We Can't Keep Meeting Like This

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  In the “healthy” foods section filled with tubs of hummus, vegan cheese, and all kinds of fake meat, he spends an absurd amount of time examining the ingredients on the back of various boxes of tofu.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s just a chunk of tofu,” I say. “What else could possibly be in it?”

  “We try to buy local whenever we can.” Of course I knew that. It’s just been a while since Tarek caring about it was so clearly on display in front of me. “I’d much rather get this one from Oregon than this one from Massachusetts.”

  “Your mom was right. You need supervision.”

  He clutches at his heart. “I’m just doing my job, Quinn.”

  Quinn. The way he says my name sends a shiver of something up my spine that could be the AC. It’s just my fucking name. It shouldn’t make me react like this.

  “Did you play earlier?” he asks after selecting three boxes of the superior Oregon tofu, staring down at the expiration dates instead of at my face. “The harp, I mean?”

  “Oh. Yeah, I did,” I say, realizing he wouldn’t have heard me since he wasn’t at the church.

  “I haven’t heard you play this summer yet,” he says, like it’s some crucial element of the season. Sun, ice cream, Quinn Berkowitz on the harp. “I guess it doesn’t feel like summer without it.”

  Another statement I have no idea how to process. “I’m sure the harp sounds just as mellifluous as it always does.” The idea of him looking forward to hearing me play… I have to push it away before I start to obsess. He likes the sound of the harp. So do most people, Salty Sequin Lady excluded.

  “Right.” He tosses the tofu into my basket, and we head to the rice and beans aisle.

  I reach for a box of instant Spanish rice, the kind with the spice packet inside, but he holds out a hand to stop me. His fingers graze the exposed skin on my arms, and I fight another AC-induced shiver. They should really turn it down in here.

  “Spanish rice. Like your dad said?”

  “From a box?” He lets out this horrified-sounding scoff. “Mansour’s is not serving boxed rice.”

  I follow him around the store as he picks up a quart of vegetable stock, a bag of rice, and a can of tomato paste. Again, I’m struck by this easy confidence he has. This request turned me frantic, but there’s none of that in the way he glides through the aisles. Maybe he’s able to remain so calm because he loves this work. It’s never been a chore for him, the way it is for me.

  “It’s going to be fine,” he says while we’re waiting in line to check out, as though the reason I’m so tense is because I’m worried about the food. If only it were that simple to fix what’s wrong. “We’ve dealt with worse. Remember that couple who changed their whole menu a few days before the wedding?”

  “From small plates to barbecue? I can’t believe you guys let them get away with that.”

  “Oh, we made sure they paid for it. And sustainably raised meat is not cheap,” he says with another little half smile. “Anyway. These guests probably won’t even know it’s different from the other veggie meals.”

  “That’s our job, right? To make all of this look effortless, even when it isn’t?” The questions slip out before I can catch them, tinged with a sharpness that seems to make him suspicious.

  He gives me an odd look, his dark brows drawn together. “You make it sound like ‘yes’ is somehow the wrong answer.”

  “I—I don’t know.” Now we are standing too close together, and I’m feeling the same kind of feverish I did on the walk over, the sun beating down on my un-sunscreened skin. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Okay,” he says, and then we’re at the front of the checkout line.

  Tarek knows I don’t love being my parents’ on-call harpist, but not about the six months my mom spent apart from us, not my existential college-and-beyond panic. It’s been a long time since we could talk to each other like that. Maybe I could, if we’d exchanged a single word over the past year. But I’m not sure what our relationship looks like in that alternate universe. If we’re close friends or if we’re… something I shouldn’t think about while standing right next to him. Something there’s no way I can want when he’s still hiding so much.

  Last summer, after he and Alejandra broke up, it didn’t take long before he found his next target: Elisa, another cater-waiter who’d been with Mansour’s for a few years. I watched them joke around in the kitchen and trade smiles from across a room. A playful hand on his arm. A hug at the end of a shift. He always confided in me about his crushes, probably because we didn’t go to the same school and that made it safer. I assumed the only reason he didn’t tell me about Elisa was that we all worked in such close proximity. Even when he and I spent time together, my own feelings spiraling, I couldn’t help wondering whether he was counting down the minutes until he could be spending time with her instead.

