We Can't Keep Meeting Like This

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  “This must be so boring for you,” Victoria says as the saleswoman pins the hem of her dress. “How many dress fittings have you gone to?”

  Mom isn’t even exaggerating when she says, “I don’t know, a few hundred?” We don’t go dress shopping or to fittings with everyone, but Victoria and Lincoln are getting the white-glove treatment.

  Victoria lets out a low whistle. “And it doesn’t get old after a while?”

  “You clearly don’t know Shayna Berkowitz,” I say.

  “Every bride is a different puzzle to solve. She might have something in mind that’s completely different from what her mom envisioned, or she might try on what she thought would be her dream dress only to discover it’s not right at all. Besides, I always love having my daughter here.” She nudges me, and I smile as if on cue. “We’re lucky that this is something we can do as a family.”

  My smile is only half real. I wish I weren’t torn between enjoying this time with my mom and worrying about my own future. I guess not talking about things that make us uncomfortable runs in the family too.

  “I love that,” Victoria says. “You must be so mature for your age, if you’re already helping out like this.”

  “Right,” I say. So mature for your age. Have I ever had another choice?

  Victoria’s maid of honor, Hannah, is browsing through a display next to the dressing room. “Are you still on the fence about a veil? Because this one is all kinds of amazing.” She produces a birdcage veil, a vintage style made from white netting.

  Victoria examines it. “I don’t hate it,” she says. “But I don’t know if a veil is really me.” I wonder what makes someone a veil person.

  “To veil or not to veil,” Mom says. “Statement veils have been big for a while, but a lot of modern brides go without. It’s entirely dependent on your comfort level. When you imagine yourself at the altar, do you see Lincoln lifting a veil?”

  Before Victoria can answer, my phone buzzes in my bag, and because we are all quietly and significantly assessing the veil, it is loud.

  Mom’s head whips in my direction, her eyes daggers.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I say, scrambling to turn it off.

  The saleswoman takes the birdcage veil and affixes it atop Victoria’s head, a look that makes me feel as though we’ve stepped back in time a half century.

  “You know, I do love that.” Mom gets up from the couch and stands behind Victoria, making a minor adjustment to the veil. “I had this thought, though, that a hair comb might look even more striking with your dark hair. Maybe something with pearls, something similarly vintage looking?”

  “I have the perfect thing.” The saleswoman disappears for a moment before returning with exactly what my mom was looking for.

  Mom holds out her hand, taking charge, and tucks it into Victoria’s hair as she creates a makeshift updo. “Especially if you had them twist your hair on one side, a little like this?”

  “That’s gorgeous,” Hannah says, eyes wide.

  “This,” Victoria breathes. “Yes. This is it.”

  “You’ve barely seen it!” Mom motions for Victoria to turn so she can properly appreciate her wedding magic in the mirror.

  “I can just feel it.”

  My phone lets out another loud buzz.

  “Sorry! I swear I turned it off. Must have hit the wrong button.” It’s as though my hands have turned to butter because I—can’t—grasp it. My mom is going to be pissed later. I genuinely like Victoria, and I prefer she doesn’t think I’m a kid who can’t follow basic instructions.

  Just as I’m fiddling with it, it starts ringing. In this moment, I regret picking “The Imperial March” as a ringtone, but I couldn’t think of anything else to express how I feel about talking on the phone.

  “You know we keep our phones on silent when we’re with a client,” Mom mutters to me. I’d point out that this rhymes and therefore would make a great slogan—Borrowed + Blue: our phones are on silent when we’re with a client!—but I fear she may not appreciate it.

  “Is everything okay?” Victoria asks.

  “I promise, we don’t usually have our phones on during meetings like this.” Mom lifts her shoulders as though to say, Kids, amirite?

  “No, I meant with whatever was going on.” She nods at my phone. “It sounds like it might be important.”

  Another text, and I chance a look down to see it’s from Julia.

  “I don’t mind,” Victoria says. “Go ahead.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” I keep saying, opening up my conversation with Julia.

