“Morning,” I say, heading to the cupboard for Edith’s food, which I pour into her bowl while she flicks her perfect gray-striped tail back and forth.
“Morning,” Dad echoes. “Guess your new look wasn’t permanent?”
I feign a gasp. “Are you saying I couldn’t pull it off?”
Only a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, indicating he’s deeply absorbed in his task.
I refill Edith’s water dish, too, uncapping the bottle of dental additive and tipping the recommended dosage into the cap. For a few seconds, I peer into the cap at the mint-green liquid. The right amount, and yet the worry is always itching at the back of my brain. No matter how many times I do this, I’m terrified I’ve accidentally added too much. If I give this to her, I’d be poisoning her. Which is why right after I pour the capful into her water, I turn the entire bowl over the sink and watch it swirl down the drain. I can’t risk it.
Before the meds, before therapy, sometimes I’d repeat this ten times in a row. Today I only have to do it twice.
“Feeling okay?” Mom says, and I know she’s talking about yesterday, not about my OCD. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come with you, but you understand. We figured you were in good hands with Tarek.”
“I get it,” I say, because I do, and it’s too early in the morning to think about Tarek’s hands. I peel open a cup of Greek yogurt and take a seat with my back to the wedding calendar. Although this way I’m staring straight at a framed Seattle Times article about B+B that ran a decade ago. THEIR BRIDE AND JOY, reads the headline that graced the front page of the lifestyle section. Asher and I are wearing veils, midlaugh as she leads me in a dance move.
A week after that photo was taken, my parents sat us down on the living room couch, Mom rubbing an invisible smudge from her cat-eye glasses while Dad forced a smile. The stress of B+B had been a little overwhelming lately, they said, what with living in the same place they worked, and my mom was going to stay in her sister’s guest room for a while.
A while—a phrase I assumed meant a week, maybe two.
I examine my parents’ grainy newspaper faces the way I always do, but I don’t see any signs of strain. And although my mom moved back in six months later, I never stop searching for the same thing in their real-life faces, even if I’m not sure what it would look like.
“I hope Naomi and Paul weren’t too upset about the lack of harp,” I say.
“We found a harp playlist on Spotify, but it wasn’t quite the same,” Mom says. “We definitely missed you.”
She has this astounding ability to guilt-trip me without saying she’s disappointed. If I hadn’t gone to urgent care, I’m sure I would have gotten a lecture about how I’m smart enough to read an ingredients list before popping something in my mouth, how I shouldn’t have done something so risky as attempting to eat a piece of cheese before a performance.
I become immersed in excavating my yogurt with a spoon, searching for the promised fruit on the bottom. There’s never enough of it.
Dad rests a hand on the seat across from me. “Mom and I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“The follow-ups?” On Sundays, I usually help Mom with post-wedding surveys, which means I also know when one of our weddings ends in divorce. Almost a quarter of the couples we’ve tracked aren’t together anymore, and I have a theory that the pricier the wedding, the likelier the marriage is to fail.
Divorce. The dirtiest word in wedding planning. The thing I was certain my parents were heading toward before my mom’s suitcase reappeared in the hallway, before they told Asher and me they’d been seeing a counselor and they were so happy Mom was coming home, so happy everything could go back to normal, and weren’t we happy too?
“No, not that.” He sits down, and the ball of anxiety that lives in my stomach tightens. “Asher and Gabe’s wedding is in three months. And, well, you probably know the amount of work Asher has on her plate.”
“Right,” I say, the anxiety crawling up my throat now, weighing down my tongue.
“We were hoping you could step in and take on a few of her B+B responsibilities. Catering, floral, transportation, mainly. It’s our busiest season, and we could really use the extra help.”
“I—oh.” My gaping yawn of a summer shrinks to the tiniest of sighs.
“We thought it would be a fun way to spend your summer,” Mom continues. “Plus, it’ll be similar to what you’ll be doing in a few years anyway. Might as well get a sneak peek.” She says this like it’s some gift they’re giving me. Like I should be thanking them.
