Page 46 of That's Not a Thing

“Just that it was great meeting me, that maybe we could grab dinner sometime. The usual stuff.”

“No, not Spencer, Reese. What did Reese say when he heard the message?” The June sunshine is blazing unforgivingly against the asphalt, and I rummage through my purse with one hand, double-checking for my sunglasses. Coming up empty, I lower the sun visor, but it provides little improvement, so I snap it back into place again.

“Before or after he started hyperventilating?” Lana asks, laughing. “No, he was totally pissed, wanting to know if that’s why he wasn’t invited to Mother’s Day this year, because I wanted to hang out with Aaron’s doctor friend.”

“Spencer happens to be a pretty great guy. You might want to give it some thought. I mean, he’s sort of aggressive about moving up the food chain at work, from what Aaron tells me, but you can’t fault a guy for being motivated, and he’s super smart—like, wizard, mastermind smart.”

“And super cute,” Lana adds.

“Super cute,” I agree.

“But he’s not Reese,” she says, exhaling wistfully into the phone. “And I think this might have been the kick in the ass he needed. Itoldyou it was a good idea to boot him from Mother’s Day.”

“If you say so,” I tease.

“So, fill me in on the latest in the apartment. Is it getting any less bizarre?” I can hear her inner journalist angling for the scoop.

“Nope. Not less weird at all,” I quip. “Luckily, it’s rare that all three of us are there at the same time. Wesley’s been spending most of his time at the restaurant, at least during the hours when Aaron and I aren’t at work. I think he’s going to have to slow down soon, though. I feel like he’s deteriorated in even just the three weeks he’s been with us.”

“Does Noble know about any of this?” she asks, mentioning my brother, but I barely speak to him these days. He and Shara just had their sixth child in ten years, and he doesn’t have much time for chitchat with all those little ones running around.

“No, and please don’t tell him.” My tone is firm. “The last thing I need is a lecture from him. It was bad enough when I had to tell my parents. They only let up on their tirade after I explained what kind of shape Wesley’s in already—the canes, the wheelchair.”

“It’s so sad,” Lana says, stating the obvious. “What about a nurse or something? Are you getting someone to help look after him?”

“He’s not quite there yet, or at least he says he’s not. He interviewed a few people because Aaron convinced him that he should decide who he likes while he’s still coming from a position of relative strength.”

“So, he and Aaron get along okay?”

“Ugh,” I groan. “They’re having this weird bromance. I’ll get home from work and find them watching sports or going out for meals together when Aaron’s not on call. It’s like living in a hallucinatory state.”

“I’ll bet,” she responds. “Well, listen, call me when you finish at the synagogue. I need to hear every last detail.”

“I’ll bet,” I repeat back to her.

After parking next to my mom’s silver Toyota Camry in the front lot, I make my way past the groups of parents congregating outside, waiting to retrieve their children from Sunday school. I find my mother and Mary, the catering lady, in Mary’s office, engrossed in a deep discussion. They are speaking in hushed tones, but, from the few words I catch, I gather that someone in Mary’s life is battling cancer and my mom is offering some of her copious advice on the topic.

“Honey!” My mom beams. “Isn’t this exciting?” Like Lana, she tends to get fired up about wedding planning. She’s also still overcompensating, trying to make everything different, more upbeat, than my first, disastrous engagement experience. Initially, she was walking on eggshells, like she thought any similarity to the last time might break me, but now, ever since she found out Wesley has reentered my life, it’s like she’s taking wedding steroids, sprinting hard and fast toward the finish line before I let Aaron get away.

“Hi.” I look at Mary as I say it and then step farther into the carpeted office to give my mom a quick kiss on the cheek.

As I sit down in the burgundy armchair beside my mother, she dives right in. “We were thinking of finalizing the menu choices, and then we’ll talk linens.”

“I’m happy to weigh in on the menu, but you guys pick the linens. That is so not my thing.” A large arrangement of calla lilies is situated on the corner of Mary’s crowded desk, probably left over from some event last night. Their syrupy scent fills the office, and I wonder if I’m the only one who’s bothered by it.

“Okay, food first,” Mary says, her almond-shaped eyes brightening with enthusiasm as she opens a manila folder on her desk and looks down at the papers inside. “I took the liberty of making suggestions. You tell me what changes you want to make. For the cocktail hour, I was thinking we’d have eight stations around the room and then several types of passed hors d’oeuvres.”

She rattles off the different food choices she is envisioning: a carving board, sushi, a fajita station, Peking duck wraps. It all sounds very similar to what I’ve seen at friends’ receptions over the past few years, but much more elaborate than I was expecting for this second attempted wedding of mine. I don’t have the wherewithal to argue about it, though. If it’s what my mother wants, she can have it, just so long as I end up married to Aaron when everything is said and done.

Mary works her way through the entire affair, including the types of rolls in the bread basket at the sit-down dinner. “After you and Aaron cut the cake, we will also bring out a dessert sampler for each person at their seat. Everything is mini, so it’s adorable, a real crowd-pleaser. A little chocolate lava cake, tiny apple streusel, and pint-size donut sticks served in shot glasses with a chocolate dipping-sauce base.”

The donut stick shooters actually do sound kind of cute. As I wonder whether a donut stick is the same thing as a churro, I make a note to tell Wesley about them later. Oh my God, Wesley.

“Are we supposed to invite Wesley to the wedding now?” In my sudden panic, I blurt out the question to my mother before I’ve had a chance to think it through.

My mom recoils like I’ve smacked her, her tortoise-shell glasses slipping an inch lower on her nose.

I answer my own question before she has a chance to respond. “Of course we do.” I release a frustrated breath. “I mean, he and Aaron have complete man crushes on each other, and he’s living with us. It doesn’t seem like there’s any choice to be made.”