Asher’s eyes widen as she listens to whoever’s on the other end. “Oh. Oh no… The whole shop…? I’m so sorry.”
My parents go silent, watching her carefully. By the time she hangs up, her face has gone pale.
“There was a fire at the bakery,” she says, and Mom’s hand flies to her mouth. “Everyone’s okay, fortunately, and they have insurance. So that’s a relief.”
“But your cake…?” Mom says, and Asher shakes her head, a strand slipping out of her topknot.
“They can’t do it.” Her voice wavers. “My wedding is in three days, and we don’t have a cake.”
“We’ll reach out to all our contacts.” Dad swipes through his phone, leaping into wedding-planner action mode. “Shayna, you start with the As, I’ll start with the Zs.”
“It has to be gluten free,” Asher says. “That was why we went with this place, because they had a gluten-free kitchen. For Gabe.”
I forgot that Gabe is gluten intolerant. And really, I shouldn’t have, because the gluten-free challah we had at his place for Shabbat once was the stuff of nightmares.
“That does narrow things down a bit,” Dad says. “And Mansour’s, they’re booked?”
“We didn’t go with them because they didn’t have a dedicated gluten-free facility,” Asher says. “So, yes. I assume they booked something else.”
“Shit,” Mom mutters.
The three of them scroll through their phones, and I just sit there, trying to figure out how to help.
“It’ll be okay,” Dad is saying to Asher, trying to reassure her.
“Tarek could do it,” I say quietly.
They all pause what they’re doing, three heads swiveling in my direction. “What?” Mom says.
“Tarek could do it,” I repeat. “If you can’t find anyone. He’s never done a full cake for a wedding before”—I can’t lie—“but he’s done pieces of them, and he’s been trying out new recipes for various allergens. He’d make sure everything was clean, no contamination.”
“He’s always been great at what he does,” Mom agrees. “We couldn’t impose like that, though. Could we?”
He’s been waiting for a chance like this, I want to say. “It’s worth a try,” I say instead.
So I give Asher his number, and I wait while she makes the call. I can just barely hear his voice on the other end of the phone, and it brings back that swirly feeling I used to think was some kind of sickness.
Now I know it’s something else entirely.
“He can do it,” Asher says when she hangs up, letting out a long breath. Then she shakes her head and laughs a little. “Wow, he was really excited. He didn’t even want to charge me, but I insisted. Thanks, Quinn.”
And if that isn’t the adorable Tarek I’ve always loved.
Loved.
With a jolt, I realize it might be true.
“I’m glad,” I tell my sister, though I wish I could have witnessed that excitement for myself.
Soon, my parents will go to a final venue walk-through, and Asher to a fitting with a client. I will be alone in the house again, trying not to let it feel as lonely.
Then I have an idea. “Hey—if you all have a minute before you go back to work, could I play something for you?”
30
Cake ex machina. That’s what Asher is calling it—cake saves the day. And she’s not wrong. Tarek’s cake is pretty phenomenal. Or at least it looks that way, three layers, champagne cake with buttercream frosting, dotted with dainty white sprinkles. I have a feeling it’ll taste even better.
My parents tried their best not to cry during the ceremony, which was led by Gabe’s rabbi, who I guess is now Asher’s rabbi too. But by the time Gabe stomped on the glass and we all yelled, “Mazel tov!” neither of my parents’ faces was dry. I even felt myself smiling for real when I played Etta James on the harp.
It’s my last wedding with B+B. Maybe not forever, but for a while, and I wouldn’t have picked any other wedding to go out with.
Now we’ve moved to a different part of the botanical garden for photos, and the buffet is being prepped while guests take their seats. I smooth the hem of my maid-of-honor dress, a long, flowy number with thin straps, a deep V in the back, and a gorgeous embroidered bodice. The color is technically “fog,” which I only know because Asher got mad at me when I called it gray. Out here in the sun, it’s not gray at all, especially when the light catches subtle hints of blue-green.
