Page 21 of That's Not a Thing

I look over at Aaron with appreciative eyes. The smattering of freckles across his nose gives him a boyish appearance that makes him seem free-minded, nonchalant. But I’m certain he knows exactly what he’s doing. He didn’t waltz into Dartmouth on football skills alone. That man has a hustler’s brain; he’s always thinking. And right now, he is using his sweet grin and strategically placed comments to help bring my parents and me back together.

The conversation turns to the pros and cons of different career choices and what each of us dreamed of being when we were young children (professional break-dancer, veterinarian, airline pilot). It’s jaunty and pleasant, but I can feel my mom’s eyes on me all through the meal, and I know what she’s thinking. She wants to talk about Wesley, see how his return has affected me, ask why I didn’t mention it to her sooner. Mainly, I think she wants to know if I’m all right. Or maybe she wants to know if Wesley’s homecoming is going to cost her the soon-to-be son-in-law to whom she’s so attached.

Chapter Nine

December 2012

As I waited for Wesley at the café on Eighth Street, scribbling notes in the margins of my criminal procedure textbook, I felt relieved to be three-quarters of the way finished with my fall semester finals. The second year of law school had been less daunting than that awful first year, when I had been sure I would fail out, but I was still neurotic about my grades, and my nerves were accordingly frayed. Even so, I had it better than Wesley, who had lost nearly all the money he’d saved for culinary school thanks to some questionable investments and the recession of 2008. He was working as a line cook in a swanky restaurant in Gramercy Park now, saving a new pile of cash and accumulating more back-of-the-house hours.

I picked up my mocha latte and watched my engagement ring sparkle in the winter light. The massive yellow diamond had belonged to Wesley’s great-grandmother Florence, and his parents had insisted that we use it. Truth be told, I wasn’t much into the yellow, teardrop-shaped stone, but I knew it was valuable, both emotionally and financially, so I tried to enjoy it in the spirit in which it had been intended.

The door opened and I felt a burst of cold air as Wesley walked in, pulling his knit wool cap off his head. His cheeks were pink from the frigid air outside, and snow had dusted the shoulders of his dark gray peacoat.

“Hey, weasel,” he said, as he gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “It’s mad cold out there.” He took off his coat and draped it on the back of a chair. “I’m going to grab a hot chocolate. I can’t believe we’re going to have a wedding when it’s so cold out. We should have hopped on a plane to St. Barts or something. Hell, even Vegas would’ve beaten this.”

“Are you really going to start now? After everything?” I asked, gearing up for yet another battle about the wedding. Wesley had more or less been on my side as we’d brokered the details with our families. We’d chosen a date in early January so I would be between semesters in law school, and also because winter was the only time of year during which my Orthodox Jewish brother and sister-in-law would be able to attend. Noble and Shara didn’t drive on Shabbat, but once the sun set on Saturday evenings, they were free to use technology again. The early sunsets in January meant they would be able to attend a party that started at 7:00 p.m. In the warmer months of longer light, that would never have been a possibility.

Wesley’s parents had resisted the idea of a winter wedding, arguing about potential snowstorms and road closures. They ultimately revealed that their reluctance stemmed from a desire to host the affair in their backyard, which wouldn’t be possible during the winter. Of course, my parents couldn’t abide the idea of the groom’s parents’ hosting their daughter’s wedding, regardless of the season. They traded comments that only provoked both families further. Wesley’s parents had even threatened not to attend at one point. Somehow, Wesley had worn them down, and eventually, we had all agreed on a January date. Except now Wesley was bringing it up again.

“No, I’m not saying that,” he replied, as he took his wallet out of his messenger bag. “I’m just cold. Your parents have been through so much over the past few years, it’s understandable that they might still behave irrationally sometimes, almost like they have a little PTSD.” He shrugged, like he was talking about strangers.

“PTSD?” I blanched at his flip attitude. “Since when was this about my parents being irrational? I thought you agreed that the wedding should be in the winter.” I didn’t bother to hide my irritation as my mind starting spinning with logistical questions, running scenarios about new dates and other options, but then I thought of the scalding disputes we had all suffered through already, and I prepared to dig in my heels.