“It’s my last summer before college,” I say quietly. I’m already booked for six weddings with two new songs to learn.
Mom doesn’t even acknowledge this. “We’ve been flexible with your schedule in the past. You know how much the clients love that this is a family business. It’s one of the reasons they pick us over other firms with more experience.”
“And how can you resist working with your favorite people?” Dad says with a wink.
No is not an option. They’re not asking me to do this—they’re telling me this is what I’m doing.
I’m used to it, though I wish I weren’t. I’ll leap at any chance to avoid conflict in my family. Other kids had family game nights and beach vacations, movie marathons and weekend hikes. The Berkowitzes had weddings. That was our family bonding. I’ve missed parties and dances and school events, all because B+B took precedence. They’ll understand, my parents always said. We need you.They made a guilt-trip sandwich out of pep and flattery, spreading a little extra manipulation on top.
“Yeah,” I say, hating myself a little. “I guess I could do that.”
Their grins grow bigger. “Perfect!”
My mom’s phone rings to the tune of the old song “Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups. Goin’ to the chapel and we’re gonna get married…
“That’s Melinda Nash’s mom,” she says. She picks up. “Hi, Tammy!” she says in her there’s-no-such-thing-as-stress wedding planner voice. “Oh—oh no. The maid of honor did what?”
And with that, she disappears into their office. Dad returns to his calendar, whistling Mom’s ringtone.
Sometimes it feels like they view me as just another vendor. Like we are business associates instead of family. They’ve been so eager to rush me into B+B that I’ve barely had time to figure out what I might want instead.
What I know for sure: I don’t want this job waiting for me when I graduate from their preapproved program after taking their preapproved classes. I want the satisfaction of truly earning something after working hard for it. And I can’t tell them that without offending my sister, who’s always loved B+B, who loved all her classes, who cried at graduation when they gave her a set of business cards with her new title: associate wedding coordinator. The idea of being trapped in this for the rest of my life sends me into a spiral so smothering, I’m not sure how I’d be able to climb out.
But as my parents are fond of telling their clients, weddings are in the Berkowitz DNA. They met at the wedding of a mutual friend, when they were both stuck at what was clearly a table for randoms, since none of them knew anyone else and they were the farthest from the buffet. The way my dad tells the story, a married bridesmaid caught the bouquet at the end of the night and then passed it to my mom. The way she tells it, those hydrangeas sailed right into her arms.
A decade later, my mom’s water broke at a cousin’s wedding in the middle of the hora. To this day, I have a strange and otherwise inexplicable emotional attachment to “Hava Nagila.” And when I was in preschool, my dad left his corporate job to help my mom, formerly an assistant wedding planner, start her dream business.
Then THEIR BRIDE AND JOY.
The talk on the couch.
Three place settings at the dining table, Dad all smiles and pretending it was normal, shutting down any time I asked about it until I stopped asking.
Weekends at our aunt’s place, where I slept in the guest room with Mo
m and a Doberman pinscher that never stopped barking at me and “go keep yourself busy” while she and Aunt Sherie had hushed conversations in the kitchen. Sometimes I thought I heard her crying.
Asher learning to drive and spending less and less time at home.
And an eight-year-old Quinn up in a tower, wondering how two people in the business of happily ever after could have a kid who felt this lonely.
When they started working together out of our home office again, I wanted to feel relieved. But they never talked about those six months that turned my world on its axis. Everything seemingly went back to the way it was before—which meant the separation could happen again, and I’d never know it was coming.
From that point on, every argument between them, no matter how small, felt like an earthquake. I couldn’t remember what had been the last straw before my mom moved out, and that made anything feel like it could be the last straw. I was always waiting, worrying, teeth gritted and anxiety-knot getting tighter and tighter.
