Not Quite A Bride (16 page)

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Authors: Kirsten Sawyer

BOOK: Not Quite A Bride
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29
She Checks It Twice
T
he next day, Justin and I head to Starbucks, which is a little embarrassing now because we are kind of celebrities there and they always applaud when we come in and give me a free pumpkin scone, which, don't get me wrong, is awesome and it's my favorite ... but once in a while I like something different. We sit down at our favorite table with my laptop between us and type out our “official” list.
Martha suggests that along with the date and the venue that the guest list be one of the first things completed. Since Marion seems to concur, we figure we'd better get started. I have my old-fashioned Filofax phone book with me and Justin has his spiffy, high-tech Palm Pilot.
I start with all my friends. I include everyone who has invited me to their wedding, which pretty much is all my friends since they're all married already. I pause briefly at Brad's name, not because he wouldn't be invited, regardless of how things are now—he's a special friend and an honorary member of the family—but because I'm hoping there is a way to invite him without Claire. Justin insists there is not, so I give up and add two more. After my friends, I add family members. I'm sure my mom's list will be a more complete list of the Harrigans and Nelsons (her side of the family), so there will be plenty of cross-referencing to make sure we have everyone, but this is a start. Finally I decide on the people from work who should be included: the principal of my school, my fellow third-grade teachers, and a couple other staffers. That's it for me. I count them all up and it comes to eighty-four. Not bad.
Then Justin flicks on his little device and starts going over the names of his friends (and family?) who would go to this “play.” He starts with his friends from work, since he explains that is a more gay/straight mixed group than his college friends. Next he adds a select group of college friends who would be good at playing along with the play and not make jokes about “the gay groom” the whole night. Finally, he thinks about his family. Definitely his brother and sister-in-law would come ... he thinks. His parents are another issue. Since they aren't completely comfortable with his sexuality to begin with, he's not sure how they would handle watching him “play straight.” Also, would they come all the way from Kansas anyway to see a play? I'm nervous about putting them on the list, and I'm nervous about not putting them on the list, because it would be awkward to explain to my family why Justin's family isn't invited. We decide to leave their name on the list and make the decision about whether or not to actually mail the invitation to them when the time is closer. His list is 32, bringing our total to a whopping 116.
While 116 guests means $29,000 at The Plaza, which makes me nauseous, it doesn't make me nearly as nauseous as the 200-person total my mother was predicting. This will be a sizable chunk of Nana's money, but it does leave enough to cover other essentials, like my dress. We look over our list once more, confirming that all of the important people are included as we finish our fourth and fifth lattes, and then we leave the Starbucks, surprised that we have been inside for almost four hours.
Justin needs to get back to his apartment and get changed for work, so we say our good-byes on the sidewalk out front. I open my purse and hand him money for today's “date,” but he puts his hand up.
“No, not today,” he says.
“But—”
“No, I don't charge my friends and we're friends now.”
“You're a really good friend,” I tell him as I give him a big hug.
30
Wedding Central
O
n Monday morning, as instructed by my mother, I get to school early to use the fax machine in the administration office to fax her the list. I have everything organized neatly and orderly and I must admit, I'm pretty proud of my list. I've checked over it twice more since Justin and I left Starbucks yesterday afternoon, and I had Logan look over it to make sure there wasn't anybody painfully obvious that we missed.
At lunchtime, I call my mom at home since she has cut down to a part-time teaching schedule this year.
“Wedding Central!” she answers.
“Mom! Is that really how you are answering the phone?” I giggle.
“Absolutely. I got your list. But, actually, Mol, it would be easier if you could e-mail it to me so that I could merge it into my list and get it a little more organized.”
Huh? E-mail? Merge?
More
organized? Who is this woman and why didn't she think my perfectly organized list was organized enough?!?
“Um, sure,” I reply lamely.
“It looks great, though,” she encourages. “You did a good job with your friends and co-workers. I'm just going to delete your family list since mine is more complete. Now, is that Justin's complete list or will he be getting more names to me?”
Did my mother just say, “now?” Is she turning into Marion?
“Um, that's all his names. Most of his family is in Kansas and he doesn't really keep in close contact with them.”
“Uh-huh, well, why don't you give me his mother's phone number so that I can give her a call and arrange to get her list?”
“No!” I yell a little too fast and a little too loud.
“What?”
“Oh, no, sorry, not you, Mom. One of the kids was about to eat sand on the playground. Um, about Justin's mom: she's just not that into the wedding stuff and they aren't really that close. The list he wrote is his final list. Don't worry about it.”
“Well, okay,” Mom says, sounding slightly confused and disappointed. “I just thought she might want to be involved.”
“I know, that's so sweet of you. She's just not like that.”
Ugh ... more lies. It's like Shakespeare says,
Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we—something—to deceive.
I can't remember the exact quote, but I totally get the sentiment.
