“Molly, you’re a wonderful sister,” he says kindly, putting his hand on my cheek. It feels so normal for him to be doing this that the weirdness between us is temporarily erased.
“He deserves the best,” I say as I take his hand off my cheek and kiss it. “Don’t you need a ride to the train station?”
“No, that’s okay ... I drove Claire’s car up here.”
I come screeching back to reality and drop his hand ... for a few seconds there, I’d been able to forget that Claire Reilly existed.
“Okay, then. Drive safely,” I say as I open the front door and then close it behind him.
I walk directly back to the dining room. Everyone is exactly where I left them, so I ask my brother, “Wanna spend the night in the city?” hoping that getting him out of the house will do everyone some good.
“Yes, I do,” he says gratefully.
The four of us accompany Logan to his room to pack a bag and I leave for just a second to tell Mom and Dad that he’s coming with me ... and we’re taking their car. They are grateful ... I’m not sure if they are grateful that I’m getting him out of their house or that I am taking care of his needs ... maybe both. When I get back to his room, his bag is packed and the five of us head out. We pile into the green Explorer, with Justin behind the wheel, and drive back to Manhattan. The car is quiet as the Manhattan skyline approaches, but there is a closeness among the people in the car.
22
Time to Get Engaged
The night that Logan was to stay at my apartment turned into a week ... so far. As happy as I was to have him there and be able to help him (and Mom and Dad), the week coincides with my first week of school, which makes it exceptionally hectic. Between twenty-seven third graders and one recently out of the closet twenty-three-year-old, I feel like I am caring for people twenty-four hours a day, which I suppose I am. Things are so hectic that I actually forget about the engagement, which is supposed to take place on Saturday. I talk to Justin almost every night, but with Logan always sitting a few feet away, we can never discuss plans.
On Saturday morning, I wake up early ... once I’m in early-rising school mode, I don’t stop for weekends. I quietly pad into the living room and pick up a stack of school papers that need correcting. It is a generic “What I did over the summer” essay, which I know isn’t the most creative assignment, but it’s so much fun to read how the most privileged children in Manhattan spent their break, and it’s a really good way to assess everyone’s writing skills.
I’m in the middle of reading about Carter’s trip to Nepal when my stomach begins to rumble. I take a short break from the part about the flight on the family jet where the flight attendant spilled orange juice on Carter’s nanny (poor girl) to get some OJ and a bowl of Cheerios for myself. I happily munch away as Carter describes the car from the airport, the train he rode on, and a bike he saw in the town. It’s well written for an eight-year-old, but I have to roll my eyes at the fact that his parents took him around the world and the things that really stuck out in his mind were the things he sees in the city every day: planes, trains, automobiles, and bikes.
“Do you wish you spent your summer in Nepal?” I foolishly ask my cat, who meows a scolding at me for being so silly.
I am on to Gabriella’s essay about the month she spent at Dragonfly Camp in Cape Cod and have to admit I’m shocked that parents would send an eight-year-old away for a whole month, but I can tell from her writing that she loved it, so I guess it works for them. She’s describing a large bug she saw on a nature walk when the phone rings. I grab it at the speed of light to catch it before a second ring that would definitely wake Logan up.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Molly? Did I wake you up?” Justin asks.
“No,” I reply hoarsely.
“Are you sick?”
“No,” I whisper again. “Logan is sleeping.”
“Gotcha. Throw on your cute sweats and meet me at our place.”
I look at the stack on the coffee table and decide a break from being jealous of little children’s summers is probably not a bad idea.
“Okay,” I agree. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” CLICK.
I silently pad to the bathroom and close the door. Meeting Justin this morning will be the perfect private time to finalize our now-delayed engagement plan. I go through my morning routine: face washing, tooth brushing, moisturizer application, etc., as noiselessly as possible, but as always seems to be the case when I am trying to be quiet, I bump into things and knock things over. I finally emerge from the bathroom and am shocked that I can still hear Logan’s soft snore from the other room. I scribble a quick note to Logan and tape it to the TV screen where I know he will see it; he’s spent most of the week at my apartment sleeping and watching TV. I pour a little more kibble in Tiffany’s dish and head out the door, scooping my hair into a sloppy ponytail as I go.
When I get to Starbucks, Justin is already waiting at our favorite table (by the window—it’s best for people-watching) with my favorite breakfast (a nonfat latte and a pumpkin scone) in hand.
“Good morning, Sunshine!” he greets me with a kiss on the head. “How’s our boy doing?” he asks, regarding Logan.
“Same,” I admit. Part of the reason I never got around to talking to Justin about the engagement plan is that any second I did have alone on the phone with him I was telling him about Logan’s behavior and trying to gain insight.
“That’s okay, this is new ... it’s gonna take time,” Justin reassures me for the umpteenth time this week.
“Thank you for this,” I say as I pick up the coffee. I take a big drink ... so yummy. “So, what’s going on with you?”
“Not much,” Justin says.
We chat, as only we can do, about Justin’s week at the restaurant, an audition he went on and a callback he got, my week at school, and Logan’s situation, for over an hour. Finally, Justin looks down at my scone, still in the Starbucks bag.
