We Can't Keep Meeting Like This

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  “Is this okay?” he whispers, pressing a kiss to one hip bone and then the other.

  “Yes.” My voice is featherlight. “But I—I haven’t done this before.”

  “I haven’t either.” The words are low and breathy, and they do nothing to ease my wanting. “We could figure it out together?”

  The figuring-it-out is strange at first. Then a little less strange, warm and shimmering and yes, my hands in his hair and his name on my tongue. And then just… bliss. Utter bliss.

  When I pull him back up to me to kiss him, it feels different. Heavier. Maybe because we’re alone, maybe because that was new for both of us and by far the most intimate thing I’ve ever done.

  He drops his lips to my neck. “Quinn,” he says into my skin, a little growl that sounds like both an invitation and a question. Just like that, I’m ready again.

  “Do you have a condom?”

  He nods. “Are you sure?”

  “Very. Are you?”

  “I don’t think I’m doing a terribly good job hiding my enthusiasm,” he says, muffling a laugh into my neck as he grows more enthusiastic against my leg, “but yes.”

  I have to laugh at that too, because laughing is okay, because why can’t this be funny and hot and sweet and probably even a little weird all at the same time? Why did I ever think it had to be only one thing and that I’d done it so wrong?

  It’s all of those things and more, and as soon as it’s over—for both of us—I miss the heat of him. With the sheets around our hips, we talk and we laugh and we listen to the rain taptaptap at my tower window. Our stormy summer soundtrack.

  At one point, Tarek cups my face with his hands, his touch gentler than it’s ever been, this reverence that nearly breaks me in half. “So, how was it? Having a boy in your room?”

  “Ten out of ten, would do again.”

  A grin lights up his face. “You’re not unhappy right now, then.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m very, very happy.”

  It’s only once the words leave my mouth that the dread fights its way to the surface, filling my mind with all the fears I’ve tried to lock up tight. It makes me roll away from him on the bed, desperate for air, his light touch suddenly suffocating.

  I could really fall for him. I’m convinced of that now, and it would be a catastrophe.

  I should tell him to leave. Kick him out of my room. This isn’t right, having him here long past our expiration date, no matter how very, very happy it made me. Happiness is fleeting, and any amount of it I have now isn’t worth the heartbreak waiting for us on the other side. I’ve already made it clear I can’t be the girlfriend he wants. I can’t give him the story his parents had if I’ve never believed in stories.

  The longer I let him stay, the more this is going to hurt. Somehow, I know it won’t just leave a bruise this time—it will rip me apart.

  And that’s how I know it’s time to end it.

  24

  The flowers were supposed to be royal blue,” Mom barks into her phone, an unsuspecting florist on the other end. “These are cerulean.”

  The museum is a flurry of activity. Camera wires are taped down, tables are repositioned, candles are lit, centerpieces are examined to make sure not a single petal is out of place. The ivory velvet curtains hiding the most erotic paintings look rather artistic themselves, giving the reception an even more exclusive feel.

  Our clothes are pressed and crisp, and Dad made us do this dorky team huddle when we got here that still somehow managed to tug at my heart. I can’t help feeling jittery, despite my decision that Asher’s wedding will be my last one with B+B. Or maybe because of it.

  Naturally, something goes wrong right away.

  “That’s odd,” Asher says, frowning down at something on her timeline.

  “What?” I straighten out the MOB and MOG cards at the head table.

  “I have a few cards here that haven’t been assigned to a table.” She shows me the handful of delicate, loopy-scripted cards. “Five of them, actually.”

  We cross-check my stack of cards with the seating chart, and it turns out I have three more without a home.

  “We’re lucky it’s a buffet.” Asher’s bun is slicked back with so much hair spray, you’d need one of those infomercial knives that can cut through granite to take it apart. “We were so meticulous. You updated the RSVP list this week, right?”

  I’m pretty sure I did. Didn’t I? “We could add an extra chair at each table,” I suggest feebly, but we have an entire family to seat, and we can’t split them up.