  I had to know. It would be torture, hearing him confirm it, but it had to be a more pleasant torture than uncertainty.

  So I asked him—not specifically about Elisa, but if he was working on any grand gestures. Because if he wanted to date her, that’s what he would do. “I’m planning something big,” he said. “Right before I leave for school.”

  One evening a week before he left for California, he asked me to meet him at the Shilshole Bay Marina. He was cryptic about it: “I want to get your opinion on something,” he said at our last wedding of the summer.

  The fight that happened there is so fresh in my mind that sometimes I swear it happened only yesterday. He and Elisa had been hard-core flirting at our past few weddings—I should have seen it coming. I showed up at the marina at seven o’clock, just like he’d asked. He looked so cute with his hair still damp from a shower. My stomach dropped when I saw the boat he rented all strung up with lights, soft jazz music playing from it, and realized why he’d asked me to meet him here.

  I want to get your opinion on something.

  I was a guinea pig for his latest grand gesture.

  Of all the emotions I’d tried to curb when it came to Tarek, jealousy was the worst one. The most unwelcome. I was jealous he’d spent who knew how many hours planning this while I’d been daydreaming about him. Jealous because it was a beautiful evening, and some part of me would have loved to spend it on a boat. My parents and B+B had turned me into the worst kind of cynic—the kind who couldn’t even be happy for someone else. For Elisa, who’d only ever been nice to me, who was probably going to show up any minute.

  “What do you think?” he asked, so full of hope and optimism, and I lashed out.

  I told him exactly what I thought. That it was over the top. Cliché. “Pretty fucking ridiculous”—choking on a laugh.

  And he just stood there. Taking it. “You’re right,” he finally said. “This was a pretty fucking ridiculous idea.” Repeated back to me, the words were much sharper. We were just bickering. Weren’t we?

  “You don’t need my stamp of approval. You had to know what I’d think about all of this. Don’t let it stop you.”

  The sun was starting to set. The days felt much shorter than they had even a month ago, and the way he was backlit, Puget Sound glowing behind him, was almost too lovely.

  Except he looked confused, and I didn’t understand why. “You make it sound like I’m the only person who’s ever performed a romantic gesture.”

  Performed. Couldn’t he hear himself?

  “I know you’re not,” I said. “But do you honestly think this means anything in the long term? That this kind of gesture is going to magically make a relationship last?”

  “It did for my parents.” His jaw was set, and there was a new tightness in his shoulders. “They could have forgotten the Eiffel Tower. Forgotten each other. But they believed in their story. They tried, and they made that story as grand as they could. And they’ve been blissfully happy for more than twenty years.”

  “So everyone else just isn’t trying hard enough?”

  My parents tried their fucking har
dest. Their entire lives were one romantic gesture after another, and it still didn’t prevent them from being ripped apart. From coming back together and never smoothing out the cracks.

  He shrugged, but it was far from a nonchalant shrug. It was the shrug of someone who knew he was right and wouldn’t listen to any arguments to the contrary. The most naive of shrugs. “Yeah. I guess they’re not. Not if they really care about each other.”

  The words sneaked into the spaces between my ribs and stuck. He didn’t know—of course he didn’t know—but that didn’t make it ache any less.

  “This isn’t the real world,” I said, flinging a hand at the boat. “But hey, good luck. I hope this is the one that lasts longer than a couple months. I’m sure I’ll see it on Instagram soon enough.”

  Then I turned on my heel and left.

  I was cruel. We both were. And while I’ve been so focused on his silence, now I’m wondering if Tarek is still hurting, too.

  * * *

  By the time the cake is cut, all I want is a bath, a microwavable chocolate mug cake, and the new season of Bachelor in Paradise. There’s something soothing about watching hot people yell at each other on a beach.