“No.” He shook his head, as though he had never taken a side. “I just agreed that the constant arguing was tiresome.”

I opened my mouth, ready to lay into him for this disavowal, but Wesley held up a finger to pause the conversation and walked off to place an order with the barista. I rolled my eyes, annoyed at him for hightailing it out of this discussion as soon as it became adversarial. Even so, when he returned to the table a couple of minutes later, a steaming mug of hot chocolate nestled between his hands, I decided to take a page out of his book and dodge the conflict. The wedding plans were already set, continuing to bicker wouldn’t achieve anything.

“Have you heard from your parents? Did they land yet?” I asked, changing the subject, as Wesley licked at the whipped cream topping his drink.

“Nah,” he answered, plunking down into the seat opposite me. “I guess the whole point was to get away from everything—de-stress from all the tension of the wedding planning, the arguing. I’m going to give them their space so they can get forget about the travesty of having to participate in a kosher wedding.”

And there was that. Wesley’s parents had insisted on splitting the cost of the wedding with my parents as a condition of relenting about the date. It was a lovely gesture—until the bills started coming in and everyone began fighting about how to allocate the wedding dollars. Serving kosher food cost too much, the Latners complained, but they seemed to think my mother was cheaping out by hiring a ten-piece band instead of sixteen. Sixteen! Weren’t we going to hire valet parking attendants, they wanted to know. What about a person to staff the coat room? My mother wanted orchids in the centerpieces; Wesley’s wanted tiered candles. Our parents did finally reach compromises on the myriad decisions, but apparently all the squabbling was just too much. Wesley’s parents had decided they needed to take an extravagant vacation in order to put the stress behind them and rest up for the big day.

“Oh, here.” Wesley seemed to have remembered something, as he started fishing through his pocket. “I saw it on my way to work this morning and thought you absolutely needed to have it.” He pulled out a brown paper bag, inside of which was a petite bundle of brown paper that looked to be folded around a very small, egg-shaped item. As he unwrapped the item, it materialized as a necklace with a tiny snow globe charm hanging from it.

“Wesley!” I gushed, feeling my cheeks flush with pleasure at his persistence in spoiling me. “You should not be spending your hard-earned money on me when you still have so much to save up,” I admonished him, even as I reached for the necklace.

It was cool against my hand, still chilled from the air outside. As I peered more closely at the charm, I saw mini plastic figures inside, a tiny bride and groom kissing in the middle of the snowy world.

“It’s kind of garbage,” Wesley hedged, “but with your collection and all ...” He shrugged sheepishly, as if he was now embarrassed by the romantic gesture.

“I will always feel like I’m living inside my own personal snow globe with you—nothing but the two of us in the world, inside a bubble of perfection,” I told him.

I didn’t think much at the moment about how the coating of the bubble I envisioned was made of glass, so easily broken.

IT WAS ONLYthree hours later when Wesley got a call from the airline. We were snuggling on the denim couch in my compact studio apartment, watching the21 Jump Streetmovie, which we had already seen in the theater earlier that year. Wesley’s cell rang, and he didn’t even answer the first time.

“Don’t they know I’m hanging with my girl?” He wrapped his arm more tightly around me as he silenced his cell with his other hand.

When the phone started vibrating again a minute later, I paused the movie. “You should see who wants to talk to you so badly. It’s fine.”

He took the phone from his pocket and shrugged at it, like he didn’t recognize the number.

“This is Wesley,” he said into the phone as he lifted the bottle of wine that was on the coffee table and started refilling our glasses. I took the opportunity to prance to the kitchen for the box of red velvet cupcakes Wesley had made the week before, which I had stashed in my freezer. I was thinking that the cold temperature should have made those cupcakes easier to resist, muted their flavor, when I heard glass shatter.

I dashed back out of the kitchen and saw Wesley standing on the blond parquet floors in the center of a pool of red wine and broken glass, seemingly frozen, the phone to his ear and his face gone gray.

I stared at him, afraid.