Mom and I agree (well, Mom says and I say OK) that she will finish the list this week and meet the following weekend in the city to shop for invitations and dresses. This all feels like it's happening so fast, but Mom insists there is no point to waiting, so I go along.
After we hang up, I'm feeling quite overwhelmed, and I know Jamie is also on lunch break, so I call her cell.
“Have you called Mom recently?” I ask after we say our hellos.
Jamie laughs, “Is she back on the ‘wedding central' thing?”
“Yes! Did she do that when you were getting married?”
“I can't believe you don't remember. She alternated between ‘wedding central' and ‘mother of the bride speaking. '”
We laugh at our mother. We both realize how lucky we are to have her and how wonderful it is that she is excited and involved ... but we also both share the sentiment of wanting to beat her with something sharp.
“We're going dress shopping this weekend. Wanna come?”
“I would love to, but Bryan's sister is going to be in town.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed not to have a Mom filter, but trying to hide it so Jamie doesn't feel guilty. “Amanda or Marisa?”
“Marisa ... and her boyfriend du jour.”
“Well, it'll be good to see her. Give her my best. So,” I continue, in need of a change of topic, “how's Bumper?”
“We have our doctor's appointment this afternoon to find out if it's a boy Bumper or a girl Bumper!”
“Oh my God! That's so exciting.”
“I know, it's moving so fast ... it's getting so big. It's cra—”
I hear a loud whistle in the background. Lunch must be over at Jamie's school. I check the clock—I've got five more minutes. We say our good-byes and she promises to call me as soon as she knows if I'm getting a niece or a nephew.
Then the bell rings outside my class and the kids come piling back in. They are rambunctious from the time outside, and I take a deep breath and prepare for a trying afternoon.
31
Molly's Mom Goes Crazy
L
ater in the week, I arrive home to find Logan hidden behind a huge stack of what looks like extremely thick magazines.
“Logan?” I call out to him.
“I'm back here, Molly. Mom sent over these wedding magazines for you.”
There must be twenty-five magazines stacked all over my poor little coffee table. The shipping alone had to have been more than all the publications, and Mom has helpfully attached a short note to the front of a particularly thick
Modern Bride
.
The note says,
Molly,
Go through these magazines to get ideas of bridal gown styles you would like us to consider.
I look up and down the pile of magazines and peer over the top to find Logan on the couch reading another one.
“This style looks nice,” he says, holding up a picture of a long, straight dress that would look amazing on Cindy Crawford and few others ... seriously, you would have to be six feet tall and the width of a pencil.
I don't have time to respond before the phone rings. It's Mom calling to ensure that her package arrived and I understand my “assignment.”
“There were supposed to be packages of colored paper clips,” she explains.
I look around the table, and sure enough there are: one yellow, one green, and one pink.
“Use those to clip pages with dresses you like. Pink for your favorites, yellow for the maybes, and green for the not-sures.”
“Okay,” I nod, actually taking this all in.
Thankfully the Call Waiting beeps and I'm able to get off with Mom after just a few more instructions about disregarding length and color of dresses in ads as they might be available differently.
On the other line is Jamie.
“Thank goodness! I was on with Mom.”
“Haha,” she laughs. “Did the magazines come today?”
“You knew that was going to happen?!?”
“Of course. It's all part of the fun of planning a wedding. And you always thought you were missing out.”
I really always did think I was missing out ... but so far, all it's been is work! If Jamie knew what I was really doing to have this wedding, she'd think I was completely insane, which I probably am.
“So?” I ask, “in the spirit of all wedding all the time, is it a flower girl or a ring bearer?”
“It's a flower girl!” Jamie screams into the phone and I scream back.
Then I scream across the room, “Logan! You're getting a niece!”
Jamie stops screaming. “Logan's there? You told him?”
“Yes, he's right here.”
“I wanted to tell him,” she pouts.
Ugh ... I forgot who I was dealing with.
“Hang on, I'll put him on,” and I hand the phone to an eager Logan, who is now standing beside me.
I am grinning ear to ear at the thought of my niece on the way. I can't wait for her to arrive! As Logan chats with Jamie in the background I pick up the magazine on the top of the tall pile and start flipping through. The thing is about 80% ads. I'm trying to remember Mom's color-coded system as I see pictures of stunning dresses and hideous dresses and everything in between ... quite frankly, I'm starting to doze off. I hear Logan say “Hang on” to Jamie in the background and answer the Call Waiting.
“Hey, Molly,” he calls over to me, “Mom also says that you need to select a date for your engagement party and get her a list for that by the end of the week.”
Then he clicks back over to Jamie and keeps chatting.
Engagement party? Now
that's
what I'm talking about. All this wedding planning has been a lot of work—it's about time something fun got planned for me. This news gives me a second wind of energy and I pick up the next magazine on my stack and get to work.
