prefers natural lighting but can work with flash.”
Pen slurps on her iced coffee. “I’m really torn, Aunt Lou.” She widens her eyes theatrically. “I want someone who will be able to check all the boxes for the shots we want, but I like the artistic photos more. They feel more aligned with my personal brand.”
“What feels more true to you and Josh as a couple?” I ask.
“Oh, this is just my choice. Joshie doesn’t care about photos.” She waves away my question.
My cheeks burn. “What if you give the fine art photographer a list of must-have shots? Then you get all the photos you want in the style you prefer?”