They put on an act for their clients, one that became clearer the more time I spent with B+B. They’d been able to grow the business because people loved the idea of weddings planned by a couple in love. That Seattle Times piece had sent so many brides and grooms our way—enough to fake a happy marriage, apparently. But their grins and laughs felt false when they hadn’t even been able to prevent their own relationship from crumbling.
Nothing less than our best. They sure took that to heart.
I’m proud of what they’ve built, especially after I was certain the separation would tear it all apart. But it’s theirs, and sometimes I can’t help wondering if that means I’ll never be able to find something that’s wholly mine.
4
There’s a certain glamour to a best friend’s room that makes it infinitely more exciting than your own. For me, that room is Julia Kirschbaum’s. The walls are ocean blue, a turtle paddling to the ceiling above her bed and a beluga whale on the opposite wall. She painted all of it the summer before freshman year, and my sole contribution was a three-by-three-inch portion of coral reef near the window. She’s always burning incense, but the one time I tried it in my tower, I set off the smoke alarm. Then there’s the rainbow bong her parents gave her for her sixteenth birthday displayed prominently on the shelves mounted above her desk.
I lean in close to the mirror in her attached bathroom to apply raspberry-red lipstick. At the beginning of senior year, I cut my hair into a blunt inverted bob, and now my light-brown waves skim my shoulders, my bangs long enough to pin back when they get in the way, which is most of the time.
“I don’t still smell like the Olympic National Park, do I?” Julia asks, dragging a brush through her straight blond hair, which hangs halfway down her back. Rapunzel hair, and it’s gorgeous. I’d hate her for it if I didn’t love her so much.
“Nope.” I take another whiff. “You actually smell great. What is that? And what does the Olympic National Park even smell like?”
“Damp moss and my parents’ organic beef jerky,” she says matter-of-factly. “Mom’s trying out a new shampoo recipe. Rosemary and mint. You want some?”
“Yes, please.”
Deb and Dave Kirschbaum are the crunchiest of crunchy Seattle hippies. While our other friends were sneaking pot, Julia’s parents smoked it openly around us, encouraging us to ask questions. They make their own soap and shampoo, which they sell at a local farmers market, and raise chickens in their backyard. We met in Hebrew school and bonded over the fact that our February birthdays were only days apart, which meant having our bat mitzvahs together, and we were overjoyed when the district funneled us into the same high school.
“My parents asked if I could take on more B+B work this summer,” I say. “Since Asher’s busy with her wedding.”
“And you told them no?”
“My parents aren’t like yours. I mean, you had to convince them that art school wasn’t going to stamp out all your creative impulses. They thought art school was going to be too rigid for you.”
Julia applied to a handful of art schools and decided on a small one in Brooklyn. She’ll be doing what she loves, and sometimes it’s hard for her to understand why I can’t do the same. Not just because of my parents—because there’s no singular Thing I love, not the way Julia loves murals or my sister loves floral arrangements. Telling my parents I don’t want to join B+B would not only break their hearts but would also sever my family in a way I’m not ready to face.
After breakfast my parents went through our joint calendar and highlighted a few consultations they’d like me to join them for, a dress fitting here, a cake tasting there. It’s sad times when you can’t even get excited about cake.
I push off the bathroom counter and head into Julia’s room, flopping down on her bed so I can stare up at the surface of the ocean. The way she painted it, you can see the sunlight glinting off the waves. I un-inside-out the pockets of my dress, tangerine with tiny owls all over it. Since I can’t wear patterns or bright colors while I’m working, I tend to go all out the rest of the time.
My taste in music, too, is staunchly anti-wedding. No classical, of course. No ABBA or Bruno Mars, no “Celebration” or “Shout” or “Get Lucky.” It’s a mix of loud girl punk and moody indie rock that would never make it onto a reception playlist. I swipe through my phone and find a song by Mitski that seems to match my current emotions.
“Is Noelle going to be there tonight?” I ask.