32
A Crazy Thing Happens
S
mack-dab in the middle of all the wedding insanity, a crazy thing happens. Do you remember Kevin? The handsome groomsman whose fault it was I had to ride the subway home the morning after Maggie's wedding in the lavender curse? Well, I didn't, either ... but he remembered me and recognized me in the check-out line at D'Agostino!
Turns out his name is Evan, not Kevin, but he
is
as handsome as I thought he was the night I created a Jack Daniel's drought in Manhattan. Thankfully I was just picking up some apples, bread, and paper towels (I would have died if it was tampons and Ben & Jerry's, which it regularly is) when he warmly called my name and waved from across the market like we were long-lost best friends.
We ended up talking for an hour in the frozen food aisle, and he never noticed the engagement ring on my left hand. Perhaps this could be because I carefully kept it tucked into the pocket of my jacket, but I think it was probably just luck ... or maybe fate ... because he asked me out for Friday night! Wouldn't that be crazy if the “he's the one” sensors that were going off back at Maggie's wedding had been onto something? Wouldn't that be an adorable story to share with the grandkids?
The tricky, and somewhat disappointing, thing about dating when you're “engaged” is that you have to keep it a secret from everyone else. So, like a high-school junior, I have responsibly told Justin and Logan that I will be at Lauren's all evening, but not to call because we are having a wedding movie marathon. I've told Lauren, and all my other girlfriends, that I'm having a romantic night out with Justin. Bases are covered and I'm only slightly horrified, but mostly impressed, at how good I've become at lying.
At eight o'clock I am looking fabulous in black leather pants, my favorite cashmere sweater, and pointy black boots. I specifically leave my engagement ring in the top drawer of my jewelry box—I'm ready to meet Evan. I feared that the outfit could arouse suspicions in Justin and Logan, but thankfully I was able to slip out the door without seeing them. Instead of being planted in front of the television like I'd feared, they were in Logan's room with the door closed. I lucked out!
When I arrive at the bar Evan suggested, I am completely relieved that it is fairly dark, and not too crowded ... I definitely don't want to run into anyone I know tonight. He is waiting for me and I feel a flicker of excitement because he is even better-looking tonight than he was standing in front of the Lean Cuisines the other day. I join him for a pre-dinner drink, but remind myself not to get as drunk as the first time we met. I sip a glass of white wine while he drinks two imported beers and we chat about everything under the sun.
He is comfortable and easy to talk to, plus he's funny and interesting, too. Before I know it, we've hardly touched dinner and are on to hardly touching dessert. I know, it's rare for me to pass up food, but I am too excited to eat! He pays the bill, even though I genuinely offer to treat, and we quickly walk out of the restaurant and then stop, somewhat awkwardly, on the sidewalk out front. The sexual chemistry between us is too much to hold back any longer, and I am greatly relieved when he grabs me and pulls me into the alley at the side of the restaurant and starts kissing me. We make out for a few minutes before the lust is curbed enough to realize the shame of going at it in a public alley.
“Let's go to your place,” I say in my best sexy voice. I think we all know that nothing about me is sexy, but maybe I can fool him for just a little longer. I know what you're thinking, and yes, you are right ... I am being a total slut ... but do you understand how long it's been? Sure, my fantasy sex life is amazing, but I am human and I could use a little nookie.
“We can't, I have a roommate—let's go to your place,” he disappoints me.
Crap. “I have roommates, too,” I moan. No need to explain that my roommates are my fake, gay fiancé and my younger brother.
And then do you know what he says? “Let's get a hotel.”
And do you know what slutty Molly says? “Okay.”
I only suffer a minute of shame as we check in at eleven o'clock at night without a single bag, because before I know it, Evan throws me onto the bed and we start tearing each other's clothes off. It's not the best sex I've ever had ... but it's not the worst, and when someone has been in the desert for as long as I have, they aren't demanding Fiji water when Arrowhead (or maybe even tap) is being offered. Know what I mean?
When we finish, I feel like a total guy lying there calculating how long I need to stay. I mean, he did pay for a hotel room ... but I think me being gone all night would arouse too many suspicions to deal with. I am greatly relieved when, less than thirty minutes later, Evan gets up and starts to put his clothes back on.
“I wish I could stay all night, Molly, but I have a dog,” he explains.
Phew! “I have a cat!” I exclaim to reassure him that I, too, need to be getting home.
Hand in hand, we exit the hotel, sneaking past the concierge since now that our brains are working more regularly, we know to be embarrassed and stop out in front of the hotel.
“Molly, you're amazing. I have to see you again,” Evan says, and he looks so sexy with his messed-up hair that I have half a mind to pull him back up to the hotel room.
But instead I am a lady, and just say, “I would love to.”
“Are you free on Sunday?”
For a second I wonder to myself why he skipped Saturday, the official “date night,” but seriously, what do I care? He asked me out ... it's not like he said,
Call ya
.
“I am,” I inform him.
“Great, let's have lunch.”
Lunch? Ugh ... beggars can't be choosers.
“Lunch sounds great.”

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