My parents are trying to enjoy themselves without rushing around behind the scenes, but they can’t help it. It’s a little endearing.
“Don’t forget a few close-ups of the bouquet,” Dad says to the photographer as we pose in the gazebo. “And the rings, too.”
“Dad,” Asher says. “I think they’ve got it.”
There’s nothing fake about the smile on my sister’s face or how Gabe lights up when she laughs. That’s all real. If her airy open-backed gown, ivory lace with flutter sleeves and a frothy train, is anything less than comfortable, I’d never know.
I’m not sure how I was ever convinced all of this was a performance when proof of the opposite is right in front of me. When maybe it’s always been in front of me.
But I’m learning.
We’re the last to take our seats in the garden, this area surrounded by lush trees and a hundred different flowers I’m sure my family knows all the names of. I’m tucked between Asher and my mom, who keeps fussing with Asher’s veil. Every time Asher catches my eyes, she rolls hers, but I can tell she loves it. This is her day.
A few tables away are Julia and her parents. She flies out to New York tomorrow. And all the way at the back at what should be table number seventeen—but Asher tweaked the numbering so he wouldn’t know he was at the reject table—is Gabe’s cousin Moshe, who is under strict orders to keep his stand-up comedy to himself.
When it’s time for the toasts, Gabe’s best man gives a short but sweet speech about being Gabe’s roommate in college and having to listen to him talk about Asher nonstop. “If you like her so much,” he recalled saying to Gabe one morning, half asleep, sarcastic, “then why don’t you just marry her?”
“Maybe I will,” Gabe had said, and Asher laughs like she’s hearing this for the first time.
When it’s my turn, I lift my eyebrows at my sister, indicating that I am definitely going to embarrass her, and she waves an arm as though to say, “Go right ahead.”
I unfold the piece of paper I wrote my toast on. Not the whole thing, just a few talking points. “Hi,” I say into the microphone, and it squeals with feedback. An auspicious start. “Sorry. It’s a little weird being on this side of things. As most of you know, I’m Asher’s sister. There are seven years between us, and while that doesn’t mean I’m an accident baby, it also doesn’t mean I’m not an accident baby.” I look directly at her. “Or it could be you, who knows.”
The audience laughs a little at that.
“Asher and I have had a unique relationship. She might correct me on this, but I’m not sure if I was ever the annoying little sister. My parents used to call me her shadow; that’s how much I followed her around when we were younger. I adored her—well, still do—and she was the person I most wanted to be when I grew up.”
A few awws. Julia flashes me a thumbs-up.
I adjust my grip on the microphone. “Asher is the kind of person who throws herself into whatever she does without hesitation. She commits. And that’s an ideal trait for someone who’s getting married, because I have no doubts about how deeply she’s committed to Gabe. To give you a sense of how committed she is, I made this incomplete list of things she’s wholeheartedly committed to over the course of her life.” I continue, reading off the piece of paper: “She committed to speaking in an Australian accent for an entire month when she was thirteen and I was six, just because I told her she was horrible at it. She remains staunchly committed to not just the Bachelor franchise, but every single one of its spin-offs. And she’s not watching
them ironically, like I sometimes am—she truly wants everyone on that show to find love. She committed to boot-cut jeans, even when they went out of style, assuring all of us they’d come back eventually.”
“And they did!” she calls. More laughter.
“In all seriousness, though, she commits to dozens of weddings a year with Borrowed + Blue. This really is her dream job, planning the best day of people’s lives. For a long time, I wanted so badly to have a path for myself as right as Asher’s.”
As I sweep my gaze across the garden, my eyes land on Tarek, who’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen. His arms are folded, but it’s not an angry pose. There’s a softness to his shoulders that makes me optimistic. I’m too far away to be able to interpret his expression, but that’s also not exactly new with us.