“She was invited, but she hasn’t RSVP’d on Facebook.” She slides her feet into a pair of knockoff Toms made from hemp. “I really don’t think she’s into girls, anyway. She was dancing with Braden Smith at Wes Watanabe’s grad party, and they looked pretty cozy.”
“She could be bi. You know, like you?”
“Maybe.” Noelle transferred to our school midway through junior year, and she’s remained a mystery the way new kids tend to do. “Anyway, she had to be smart and get in early-decision to Yale, which is eighty miles from New York.”
“Don’t tell me your love isn’t strong enough to withstand the distance. You send the best GIFs.”
“I do, don’t I?”
I check my bag, make sure I have my wallet, keys, phone. I zip it up, and then I unzip it and check it again. Wallet, keys, phone—those three things everyone needs before going out, and yet my brain takes it a step further. I know my wallet and keys are there, but as soon as I zip my bag, I question it. I start wondering whether I can believe my brain, my eyes. So I do it again. It’s a strange feeling, knowing you’re doing something illogical, being unable to stop yourself.
Julia waits patiently, doesn’t tell me to hurry up.
“I think I’m going to take a break from guys this summer,” I say, still staring at the inside of my bag. There they are. They are there. Wallet keys phone. Phone wallet keys. “With everything I’m doing for B+B, and especially after Jonathan…”
“You doing okay with that?” Julia asks softly. She knows we slept together, but I haven’t quite been able to articulate why I felt the need to break up with him immediately after. It’s probably the same reason I can’t articulate any of my post-Jonathan feelings. I decided to avoid BBYO events until he is safely across the country in college, though my parents already added some of UW’s Hillel activities to my fall calendar. I probably would have done it on my own, but still.
I don’t tell her that the real reason I’m implementing a No-Boy Summer is because of Tarek. Because I want to make sure I don’t relapse. She did enough to shake me out of it after my failed grand gesture—chocolate and sleepovers and reality TV. She blocked Instagram on my phone, which didn’t prevent me from scrolling on my laptop but helped a little, despite Tarek’s lack of updates. I kept waiting for his next gesture, the girl who’d be receiving it who wasn’t me. Waiting, and knowing it was going to crush me once it happened.
But it never did. Unless he managed to keep a relationship offline, Tarek’s been single since last summer.
* * *
“Tell me when you’re ready to go home and do sheet masks,” Julia whispers as we kick off our shoes in the entryway of Alyson Sawicki’s house, where photos of Alyson Sawicki beam at us from every direction.
We didn’t keep to ourselves in high school, exactly—we were drifters. We had friends who were in AP classes with us, friends who did theater, friends who played sports. About a fourth of our graduating class is going to UW, going from a school of two thousand to one of more than forty thousand. And yet people are hugging and toasting each other like they’re going off to war.
We’re making our way to the kitchen for drinks when someone shouts, “Julia!”
Noelle Matthews, a short Black girl with natural hair, looking adorable in a denim romper and Keds, is waving at us from across the room. “I’m so glad you guys are here,” she says when she hurries over.
I feel Julia stiffen at my side. “Hey, I didn’t know you were coming,” she says, trying to sound casual. Only Noelle can reduce my confident best friend to a puddle of nerves.
“I didn’t either, until about an hour ago. We were visiting family in Portland, and the drive back took less time than we thought. Thank god, because I was about to murder my little brother for listening to Kidz Bop without headphones.”
“An offense that should be punishable by law,” I say, because Julia has temporarily forgotten how to word. “They’re still making those?”
“They shouldn’t be allowed to, but apparently. Anyone up for beer pong?”
“You guys should team up,” I suggest, and Julia grips my arm with a please-don’t-leave-me kind of strength. “Julia’s awesome at beer pong.”
“I’m not,” Julia rushes to say, but Noelle’s eyes light up.
“Great!” She grabs the elbow of the next person who walks by. “Corey! Beer pong? Quinn needs a partner.”
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
We Can't Keep Meeting Like This Page 3