Does reading the detailed notes of a professional wedding planner make someone a natural? “Well, I?—”
“You’ve seen what a pill my Aunt and Calliope are. They’ve always been two peas in a pod, and this wedding is a great chance for me to get back in Aunt Lou’s good graces.” Pen looks at the sky for a minute. “Which is just so difficult to do when I have to work with Calliope.”
“She didn’t seem too?—”
“But you are so good with them! And the whole planning thing.” She rolls her eyes. “And now I have to add a useless best man to my list of problems.” Her lips spread in a conspiratorial, dazzling smile. “So I was wondering…”
My stomach is doing somersaults in preparation for whatever is about to come out of Pen’s mouth. This is exactly what I rescheduled a meeting and took a bus and a train for. There’s probably a brunch this weekend, maybe even a girl’s night out. I haven’t been in a club since before the diagnosis, but I can manage. I’ll just have a coffee right before?—
“Would you be my maid of honor?” Pen bites her lip.
My jaw goes slack. Maid of honor? I remember the satellite singles table at Izumi’s wedding. Maids of honor stand right next to the bride. They sit next to them, tending to their best friendon the most important night of their life. I see visions of Pen and I side by side, at her bachelorette party, at the reception, at the altar. You can’t get more inside the snowglobe than that.
Something snags. “Wait, what about Calliope?”
Pen waves a hand. “Yes, of course, Calliope has to be myofficialmaid of honor. But you would be an honoraryco-maid of honor. A bridesmaid. Basically.”
Bridesmaid, my brain hears. This is still good. Bridesmaids are almost the same as a maid of honor. The group of friends who are so close you want them to stand with you while you marry the love of your life. I can work with this.
“My schedule is about to get so busy with the book tour, so it would behugeto have someone like you in my corner to help.” Penelope hunches so we’re closer to the same height. “It would obviously be a time commitment, but you offered to help, right?”
“I—” I did offer. But this feels like…more than I was offering off-hand in Mike’s. I promised myself that this is the year I would get serious about finding an agent and launching my writing career.
Pen waves away my hesitation with a self-assured smile. “You don’t have to answer right now! Think about it. I’ll be the luckiest girl in the world if you say yes.”
“Okay—of course. I–I’ll think about it.” I nod. “Thank you so much for thinking of me.”
She leans in, holds my shoulders, and looks me dead in the eye as she says, “There’s literally no one else I would rather have standing up there with me at my wedding.”
Warmth trickles into my arms and legs as I nod and we share one last hug. She gives one final wave before stepping into her Audi and pulling away with Josh.
Clouds cushion my steps the entire walk back to the train station. It’s hard to imagine a scenario where this could have gone better. Even if I have to say no to Pen’s idea, the fact thatshe asked me speaks volumes. I’d normally jump on the chance to be in the wedding; the only thing holding me back is the time commitment. I need to focus my free time on finishing my manuscript and finding an agent.
Speaking of my nascent writing career, I check the post. It’s got twelve likes and a comment from my mother asking to please call her.
Nothing like social media to humble you when you’re feeling a little too invincible.
There’s one more notification that my eyes glazed over because it’s from an unknown, six digit number. I open it, and as I read, my smile returns with a vengeance.Hey Ruby, the automated text says,Penelope Ainswright invited you to THE ONE WHERE THEY GET ENGAGED (F.R.I.E.N.D.S. edition) this Saturday at 8 p.m.I click the RSVP link and see an event page with 30+ RSVPs already, for five days from now. There’s a vague tugging when I realize she had to have sent this out weeks ago. But don’t they say ‘better late than never’? I’ve obviously fallen off the party radar. People think I can’t go out because, to them, I’m still that girl who was sick. But this is exactly what I need: a chance to show them just how fun I can still be. If I play my cards right, this could be the first day of the rest of my life.
chapter
seven
There was a phase,after treatment, when I thought I would boycott bars altogether. But bars weren’t the problem. People were. When you go through something life-changing, the hardest part about returning to the world—after the fog has cleared—is that it feels like everything should be different. The sky should have fallen, the earth should have cracked. Everything should have changed, because how could it not after going through something like this? But when you try going back to the life you left, you realize that nothing has changed. It’s onlyyouthat’s altered irreversibly. And that, I’ve learned, is the loneliest feeling in the world.
I read the engagement party description backwards and forwards, determined to remain faux-pas-free. The theme is F.R.I.E.N.D.S., including the dress code.Come dressed as your fave character!Pen commands through the digital confetti streaming over the event page. I dig a cropped powder-blue cardigan out of the bottom of my closet, paired with a pinstripe miniskirt that I bought at Zara and then promptly realized was never going to be business casual. It’s June, but Rachel would be wearing tights, so I pull on a sheer pair and thrifted black boots.I swipe on some dark berry lipgloss, a smoky eye, and a velvet choker. F.R.I.E.N.D.S. here I come.
I fan myself while I wait for the 22 bus. This outfit was not designed for seventy-degree weather (nor menopause). Traffic is heavy tonight, and packs of newly graduated kids roam the street at varying stages of intoxication. There’s a promise in this warm summer air, a buzz of possibility.
“Bathroom Girl,” a low voice says over my shoulder. I turn, slowly, like I’m in a horror movie, and see a tall man with seaglass eyes that seem capable of x-ray. They can take one look at you and see every flaw, every insecurity in stark, ghostly contrast.
Eitan is at my bus stop.
Little people in my brain are stumbling around, trying to find the right words for my internal teleprompter. “Hi,” we stutter out. I’m distracted by his outfit, which is possibly the sluttiest thing a man can wear: a black sweater vest, white t-shirt, and loafers.
To top off the manic pixie dream boy theme, he’s got a walkman clipped to his pocket, and he’s slipping orange foam headphones off his ears to settle around his neck.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, words still struggling to string themselves together.