  “Let’s see if we can grab another table.”

  “A reject table.”

  She taps her nose. “Yes, but only you and I will know that.”

  Two more weeks, and then I will break her world apart.

  I swallow that down. No time for it now.

  We find an extra table in the museum’s restaurant and recruit a couple of producers and cater-waiters to help us tweak the spacing. My stomach does this swoop when Tarek appears in the doorway. Everything about him looks brighter, fuller today, the wave to his hair and the light in his eyes and the quirk of his mouth when he sees me.

  “Hi,” he says, rolling up his sleeves like he’s about to do something more aerobic than simply moving tables. He grazes my lower back with a few fingertips, his hand lingering for a moment. It’s a small but intimate gesture, and it makes me blush.

  “Hi.” And suddenly I can’t stop grinning.

  Too late, I catch myself. Tarek is my other countdown, but I haven’t yet decided how to tell him. Ghosting wouldn’t feel right, though I’ve done it in the past. It’s probably a good thing he’s going back to school soon. We can’t do a long-distance relationship if we don’t have a relationship. That’s got to be the least messy way to end this.

  “Hi!” Asher says with false enthusiasm and a clap of her hands. “Now that we’ve all said hello, can we keep this moving?”

  The ceremony itself, which takes place on the patio, goes smoothly, except for a couple flower girls who love the petals so much, they can only bring themselves to part with one or two every few feet. Finally, one of their mothers intervenes and throws fistfuls of petals, which makes everyone laugh. Victoria looks stunning in her strapless A-line dress and hair comb, Lincoln the epitome of dapper. If I didn’t know they were being filmed, I wouldn’t be able to tell. They have this way of tuning out the cameras honed over a dozen episodes of reality TV.

  A glass is broken and everyone shouts “Mazel tov!” and when my jaw starts feeling strange, I realize it’s because I’ve been smiling. Guess I’m more excited than I thought for another episode of Perfect Match.

  No mistakes at dinner, either. No dropped plates, no embarrassing toasts. I can almost feel the weight of this day lifted from my family’s shoulders. The cake has been waiting in the middle of the room all through dinner, and toward the end of the meal, I head back toward the museum restaurant to retrieve a knife. This is the last cake cutting I’ll be part of for a while—that’s what I’m thinking when my shoe snags a camera cord and I stumble, toppling forward and flinging my arms out, grasping for anything to break my fall—

  —and that “anything” turns out to be one of the velvet curtains.

  It happens both in slow motion and in a single heartbeat, the tearing of the curtain from the ceiling, the shouts from the wedding guests, the gasp that might be coming from my own throat.

  And the unveiling of a painting with the most well-endowed guy of the bunch.

  Parents clap hands over children’s faces. “What on earth?” says one little old lady, while another puts on her glasses to take a closer look. In some distant part of my brain, I hope that’s the kind of old lady I become.

  Somehow, I don’t spontaneously combust from embarrassment, which is the way I’ve always assumed I’ll die. With my body half beneath the curtain, I decide I shall hide under it for the rest of my life. This is my new home. The men in the paintings will be my only friend
s. It will be a good life, a simple life.

  Except something wild happens. People start laughing. A few chuckles at first, but then it spreads, a wave that takes over the whole room until even Victoria and Lincoln join in.

  From where they’re standing near the exhibit entrance, just off camera, my parents and sister look amused too. Horrified, but amused. Maybe this will be okay. I haven’t ruined the wedding—I’ve just turned it into a comedy.

  The room is in such an uproar that no one immediately notices the smoke rising from the other end of the curtains.

  At least, not until the fire alarm goes off.

  Followed shortly by the sprinklers.

  * * *

  Miraculously, the art is safe, but the cake and most of the decorations are ruined. Months of work—gone.

