Carrie pops through the swinging door, hips first, carrying two plates piled high with six different bite-sized hors d’oeuvres.
I go for the potato and thyme croqueta first. It’s an explosion of cheesy potatoey gooeyness in my mouth and I can’t help moaning.
Eitan clears his throat.
I cough the rest of the croqueta down and keep any embarrassing noises to myself. When I take a bite of ceviche, a trickle of lime juice escapes down my chin.
Before I can dab at it with my napkin, Eitan reaches out and wipes it with his thumb.
Our eyes meet, and his sparkle like glass held up to the sun.
Friends. We are friends. Friends don’t notice eyes or how they tend to sparkle. I need to change tactic. It’s time for my ace.
I reach into my tote bag and pull out the spiral-bound notebook that’s already a quarter full with wedding notes. “I might as well work on this while we’re here,” I tell him, eyes fixed to the master list at the beginning. It’s a transcription of the list Pen sent me, with at least five new items added to the bottom. I uncap my pen and put a satisfying checkmark next to the bullet that readsFinal Tasting. The remaining bullets aren’t necessarily ones I can accomplish at this table—things likeWrap wedding favors—but Eitan doesn’t know that.
He stares at the notebook. “This is all for the wedding?” he asks.
“No, it’s for my bat mitzvah.” I glance up at him. His eyes are twinkling.No banter!I command myself. “Yes, it’s for the wedding. Obviously. I don’t make manic to-do lists like this for fun.”
Well. I did make the Be Yourself (Again) List for fun. But what Eitan doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks. It’s a multi-faceted question. Could mean,Why are you working on your list at the table?Or,Why are you doing any of this?
“I don’t understand the question.”
“I mean, why doesn’t Pen have a planner? Or, you know, do this herself?”
Because she has a dream literary agent dangling on a string. It’s an irresistible carrot, and I’m the donkey shouldering the load in pursuit of it.
“I like helping,” I land on. “It’s…fun.”
“This is fun?” Eitan grabs the notebook out of my hands. “‘Make escort cards,’” he reads out loud. “‘I want calligraphy.’ What’s an escort card?” he asks.
“It’s the little card with your name and table assignment.” I try to grab the notebook back, but he holds it out of my hands.
“And this one, what does this mean?” He points to one of the newer bullets at the bottom. “‘Vows,’” he reads. “You’re not writing her vows, are you?”
“Of course not.” This time, when I grab for my notebook, Eitan lets it go. “I just spruced them. A little.”
Eitan’s jaw goes slack with horror.
“She just wanted me to ‘Jew them up’ a bit. Is all.”
“She did not say ‘Jew them up,’ did she?”
I ignore the question. “Josh’s family has been…skeptical? Or I should say, Penthinksthey’ve been skeptical. About the wedding. So she thought if we added some Yiddish into the vows, it would appeal to them. I just added a little about besherts. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“I think it’s a big deal.” Eitan puts down the bite of tuna tartare. “I don’t like the way she treats you. This whole thing is…off.”
Eitan is sniffing out Pen’s and my agreement like a bloodhound. There’s one tiny, nuclear issue with him questioning Pen, our relationship, and the wedding as a whole.After the wedding has goneperfectly, I’d totally owe you one.If anything goes wrong, all the work I’ve put in up until now will be wasted. I’ll be back at square one, with an entire summer lost.
“It’s just wedding stress,” I assure him, stuffing the notebook back in my bag. “Everything will go back to normal once the big day is done.”
Eitan doesn’t say anything affirmative, but he does let the issue drop.
The door sweeps open, and Carrie comes back with full hands. “Looks like you hated it!” she jokes, swapping our empty plates for entree plates stuffed with a salmon fillet, risotto, and a side salad.
I hold my stomach, grateful for the interruption. “It was delicious.”