  I’ve just finished toting my parents’ emergency kits to the van, packing them in alongside my harp in its giant case. The van used to have the vanity license plate MTRMNY, for matrimony, until I pointed out to my mom that it looked like we were hard-core Mitt Romney supporters. She ripped it off with the kind of superhuman strength usually reserved for a parent whose kid is pinned underneath a car. But the name stuck, and we still call it the MTRMNY-mobile.

  My phone buzzes against my thigh. It’s a photo of Asher toasting her bridesmaids with margaritas. I send her a few choice emojis, then feel bad and add some hearts.

  “Quinn?” my mom calls. She’s standing at the door of the venue next to Salty Sequin Lady. “We’re looking for help with transportation.”

  “On it.” I slide the van doors shut and paste on a smile. Mom disappears back inside to do what must be her final sweep, making sure the bride and groom have everything they need before we van off into the sunset. “How can I help?”

  The woman holds up an ancient brick of a phone. “I’m trying to head home, but my phone’s out of battery. Probably time I replace this old thing.”

  I pull up Lyft and pass my phone to her so she can type in her address. “Gustav is four minutes away.”

  “Thank you.” She shifts her small purse to her other shoulder and eyes me. “You’re the harpist,” she says, and I brace for either a backhanded compliment or an outright insult, given her earlier glaring. I mostly get compliments from old ladies—empty praise about how lovely I looked or how impressed they are to see someone as young as I am behind an instrument like that. “Your style is… interesting.”

  “Sorry?” I say, certain I’ve misheard her. “Interesting” is one of those great words that’s so rarely a compliment.

  But she doesn’t elaborate. “How did you learn the harp?”

  “My grandma played. She taught me when I was little.”

  “Ah, so you’ve never had formal training? That makes sense.”

  “She was an excellent harpist.” Sure, I don’t love the instrument the way I used to, but I’m not about to let a stranger talk about her like this.

  “I don’t doubt that,” she says as a gray Prius pulls up to the curb. “Have a nice night.” With that, she reaches in her bag for her wallet and hands me a twenty-dollar bill for the fifteen-dollar ride.

  It’s not until the car merges back into traffic that I notice she slipped me a business card, too.

  MAXINE OTTO. EMERALD CITY HARPS.

  I’m so stunned by it that I blink at the navy text a few times, trying to arrange the words into a combination that makes more sense. Maybe she’s a teacher, and she thought offending me would somehow make me beg her to take me on as a student? Bizarre, but okay.

  My instinct is to toss the card in the recycling, but curiosity gets the best of me, and before my parents call me over to head home, I tuck it into my pocket.

  7

  It’s one of those perfect Seattle summer days, where everyone is in a good mood, the kind of day everyone declares is the reason they love Seattle. Seventy-eight degrees, cloudless sky. You may get ten months of gloom, but then you get this: one glorious summer day.

  Correction: everyone is in a good mood except Julia. Earlier this morning, she messaged me photos of three potential outfits, and she picked me up in a fourth, a maxidress with an abstract watercolor print, her long hair crown-braided around her head. I’m in a long blue skirt, a bumblebee-patterned tank tucked into the waistband. If there are tiny animals on it, I will buy it.

  “Oh no, I dressed up too much,” she whispers to me when Noelle meets us at the farmers market in cutoff jean shorts and a striped T-shirt. “How is she so cute in just shorts?”

  “You’re spiraling. You look great.”

  Julia makes a slightly inhuman sound before schooling her face into something more presentable. “Hi! I’m so glad you could make it. I don’t normally dress up this much for farmers markets.”

  Noelle lifts her hand in a wave and, to her credit, gives Julia an odd look that lasts only a second. “Hey. I’ve never actually been to this market, but everything looks amazing.”

  She’s not wrong. There are booths with fresh fruit and vegetables, local cheeses, artisan hot sauces, all kinds of bread. There’s a girl in a cat mask playing violin, a pair of guys in old-timey clothes sitting behind typewriters with a sign that says POEMS: $2. We bought one once, and it lives on Julia’s fridge beneath a magnet from her dentist.

  “We always do one lap for free samples,” Julia says, explaining our farmers market strategy. “And then we get a bunch of food to share.”