  Julia: SOS

  Julia: I’m at Noelle’s work and I thought it would be idk, busy?? But I’m the only one here and it’s awkward and I need backup PLEASE QUINN I’M

  Julia: I finished my blueberry muffin and god help me I might get another one just so I can have something else to do

  Julia: I got a scone instead and it was much chalkier than I was expecting it to be? Are scones always this hard? Anyway I choked a little and Noelle was concerned and I didn’t want her to think she was complicit in my death by selling me a faulty scone so I told her it was delicious and then accidentally bought another one

  “It’s my best friend,” I say, muffling a laugh. “Romance troubles.”

  “Ah,” Victoria says. “I remember it well. It was torture not to be able to talk to Hannah during the show.”

  “As soon as she got her phone back, I must have gotten… what, thirty texts in a row?” Hannah says.

  “Closer to fifty.” Victoria turns back to me. “If you need to go, I totally understand.”

  “Really? I mean, she could use the help, but I don’t want to run out on you.…” I look to Mom, who’s half frowning, seemingly torn between Victoria’s wishes and her own.

  “Of course,” she says. “I can finish up here.”

  Freedom.

  “Excuse us for a moment,” Mom says, and walks me to the door. Something bad is coming. I can feel it. “I don’t want to nag you, but you’ve got to make sure your phone is on silent next time. We don’t want anyone to think for a moment they don’t have our full attention. You know better than that.”

  You know better. You’re so mature.

  Now I’m wondering if maybe those compliments took something away from me. Not anything dramatic, like my entire childhood, but the ability to try things out. To fail. To venture out on my own, not as one-fourth of the B+B Berkowitzes but as Quinn.

  But if I were just Quinn, if I somehow managed to leave weddings in the past, I might feel as lonely as I did during the worst six months of my life.

  I can’t go back there.

  “I promise,” I tell her, “it won’t happen again.”

  * * *

  “You’re saving my life,” Julia whispers when I get to the coffee shop, a cozy spot in Wallingford with exactly two people in it: Julia and Noelle. “Oh, and don’t get a scone.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it. Hey, Noelle!” I say, approaching the counter.

  “Hey,” she says. “Job interview?”

  “I—oh. No.” I stare down at my outfit, the skirt seams probably working overtime to keep my thighs trapped. I’ll have to save that perfect summer dress for another day. “I was at a dress fitting.”

  “Did you ever watch Perfect Match? Quinn’s family is doing Victoria and Lincoln’s wedding,” Julia says.

  “Seriously? I loved that show,” Noelle says. “Not enough queer couples, but then again, isn’t that always the problem with reality TV?”

  “Agreed,” Julia says.

  “What are they like in real life?”

  “Victoria’s… pretty normal, actually. Nice. Funny.” I order an iced mocha, and while Noelle busies herself making it, Julia leans in close.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much. I owe you.”

  I wave this off. “Please. You can just paint me another portrait of Edith wearing people clothes.”

  “Here you go!” Noelle chirps. Before we turn to go back to J
ulia’s table, Noelle says, “Wait. Um. There’s this movie I was thinking of seeing tonight. Julia, remember when you mentioned that documentary about the artist who painted those murals in San Francisco using only paint made from fruits and vegetables? It’s playing at the Uptown.”

  Julia lights up. “I’d love to.”

  “I have plans!” I say quickly, not wanting them to think I’d intrude when this is clearly a date. “But you guys should definitely go.”

  The two of them coordinate from there. Julia looks thrilled, and I’m happy for her, even if it means I’ll be coming home to an empty house.

  Not for the first time, I wish Asher still lived here. The fifteen minutes between my house and her apartment sometimes feel like fifty, but I text her when I get home anyway, asking if she’s free tonight.

  At least I don’t have to hope for too long. Her response comes back in half a minute.

  Asher: Sorry, Gabe had tickets to Avenue Q

  Asher: I’ll see if he can get extras next time!

