Completely agree!
For the love.
I regret teaching my mom how to create group chats. She’s become a menace, spinning up one for everything, and using them to gang up on me from almost three hundred miles away. I didn’t even have a chance to read her message before her best friend, Judy, agreed with her. The two of them are probably sitting at the kitchen table together, coordinating their responses.
Judy’s been a second mother to me since her family moved in next door when I was two years old. I spent as much of my childhood at her house as I did mine. The only downside is that Jake is her son. The man who cut me out of his life, not thinking twice about destroying our friendship. Even Judy can’t explain why he did it. I’ve come to accept I’ll never know the reason. He’s an ass and doesn’t deserve any of my time, but I refuse to hold his shitty behavior against Judy. My mom would be lost without her, and so would I, even if Judy contributes to the obsession with wedding planning.
I fire back a quick text, telling them I’ll think about it and breathe deeply, reminding myself that my life is practicallyperfect. Chelsi is the yin to my yang. We live in a gorgeous condo, with a beautiful view of the Chicago skyline, and it’s a short walk to my office. I’m on the path to achieving every one of my career goals as a marketing director for the city’s largest advertising agency, where I spend my days leading a creative team that works with the most well-known global consumer brands. To top it off, I’m a year away from marrying the love of my life. My other half. My soulmate. I couldn’t have dreamed up a more perfect life. Planning the wedding and dealing with my mom’s overinvolvement in my life are merely speed bumps on my journey to happily ever after.
“Hey, beautiful. It smells great in here,” Brian calls out, walking in the front door. He doesn’t technically live here, but he stays over almost every night. “How long until dinner?”
“Fifteen minutes,” I respond.
“Perfect. Just enough time for a shower. Want to join?” he asks, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. He’s dripping in sweat from spending the past hour at the gym.
“Maybe next time,” I reply, winking at him. Shower sex sounds so appealing, and I’m game for it. The challenge is, he only mentions it when other people are around. I’ve tried to take him up on it when we’re alone, but it’s never the right time for him. Fingers crossed, we can check it off on our honeymoon. Good things come to those who wait, or at least that’s what I’m hoping.
“I’ll take a quick shower and be out before dinner. I assume we’ll be on the couch while Chelsi drones on about fashion faux pas.”
“You know it.” Chelsi raises her glass to him. “If they made better choices, I wouldn’t need to provide so much feedback. For example, why do you insist on wearing ratty gym clothes? Being engaged doesn’t mean you can’t look hot for your fiancée. And don’t get me started on your daily wardrobe of khakis andpolos in the summer, followed by khakis with a button-down and vest in the winter. Do you own stock in a khaki company? I’m beginning to wonder if you keep the entire khaki industry in business.”
I bristle at her jab. “Don’t put me in the middle of your never-ending arguments. I have no problem with what Brian wears.”
Brian chuckles, heading to take a shower without responding.
She nudges me with her foot. “I’m not actively trying to be rude to him, but I’m required to give him shit as your best friend. He’s annoyingly perfect otherwise. He’d be the ideal man if he ditched everything in his closet. Perhaps a new wardrobe could be my wedding gift to both of you.”
I shake my head, getting up to check on dinner. I can only imagine how Brian would react to Chelsi choosing his clothes. Her style is eclectic and trendsetting. She has an adorable diamond-stud nose ring and a partial tattoo sleeve that is a true work of art. And Brian is a walking Vineyard Vines commercial.
“Just thought of one more reason why Brian isn’t completely perfect,” Chelsi says in an excited, loud voice. “He is incapable of loading a dishwasher. Do you know how many times I have to put his cereal bowl in the dishwasher? Every. Fucking. Morning.”
“I know. His kitchen skills are a work-in-progress,” I reply. It’s something I hope will change after we get married. He grew up with a stay-at-home mom who cooked every meal from scratch and had a Pinterest-worthy life before social media was a thing. It’s one of the reasons I spend hours prepping food on Sundays to ensure we have home-cooked meals throughout the week. It’s not my favorite way to spend a Sunday morning, but it’s the only option when I work more than sixty hours, and Brian doesn’t love takeout.
I scroll through my calendar as I wait for dinner. Tuesday’s meeting is a big one, with the potential to land a major brand as a new client. My team has worked nonstop on the pitch for weeks, and I can’t wait for us to present it. Our creative concepts will blow their minds, and our implementation strategy is designed to catapult their brand and spark significant social conversation. It’s the best work the team has done for a potential client, and a lot is riding on this pitch. Winning this account would land me a promotion to vice president, the position I’ve chased for years, with the bonus that I would be the youngest VP in company history.
I obsess over the pitch deck one more time until the timer dings, then I shift into dinner mode, preparing plates for everyone in my natural role as hostess. The three of us tend to eat on the couch, watching a show Chelsi picked out. I can’t remember the last time we ate at the table. Although Brian has mentioned numerous times that we’ll start eating dinner at the table once we’re married.
“This is delicious, Kate. You have outdone yourself,” Chelsi comments, taking another bite of lasagna. She starts making her food-moaning expressions and sounds to irritate me, no matter how many times I tell her I don’t want to hear sex noises when she eats.
“Thanks again for making dinner, beautiful. You’re the best,” Brian says, sitting next to me on the couch. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a loose-fitting T-shirt. It’s casual and one of the sexiest outfits he wears. Legitimate catnip for my lady parts.
“You’re welcome. Thought I’d try something new with this recipe and?—”
“Shhhh. It’s starting. You know the opening performance is the best one,” Chelsi insists, like the future of the free world depends on whether we watch it.
Onscreen, a country music star croons about missing his father, transporting me to standing outside my childhood home in the hot July summer heat when I was eight.
“Kate, are you okay?” Brian asks, concern in his voice.
“I’m fine. Why?” I question, realizing my eyes are probably glassy. I blink the moisture away in an attempt to hide what I’m feeling.
“I asked you a question, and you didn’t answer.”
“Sorry. What did you need?” I purposefully avoid telling Brian where my mind went.
“My mom is all over me about the guest list. She has more people to add and wants to know when the save-the-date cards are going out.”
I cringe at his mention of the save-the-date cards. They’re quickly becoming a trigger for me, making me not care about the ramifications of eloping. “Have her email me the new list. I’ll put together an updated version for our moms to review before I send them out later this month. But I honestly don’t understand why everyone is freaking out when the wedding is more than a year away.”