  Tarek and his mom run to a nearby bakery to buy out all their cakes while the guests dry off outside. The crew is still filming, despite Victoria’s mother’s best efforts to shut them down. Victoria waved her off, told her she didn’t care if they documented this disaster. “Lincoln and I are married,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

  The curtain swiped a candle on its way down, and if there’s a better metaphor for my relationship with my parents going up in flames, I would like to hear it.

  “We got lucky,” Dad is saying as we clean up the exhibit-slash-reception alongside the museum staff. Asher’s outside with towels and extra articles of clothing she scrounged from our emergency kits, trying to keep the guests from further losing their collective shit. “Everyone’s okay. Victoria and Lincoln are okay. This could have easily been much worse.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say for the hundredth time, guilt and embarrassment fighting for control, both intent on making me feel as shitty as possible. My wet hair isn’t helping either. “I don’t know what happened. I just—I just tripped. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”

  Mom rolls up a tablecloth so tightly, I’m worried she might use it as a weapon. “I realize mistakes happen, but something of this magnitude? You knew how crucial it was to be on top of our game today. All these people trusted us. That’s what this job is—trust.”

  Mistakes happen. Why, then, do I get a lecture and her endless, aching disappointment any time I make one? My allergic reaction, the missed trip to the florist, the forgotten walk-through. If I were a vendor, they’d simply stop working with me. But because they can’t, this is what happens. It’s not just a mistake. It’s the destruction of the biggest wedding of their career, and I’m the easiest person to blame. The cake could have flipped over onto my head of its own accord, and I’d still be the one getting berated.

  I drop silverware into a large gray bin, each damp clang turning my guilt to anger. “Right. People trust us to make sure their flowers are the right shade of blue.”

  “I don’t exactly see how sarcasm is helping right now.” Mom attacks another tablecloth. “It doesn’t matter how insignificant a request seems. It’s our job to do everything we can to make it happen, and we’re good at it. It’s the reason we’re able to put food on the table, the reason you’re able to go to such a good school.”

  “I know that,” I snap. Of course I appreciate what they do. Of course I’m grateful. “I’m glad you have this thing you love so much you had to have your kids be part of it.”

  “This is our family business.” There’s genuine confusion in my dad’s voice. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”

  This is it. I want to be calm, collected, professional, the perfect wedding planner they’ve groomed me to be. The poised and dignified harpist.

  But I’m not that person anymore.

  “I don’t want this.” My heart is pounding against my rib cage. I throw an arm out, gesturing to the wedding wreckage. “Any of this. I don’t want to study business, and I don’t want to join B+B when I graduate.”

  My parents pause their cleanup, Mom dropping into a chair and Dad letting a soggy centerpiece fall to the ground. The rest of the staff, as though sensing we’re having A Moment, give us some space.

  “You don’t want to join B+B?” Dad says. “You… don’t want to work with us?”

  Those questions nearly break me.

  I have to summon all my bravery to keep going. “It’s not that I don’t want to work with you. It’s that all of this… It isn’t right for me. I get that you love it, but I haven’t felt that way for a while. For years, if I’m being honest. I can’t get excited about dress fittings or cake tastings. I’m not the kind of person who’s going to shed a tear when the bride walks down the aisle. All the timelines and calendars and vendors to organize, it’s too much. I go along with it because that’s what I’m supposed to do, but this isn’t my passion. It’s yours.”

  It should feel better than it does to finally tell them. I expected an immediate untwisting of all the tangled, knotted parts of me. I thought I’d be able to take a deep breath, move forward, move on.

  That doesn’t happen.

  Dad takes a chair next to Mom, who’s still speechless. He loosens his tie, swipes a hand through his damp hair. “You always seem to have fun. Maybe not today”—he even chuckles at this, as though hinting that we’ll be able to laugh about this wedding in the future—“but with the betting on songs, and having Victoria and Lincoln as clients, and work brunch…”

  The guilt comes rolling back. It’s possible I went too far, convinced them I liked this job when what I really loved was my family working together. I’m not sure how to explain the difference.