  Sighing, I tell her to have a good time as I climb the stairs to the tower. If she were here, there would at least be someone to keep me from making any additional Bad Decisions with Boys. Because the first thing I do when I get up to my room is scroll through my thread with Tarek.

  Since our late-night phone call, we’ve been texting again. Our messages are one step above small talk, very peppy, like we haven’t reached the point in our new friendship where we’re able to share anything that doesn’t paint us in the best light. It doesn’t feel quite like the friendship we had before, not yet. But it’s good to have an ally. Anything else I felt while we were dancing was likely just my horny, overanxious imagination.

  I haven’t checked his social media in a while. Even after unblocking Instagram, I was making myself sick, scouring his updates for clues, wondering if he’d fallen for someone and they were laughing at my email together. Waiting for him to post a couple photo and bracing for it to destroy me.

  Tonight, though, I allow myself to indulge in two things that might not be great for me: a microwavable mug cake and a little light stalking. There are a few more photos from the second half of his freshman year, photos from parties, including one he must have hosted, given the number of pastries it looks like he baked. It does something to my heart, seeing this kind of pure Tarek behavior. There are strangers commenting on how much they loved them, and here is this whole other mystery life he had.

  I scroll back farther, back to his perfectly Instagrammable relationships. Bright colors and sunsets and Seattle landmarks. I didn’t meet any of his girlfriends, never saw them together anywhere but on this screen. Safiya and Chloe and Paige and Rooftop Sex Alejandra. They’re all cute and smiley and evidently loved Tarek’s over-the-top displays. Further proof he and I wouldn’t work—not last year and not now, and yet no matter how fiercely I try to convince myself of this, I can’t get him out of my head.

  You didn’t matter enough for him to spend five minutes answering your email, I tell myself.

  And because I’m still deep in my self-hating spiral, I navigate over to Gmail. The words might as well be tattooed on my frontal lobe at this point.

  Subject: Good luck at college!!

  Dear Tarek,

  Am I emailing you because I’m too much of a coward to say this in real life? Quite possibly. If I’m being honest, though, even this feels pretty terrifying.

  I hope what I said the other day didn’t go too far. This summer has been a lot of fun. You’ve been the only thing keeping me sane at these weddings, and I can’t tell you how much I need that sometimes. More than that, though… I’m just going to say it, because I’m not sure how else to do this: I like you.

  Not just in a friend way, or in an our-parents-are-friends way, or in a semi-coworker way.

  The other way.

  So, there it is. It’s entirely possible I’ll regret this tomorrow, but for now I’m going to hit send and try not to overthink it.

  College is going to be incredible, and I’m so excited for you. I can’t wait to see you when you come home.

  —Quinn

  Dear Lord. Now that I’ve had distance from it, the last line sounds like a threat.

  I close the lid of my laptop, only to find Maxine Otto’s business card staring back at me. Ugh. Okay. I have to figure out what it is, and then I can get rid of it. At least it’ll fight my aimlessness. It’s not that I want to feel for someone the way Julia feels for Noelle—it’s that I want something in my life that feels right. Something where I’m not counting down the minutes until it’s over.

  Googling Emerald City Harps brings me to a sparse landing page with the same phone number as the business card. The tagline: Custom-built harps in the Pacific Northwest. So she’s a harp builder. Not what I expected, and if only because I’m desperate for a distraction, I search Maxine’s name next.

  This time I’m stunned by what comes up. There are thousands of results. Videos, links to albums, professional reviews. An article from a harp magazine called The Folk Harp Journal, musing on when she’ll return to performing. She’s even on Spotify, both with original music and for playing the harp on the soundtrack of a popular fantasy show.

  I click one of the YouTube links, the description letting me know it was filmed at an international harp festival in Australia in 2004. There’s a younger version of the woman who approached me at the wedding, her hair a more natural-looking blond. She rocks forward and backward along with the harp, focused on the instrument and not the audience. Her hands are swift, her movements occasionally harsh as she hits the strings with black-painted nails.