“Aren’t you going to eat your scone?”
“I’m going to save it for later. I had a bowl of Cheerios this morning.”
“Since when does a bowl of Cheerios fill you up?”
I think about that for a second ... that’s true, it never has. And then I notice that my stomach is feeling a little on the empty side. Whenever I stop and pay attention to my stomach, I notice that it is a little on the empty side.
“Yes, you’re right,” I say as I pull the scone out of the bag. As I set the scone on a napkin, there it is. Nana’s stunning ring is sticking out of the icing.
“Oh my God!” I squeal.
“This is it, Molly,” Justin tells me with a big, warm smile.
“This is it,” I parrot.
I carefully take the ring from the scone, using both thumbs and both index fingers, and hold it up. My eyes fill with tears—it’s such a beautiful ring, and I can still see it on Nana’s perfectly manicured finger.
“How’s this for a story?” Justin asks me quietly.
“It’s perfect,” I say and look up at him with my tearful but grateful eyes.
“You want to put it on?” he asks.
“Yes!” I almost shout.
He slips the ring on my finger and the entire Starbucks bursts into applause. (They must have thought that I was saying yes in response to “Will you marry me?” not, “Do you want to put the ring on?”) I jump, unaware that anyone had noticed what we were doing. People start calling out congratulations and the Barista brings us two little cups of sparkling apple cider to toast with. My cheeks are blazing, but I love it. Justin and I toast the little paper cups and then stand up and he grabs me in a tight embrace. The crowd cheers once again and I pull back a little and look into his deep brown eyes.
“Here we go,” I say.
23
Molly Is Finally Engaged
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I say as I stare at my hand. It’s so hard to believe that it has actually happened. Wearing the ring on the fin
ger has become a complete distraction, and I cannot seem to do anything but look at my hand and say, “Oh my God.”
I’ve been fake-engaged for two hours and I am still in a complete state of shock. I’d been planning and waiting for thirty years for the moment I got engaged; then, after it happened, I realized I have no clue what to do the next instant. Am I supposed to call friends and relatives? Or just skip the phone company middleman and yell if from the rooftops? Who do I call first? What do I do first? Despite all my preparation, I hadn’t made a plan past the ring being put on my finger! So far, all I’ve been able to do is smile ear-to-ear and look at my hand.
When Justin and I left the Starbucks, we went for a walk in the park to try to figure out the next step, but we were both so distracted by our excitement. Who could have predicted that the entire coffee shop would have gotten in on the action? They cheered for us, they offered their congratulations, and the employees showered us with complimentary baked goods and sparkling cider. It’s a story that rivals many of the most impressive and romantic stories I’ve heard.
Two hours later, I’m still admiring my left hand, but realize that it’s time we figure some stuff out.
“Who should we tell first?” Justin asks.
I think about it ... my head is a swimming pool filled with names of my nearest and dearest. Do I tell my mother? My sister? My father? My brother? That’s it ... I stop at Logan because he is the one I need to tell first. After all, he’s not only staying at my apartment and will see the ring on my hand when I walk through the door, but he told me first when he came out. The tricky thing about telling Logan, though, is that I intend to tell him the truth ... the whole truth.
Justin and I head back to the apartment and find Logan, as expected, sitting on the couch watching TV.
“Logan,” I say. “We need to talk to you.”
Logan looks up from the TV and immediately spots the ring on my finger.
“Oh my gosh, you guys,” he says, clearly trying hard to feign enthusiasm.
“Yes ... no ... but it’s not what you think,” I stop him. “You need to sit down.”
I start all the way back at the very beginning ... my birthday, my breakdown, and Justin’s ad. Justin and I explain about our business arrangement and the three-part plan: whirlwind romance, engagement, and wedding.
“But Logan,” I say, “you are the only one besides the two of us who knows the truth and we’re trusting you with it.”
Logan looks at us like we are both completely insane ... which we may very well be.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks us.
“It’s me,” I explain. “It was my decision. I’m tired of always being a bridesmaid and never being a bride ... and having to hear about it. All my friends have gotten to be brides and be celebrated and I want to experience that.”
“But you guys are the perfect couple ... you really seem like you love each other.”
“We do love each other!” Justin jumps in. “We have become wonderful friends—we love each other as friends.”
I feel slightly like a parent having to explain a divorce to a small child ... except that we’re not married or breaking up and Logan’s not a small child. He does stare at us blankly like a child, though, and I know none of this makes any sense to him.
“Oh!” I jump in, realizing he needs to understand one more important element to kind of get this, “Justin is gay.”
“You’re gay?” Logan asks Justin.
Apparently in the short time he has been out, he has not had a chance to hone his own gaydar skills yet.
“Yes. That’s why Molly felt really strongly that you should know the truth ... so that you could talk to me and I could help you with what you’re going through ... since I’ve been through it myself.”
“Does it make sense now?” I ask him.
“Not really,” he admits. “Molly, why do you think you have to do this?”
“I don’t have to. I want to. It’s my decision.”