  “I loved that we did this as a family,” I say, urging my voice to stay solid, to not collapse. “And part of the reason I held off on saying anything was because I didn’t know what I’d rather be doing, only that it wasn’t this. But I’ve been taking harp lessons this summer, and—”

  “Harp lessons?” This is when Mom chooses to interject. She’s ghost-pale, her eyes barely blinking behind her cat-eye glasses. Even in all this chaos, her damp hair is free of frizz and flyaways. “But you already know how to play. You don’t want to be part of the wedding business, but you’re taking harp lessons?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, like I could disappear and open them up in a new reality where Victoria and Lincoln are laughing and eating potato croquettes. “It’s a different kind of music.” My defense sounds thin. I knew they wouldn’t get it, and here is the brutal confirmation of my worst fears.

  “Is it really you saying this, Quinn?” Mom says. “Or is it Tarek?”

  “Tarek? What does Tarek have to do with any of this?”

  “You’ve been completely different this summer—ever since he came back,” she says. “We always knew you had a little crush on him. We were worried at the beginning of the summer that he might make things tough for you. And now that you’re spending time together, well…”

  I’m certain there’s nothing worse than your parents knowing you had a crush on someone.

  “It’s not like that,” I insist. “We’re—” But there is no we’re. I made sure of that. “We’re nothing. There’s nothing between us.” The words don’t feel right. They’re too sharp on my tongue, but I press forward anyway. “I haven’t been acting a certain way because of him. Why is it so hard to accept that I made this decision on my own?”

  Dad gets to his feet and holds out his arms, as though I am a wild animal he’s trying to pacify. “Maybe we should discuss this later. All of us are a little emotional right now, and we have a lot of cleaning up to do.”

  “I’m not emotional.” My voice cracks, betraying me. “This is how I feel. You didn’t ask me to help out more when Asher was busy with her wedding. You never ask.”

  “So we’ve forced you, then? Your whole life, we’ve forced you to be part of—the horror—the most beautiful, important day of other people’s lives?” Mom is all claws now. I’ve never seen her like this, but I shouldn’t be surprised. B+B is her baby. I’m just her employee.

  “Fine. Maybe you don’t force m
e, but you sure as hell do an amazing job guilting me into it,” I spit out, gaining more power now as I stalk toward them, past the table where Victoria and Lincoln were supposed to eat their cake. “You always assume I’m going to do whatever you say because that’s what I’ve done for eighteen years. And it works out for you, because the truth is that I’m terrified of creating a rift if I say no. Because this family never fucking talks about anything.”

  I’ve never sworn at my parents. Never. I’m shocked to have said it, to have put words to this thing we never talk about. More quietly, I add, “Not about anything important, at least.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dad says, forehead crinkled with confusion.

  “Hmm, maybe the six months Mom wasn’t living with us?”

  This hits them in a soft whoosh, their features crumpling, shoulders sagging. Suddenly they look so, so small, less like my parents and more like two people who’ve never had the answers.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Mom says quietly.

  I try to laugh, but it comes out as this choked sound. “Everything. It’s the reason I’ve been scared to tell you how I really feel about working for B+B, the reason I’ve been scared to leave. Because I don’t want this to fall apart without me—not because I’m some integral piece of the business, but because I’m constantly worried you’re going to start fighting about flowers, or candles, and there won’t be anyone there to intervene. You’ve just—you put on this act for B+B’s sake, pretending you’re so in love and you have this perfect marriage, but I can see through it. I know it’s not real.”

  “Quinn.” Dad shakes his head, disbelieving. “We’re not pretending. I don’t know what gave you that idea, but… that was so long ago. We’re all past that now.”

  “How can we be past it when you’ve never talked to me about it? When Mom just moved back in one day and we were supposed to pretend the previous six months weren’t the most miserable of my life?” I blink blink blink to soften the pressure building behind my eyes. I won’t cry in front of my parents. I won’t.