  She’s not smiling. She doesn’t look peaceful, serene, soft—none of the words I’ve always associated with the harp. And something about that makes it impossible to tear my eyes away.

  In the past, I’ve gone down YouTube rabbit holes, looking for harp versions of the classical pieces couples have requested. Harp YouTube is not a place I expected to find trolls, and yet there they were. I remember one video of a woman in a heavy coat and fingerless gloves playing the harp in the snow, no skin exposed except her face and fingertips, followed by comments like try it topless and wonder what else she can do with those hands. Part of it was just trash people on the internet, but the other was the realization that a girl playing this instrument might always garner that kind of attention.

  When the video ends, I watch another, one where Maxine duets with another harpist. Of course I know harps aren’t used only for weddings, that it’s not only old ladies and baby angels who play them, but I’ve never heard them sound like this, wild and feral and furious. It’s been a while since I cared enough to look.

  Maybe it’s the pressure from my parents. Maybe it’s the loneliness of this weekday summer evening, my inability to grasp anything with the kind of certainty that seems to come so easily to my friends and family. Maybe it’s pure curiosity.

  Whatever it is, it compels me to take a few calming breaths and make my second spontaneous call of the week, which, given I’m usually too shy to order pizza, is a real accomplishment. Somehow, I get the feeling Maxine is someone who would prefer a phone call over an email.

  “Hello?” says the voice on the other end.

  If you are calling someone for the first time, they should be legally obligated to make sure you have the right number by confirming who they are when they pick up.

  “Hi. I’m calling for Maxine Otto?” I say, cursing the question in my voice.

  “Yes?” she says, sounding impatient.

  I close my eyes, let out a deep breath, consider pretending to be a telemarketer and asking if she has a few minutes for a survey about her current cable provider. “My name is Quinn Berkowitz. I, um, played the harp at a wedding you were at last weekend, and…” It sounds ridiculous to say that I googled her and loved what I heard. “You gave me your card,” I finish.

  I expect her voice to change a little, but she sounds as stern as ever when she says, “I remember. It’s
good to hear from you.”

  “I watched a few of your videos. I’ve never seen the harp played like that before. And I saw that you build harps, and, well, I’m slightly ashamed to admit I don’t really know much about it, despite having been playing for most of my life.”

  I don’t know how else to explain it: that I feel completely lost? That harp doesn’t make sense to me, not fully, but neither does anything else in my life? That the last time I felt deeply in love with something was when I talked my grandma into learning a Katy Perry cover so we could play it together, and that was six years ago? And that I’d do anything to get some of that back?

  I’m surprised to hear Maxine laugh a little, like maybe that stiff exterior is softening. “Most of those are pretty old, but thank you. You’re welcome to come by the workshop. It’s usually open by appointment only. Are you available later this week, sometime in the morning?”

  I check my wedding calendar. “I could do Thursday.”

  “Excellent,” she says. “Come by around ten? And don’t ring the doorbell—the dogs get scared.”

  “I’ll remember that. Thanks.”

  And for the first time all summer, I feel something a little like optimism spark to life in my chest.

  11

  Maxine’s house is located near the northernmost tip of Lake Washington in a Seattle suburb with more space than any of the tightly packed homes in my neighborhood. It’s a one-story with a sprawling lawn and BEWARE OF DOG signs tacked up all along the fence.

  We have two cars, the van and an ancient Honda we share, which I took today. I park in Maxine’s driveway next to an old white van not unlike our MTRMNY-mobile, relieved when my brain lets me go after locking it once. A couple years ago, during a bad OCD week, I walked back and forth from the car to the doors of a grocery store about a dozen times because I couldn’t be sure it was locked. I’d just gotten my license, and I was terrified of something bad happening to the car. I kept hitting the lock button on my key fob and the car kept honking. And yet every time I put the keys in my pocket, I worried they’d brushed the wrong way against my hand or the fabric and accidentally unlocked the car. Cue unbreakable cycle.