  We weave through the stalls, pausing for samples of cheeses and jams and pickles. Almost right away, I realize there’s a problem. Every booth with signs proclaiming LOCAL and ORGANIC and PASTURE RAISED and WE LET THESE COWS WATCH THE GREAT BRITISH BAKE OFF WHILE MILKING THEM reminds me of Tarek. I’m sure he’s been to this market, which is the best one in Seattle. I’m sure he loves it.

  Stop, brain.

  I try to enjoy this for what it is: a normal summer outing with friends. I’m not thinking about Victoria and Lincoln’s wedding or her dress fitting in a few days. I’m not thinking about next weekend’s wedding, which takes place on a boat and already makes me feel claustrophobic. Except the thing about telling yourself you’re firmly not thinking about something guarantees it’s all you’re going to be thinking about.

  Julia makes a valiant attempt to steer us away from Seattle Sustainable Soaps, her parents’ booth, but they wave us over. She does a quick introduction, and Noelle shakes her parents’ hands and samples a few lotions.

  “Quinn, how’s your summer?” Deb Kirschbaum asks. “We haven’t seen your parents at temple lately.”

  Ugh, Jewish guilt. “Busy!” I chirp back. “Shockingly, a lot of people like getting married when it’s nice out.”

  We’re High Holidays Jews, and even then, if a holiday interferes with a wedding, the wedding takes precedence. Sometimes I wish we were more observant—maybe it’s something I can explore in college. My parents were probably doing me a favor, bookmarking all those Hillel events for me.

  “Take them some of these,” Dave says, shoving some soaps and shampoos into my bag before I can protest. “Oh, and there’s a Jewish bakery that opened at the market today. Their challah is… eh, so-so”—he wobbles his hand at this—“but the babka is to die for.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I say.

  As we continue through the market, I catch Julia and Noelle flirting—a lingering glance when they think the other isn’t looking, a playful nudge. And this is why I’m here: to make sure Julia feels comfortable enough to be herself around Noelle. To support my best friend.

  Even if my mind keeps drifting to the one place it shouldn’t.

&nbs
p; * * *

  When we’ve collected enough food to fill our canvas tote bags, we nab the last empty table at one end of the market. There are only two chairs, so I encourage Julia and Noelle to sit down while I awkwardly ask another table if they’re using their chair, then drag it over. By the time I bite into a slice of chocolate babka, I feel I’ve well and truly earned it. God, I love Jewish pastries.

  “Do you have an idea of what you might major in?” Noelle asks. “Julia and I were just talking about college.”

  “Business,” I say automatically. “My parents are… kind of strict. They’re wedding planners, and they’re pretty set on me studying business and working for them when I graduate, like my sister.”

  Noelle grabs a handful of Rainier cherries. “But if you had the choice?”

  “Ha. Great question. I’m not really sure.” It’s hard to know without having had the chance to explore. Even now I can’t solidly land on a single thing I enjoy doing enough to major in, which gives me a whole lot of who am I? self-esteem feelings alongside my other daily anxieties.

  Noelle nods. “I’m undecided, but I’m worried I won’t know by the time we need to,” she says. “The idea of picking something and sticking with it for four years is… daunting.”

  Four years. I can barely commit to a skin-care regimen. I’m not sure how to commit to a major.

  “You liked math classes,” Julia says to me. “And you got fours and fives on all your APs.”

  “Since when did this turn into career counseling?” I say, laughing. “But yes. I liked math classes. I liked history classes. I liked English classes. That’s the problem, though—I like everything a decent amount, but I don’t know if I really love anything. Except for Lady Edith Clawley.” When Noelle raises her eyebrows at that, I add, “My cat.”

  “What about music?” Noelle uses a compostable knife to split a pesto pinwheel with Julia. “Am I stating the obvious here, or is there a reason you haven’t considered it?”

  “It hasn’t been a hobby for me for a long time.” It’s easier than I thought it would be to admit this to her. Noelle has a very calming presence. “I’ve been playing for years, but it’s been a while since I played for the fun of it. Lately, it’s felt more like a job… which is, I realize, exactly what we’re trying to figure out here. But I’m not ridiculous for wanting to like what I do with the rest of my life, right?”