“And how did you find Justin, again?”
“An ad in the Village Voice,” I say, somewhat sheepishly.
“But isn’t that Nana’s engagement ring?” he says, pointing at my finger.
“Yes. Justin asked Dad for permission to propose and Dad gave it to him.”
“But why did you ask our dad for permission to marry Molly when you’re gay?” he says in Justin’s direction.
“Because Molly has hired me to spend the entire year pretending to be her boyfriend and fiancé. You are the only person who will ever know the truth besides us,” Justin patiently explains.
“So you’re doing it for the wedding?” Logan asks, and I can’t tell if he is starting to get it in a supportive way or in an I’m-going-to-call-for-a-straightjacket way.
“Well, yes ...” I admit. “I’m using the wedding money that Nana left me. She wanted me to have my dream wedding, you know.”
Logan nods vaguely. Listening to the whole situation explained makes my stomach sick. It makes me realize how pathetic and disgusting I am. I am on the verge of just calling the entire thing off when Logan says, “Okay, I think I can get it ... kind of. I’m happy if you’re happy,” he says to me and smiles kindly.
“Thank you,” I tell him with my words and my eyes.
“So, you’re gay, too?” Logan says, turning to Justin.
“Yes.”
Justin and Logan spend the rest of the evening talking and I decide to take a bubble bath, relax, and not think about the “plan” for the rest of the night. I think I am still comfortable with my decision, although explaining it was a shameful experience. Dressed in my most comfortable pajamas, I stick my head into the living room just before I climb into bed. The boys are still talking.
“You guys doing okay?” I ask.
“Definitely,” they both agree.
“Loge,” I say, “you’re gonna keep our secret, right?”
“Of course,” he answers. “You guys are here for me and I’m gonna return the favor—even though I think you’re both insane.”
I smile and nod ... that’s all I can ask for.
24
Shouting It from the Rooftops
I wake up the next morning and am surprised how well I slept. I thought I would be too nervous or too excited, but I guess after such an exhausting week nothing was holding me back. I creep into the living room, half believing that Logan and Justin will still be where I left them and still be talking. They aren’t, though. Logan is gone, presumably in his bed, and Justin is stretched out—as best he can—and hanging over the couch.
I cross the room and sneak into the kitchen to get the coffee going. Once I have a full mug in my hand, I tiptoe up to Justin and gently shake him awake. His eyes open, partially, and I hold up the coffee cup so he can see it.
“Coffee,” I whisper.
He makes a small grunt, pushes himself up to a sitting position, and stretches. His bones make some disturbing cracking noises as he takes the mug from me.
“You know this couch pulls out to a bed, don’t you?”
“No, I wasn’t aware,” a grumpy Justin answers.
Normally in the mornings I wait for Justin’s coffee to kick in before I speak to him, but today I cannot wait.
“How did last night go? How’s Logan?”
Justin takes a big, slow gulp of the coffee before fully opening his eyes and looking at me.
“I think he’s doing as well, or better, than anyone else in his situation. You made the right decision to tell him the truth—it was very unselfish of you. I feel like talking to me helped him a lot. He said it did, anyway.”
I am overwhelmed with relief. I had been worrying about Logan from the second he told me his news. Now that I feel like Logan is definitely going to be okay and I know I have Justin on his side, I turn my attention to spreading the fake word about the fake engagement. I start with my mother because I realize she’ll never forgive me if she isn’t first—plus, I’m sure Dad told her about his co
nversation with Justin, which means for a week she’s been waiting by the phone for my call.
I give Justin a hug good-bye at the door (he’s going home to try to catch a few hours’ sleep in a normal bed before he does a lunch shift) and then pick up the cordless and dial my mother. She answers on the first ring, so I guess I wasn’t that far off when I said she’d been sitting by the phone, waiting for my call.
“Mommy ... ” I taunt her.
“Yes?” she plays the game back.
“Guess what happened yesterday?”
“I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Come on,” I urge, “guess.”
“I can’t. You tell me.”
Finally I end her suspense. “I’m engaged!”
“I know you are!” she cheers.
It’s both thrilling and dismaying how excited my mom is. In the week she’s known it was coming, she’s already started wedding planning. She has location suggestions for me to look at, florists for me to talk to, dress styles for me to consider. All that is the thrilling part ... what is the dismaying part is the little angel on my right shoulder constantly reminding me that I am a liar, liar, pants on fire. I allow the devil on my left shoulder to shush the angel and I resolve to enjoy my moment.
My mom really has been working on this project already, so I spend a good half an hour on the phone with her, hearing about everything that she has researched. And, she’s made an appointment for us to look at the banquet room at The Plaza hotel next Saturday at three, since when I was a little girl I always said I wanted to get married there. The fact that she remembers this brings a tear to my eye, the fact that it might actually happen brings the tear rolling down my cheek. We chat, excitedly, a little longer until I convince her that I have to get off so that I can tell other people, namely Jamie.
When Jamie answers, I immediately say, “I’m engaged,” and she immediately squeals and screams and then reassures Bryan that she is totally fine.
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