“My path has been a little different,” I continue. “A little rockier. But I’ve made some discoveries about love recently, and I wanted to share them with all of you.” Nerves turn my voice shaky, and maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s okay to be scared about this part. I didn’t make notes past this point and had only a vague idea of what I wanted to say, but seeing Tarek makes the words come a little easier. “Love is frightening. I should know, because I keep running away from it. But someone like Asher—she loves so fully, so seemingly without fear. It’s hard not to admire her for it.
“When you’re in love, whether that love is platonic or romantic, you get to be the fullest version of yourself, uncertainties and mistakes and all. You get to be that version of yourself—because it’s a privilege, really, to open up that much, even when it’s challenging. And it is going to be challenging sometimes, especially if you’re not used to being your whole self. Especially if your whole self is something of a mystery, even to you.” My heart is racing, and I can’t let my eyes linger on any singular person. Maybe it sounds like I’m speaking in generalities, but Tarek has to understand what I mean by this. How important he’s been to me. “When you’re in love, you want to spend time with that person not just on your good days, but your in-between days and your bad days too. You want to try new things and indulge in the coziness of familiar ones. And if you ever feel like you’re on the verge of losing that person, you’d pull a grand gesture to get them back. The kind of grand gesture you’ve only seen in romantic comedies. Maybe you’d ask a guy who lives on a houseboat if he’ll meet you on top of the Empire State Building, even if you’ve never spoken to him in real life.”
When my eyes find Tarek’s again, he’s not laughing. His features are serious, even grim, and I clench and unclench my fist around the microphone, worried none of this is landing the way I want it to.
Still, I charge forward. “I think we all can agree that Sleepless in Seattle is far from a perfect film. But when you’re in love, you do wild things. That love isn’t always visible to the people outside of it, but you can feel it. And I know that’s what Asher has with Gabe. It’s a really special, surreal thing to find that person, and I couldn’t be happier that we’re all here to celebrate with you.”
Asher holds a hand to her heart. Love you, she mouths.
I raise my glass. “To Asher and Gabe—may you always have that top-of-the-Empire-State-Building kind of love. Cheers!”
* * *
Dinner and dessert pass by in a fizzy-bright blur. It’s impossible not to smile when everyone is celebrating my sister and Gabe, toasting them, praising Tarek’s last-minute cake. “I can’t believe this is gluten free,” at least three of them proclaim. One guest asks Asher for his card, and the idea of Tarek having a business card is instantly adorable to me.
I really do feel content—mostly. Which is why I excuse myself as dessert is winding down and the band is warming up.
In the kitchen, Tarek is packaging up what’s left of the cake while other servers work through a mountain of dishes. He treats the cake in this measured way, delicate but confident. I don’t know how I was jealous of this because right now I’m filled with pride. This thing he loves brings joy to so many other people.
“Hey,” I say, and wait for him to turn around.
It’s not a smile he gives me, but it’s close. “Hey.”
“The cake was incredible.”
“Yeah?” Now he’s trying even harder to hide the smile. “You have no idea how happy I was when Asher called. Thank you for suggesting me.”
“Thank you. You kind of saved the wedding.”
“You’re the one who gave me the chance.” He finishes bundling a slice of cake in plastic wrap, then in aluminum foil. Always meticulous, that one. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t one of the things I loved about him. “My parents were impressed. I might get to take on another one next month.”
“Tarek. That’s amazing,” I say. “I was hoping we could talk.” I glance around the room, which isn’t exactly private. “But not here. Could you meet me out in the gazebo in…” I check the time on my phone. The first dance is soon, and I’ll want to stick around for at least a few more. “Twenty minutes?”
His posture relaxes the tiniest bit. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”
Shaky legs carry me to the dance floor, something like hope hovering in my midsection. Asher and Gabe’s first dance is to “You Are the Best Thing,” which I give a solid seven out of ten for first-dance songs. Sappy, sure, but also kind of perfect.
The next song is customarily the father-of-the-bride dance, but they buck tradition and invite my mom and Gabe’s grandparents to join in, switching partners throughout.
Then Asher nearly clobbers me in an attempt to drag me onto the dance floor. I let her take my hand in hers, resting my other one on her waist, careful with her lace bodice.
“Dress looks decent,” I say as we sway back and forth.
“You little loser.” With ease, she spins me around, and when we’re facing each other again, she lifts an eyebrow at me. “So, that toast…”
I scrunch my face at her. “Was one-hundred-percent about you and Gabe.”
“Right. I could tell, what with our deep personal attachment to Sleepless in Seattle and all.” She scans the area beyond the dance floor, and I’m pretty sure she’s looking for Tarek. “It was really brave, what you did.”
“I’m still not sure if it worked.”
“Not just the toast,” she says. “Everything. This whole summer, Mom and Dad, B+B. Your lever harp.”
“Not mine yet,” I correct her. Because god, they’re expensive. “It’s just a loan. But maybe one day.”
“Whatever you end up doing, I have a feeling you’re going to be fantastic at it.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep the emotion from leaking out. “Ugh, stop, I made a vow I wouldn’t ever cry at a wedding. But I guess this is my last one. For a while, at least.”
She goes quiet for a few moments. “A good one to go out on, I hope?”
I scoff at that, because how could there be any other answer? “The best.” Another spin, and then I’m back in her arms. “Was it everything you wanted?”
“Was? It’s still going on. I’m not leaving until they kick me out,” she says. “There’s considerably less Chris Evans than I thought there would be, but it’s been incredible. I didn’t think I’d get a chance to talk to everyone or to eat everything I wanted to, but Mom and Dad made it so I didn’t have to worry about any of the logistics today. I could just… get married. And enjoy it.”
“I’m so, so glad,” I say, meaning it.
I tuck a loose strand of hair back into her updo, and she gives me a grateful smile.
“So. After all of that, am I going to get a Tarek update? I’ll beg if I have to.”
“There isn’t really an update to give,” I say. “At least, not yet. I asked him if he’d meet me in the gazebo so we could talk. That was about twenty minutes ago, and I asked him to meet me in twenty minutes, so—”
She lets out a yelp and nearly drops me. “And you’re still dancing with me? Go! Go climb that Empire State Building!” Then she
wrinkles her nose. “Wait. Is Tarek the Empire State Building in this metaphor? Did I just tell you to go do something dirty?”
“Oh my god. I’m leaving.” I pull her close, inhaling that familiar Kirschbaum shampoo I’ve come to associate with the people I love most. “Mazel tov, you old married lady.”
31
I make my way deep into the garden, until I can barely hear the music. There’s more green, more sprawling trees and mystery flowers, and I’m surprised to discover that Tarek beat me here. I must not have noticed when he sneaked away.
He’s waiting in the gazebo, sitting with his elbows on his knees, wringing his hands, the opposite of Casual Dude Pose. I haven’t seen this nervous look on him very much, and when it hits me that he’s nervous because of me, I quicken my pace. I want to leave all my fears and uncertainties behind, but I’m sure I take a few with me.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I say, folding the skirt of my dress beneath me and sliding onto the wooden bench next to him.
“That sounds like you’re interviewing me for a job.”
“I could. Personal chef?”
This earns me a laugh, and I want to pluck the sound from the air and tuck it next to my heart. It’s only been a couple weeks since I heard it, but it feels almost like the beginning of the summer again, like I am relearning this person who disappeared for eight months.
He toes the ground with his sensible black shoe. After a silence, he lifts his head. Those long lashes—it takes all my willpower not to reach out and touch him. “So… how are you doing?” he asks.
“I’ve been better,” I admit. “You?”
“About the same.”
I’m still not sure how to bring up what I asked him here to talk about, the thing that’s surely on both our minds, so I start with something easier. “I changed my course schedule,” I say. “I kept one of the business classes, but I’m also taking a music theory class, a gender studies class, and something about the history of theme parks.” What I don’t say: that he was the first person I wanted to tell. That not being able to has been torture. That the freedom is terrifying, yes, but mostly exciting.
We Can't Keep Meeting Like This Page 26