Page 47 of That's Not a Thing

“But after the way he left you ...” my mother says.

Mary’s dark eyes dart between us, trying to determine what we’re discussing, perhaps assessing whether she should intervene. She probably sees many arguments between brides and their mothers. I imagine that, as a wedding planner, she must have some hardcore dispute-resolution tactics in her arsenal.

“I still haven’t digested the fact that he’s living with you,” my mom continues. “But it’s your wedding, your decision. Just please”—she holds up her manicured hands in surrender—“remember that it’s your day. You do what is best foryou. You owe that man nothing.”

Mary furrows her brow and looks at me questioningly. When I don’t explain, she turns to my mom.

“Her ex,” my mom nearly whispers, as if Wesley might be outside the room, listening in.

When the meeting finally ends, after we’ve discussed table linens, and china patterns, and the bride and groom’s grand entrance, and the father-daughter dance, and the anticipated toasts, and the cutting of the cake, I am wiped out. In addition to my ambivalence about each of these party-planning issues, I find it very difficult to decide in June what I will want to do when the wedding actually rolls around in December. I’m remembering all over again why I left the planning to my mother the last time around.

I climb back into Aaron’s SUV and follow behind my mom’s car until we get to Bibb and Butter, our favorite salad place in town. After we each order our usual Cobb salads—mine without the bacon, hers with extra avocado—we settle into a booth in the crowded restaurant.

Before she starts on her salad, my mother removes a small green notebook from her purse. “Okay,” she says, all business as she opens the notebook and flips pages until she gets to a clean sheet. “Now that we’ve finished the meeting with Mary, the next task is the dress. Let’s lay out where we’re going first.”

“Mommm.” I find myself drawing out the word, whining like a child. “You’re like a drill sergeant. I don’t want it to be like last time. It’s supposed to be easier, smaller. I feel like it’s spiraling out of control all over again. Eight appetizer stations during the cocktail hour? Really?”

“Look, honey.” My mom pinches her thin lips together for a moment, in a way that tells me she can’t be swayed from her position. “Just because there will be fewer guests does not mean that we will be throwing a slapdash party. The food will be ample; the decor will be elegant. As you like to say, that is just how I roll.” She raises her eyebrows, challenging me, as she removes the plastic top from her salad container.

When I don’t respond, she continues.

“You are my only daughter.” Her tone is softer. “I just ... all I want is to see my baby happy. I want that for both of us.” Her voice cracks as she finishes, and I immediately feel contrite.

“Jeez, Mom, you don’t have to get so emotional about it.” I reach out for her hand across the table and find her skin cool against my own. “If you really feel so strongly, fine, whatever you want, okay? I can put up with a carving station and a little Peking duck.”

“Okay,” she says, squeezing my hand for a second before we release each other. Her eyes are all watery, like she’s fighting back tears. It seems like she wants to say more, but she just lifts her paper napkin from the table and wipes at her eyes instead.

If Aaron were here, he would know just what to say to defuse this situation, to cheer her up and make this no big deal.

“Let’s call Aaron and fill him in. He should be finished with the gym by now, and I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear about the exorbitant amounts of food,” I joke.

I dial Aaron on speaker and place the phone on the table between us. When the call goes straight to voice-mail, I feel a thud of disappointment, followed by a nagging jealousy. He’s probably busy doing something with Wesley yet again—taking him out for a meal, hanging in Gramercy Park. With a sudden lightness, I realize that it’s Wesley I’m jealous of, for getting Aaron’s attention, and not vice versa.

WHEN I FINALLYwalk back into the apartment with two bags of groceries and a pile of mail in my hands, it’s nearly 7:00 p.m. and I am ready for a lazy night in sweatpants. I don’t know how many dresses I tried on as my mother and I argued over bustles and veils and trains. If we keep it up, we may soon be blacklisted at all the wedding dress boutiques in Jersey. Here’s hoping.

I’m glad to have a little time to myself this evening, as Aaron is on call tonight and Wesley has probably long since left for the restaurant in order to get there before the dinner rush.

I toss my keys down on the painted table in the entryway and turn my attention to yesterday’s mail, which I grabbed from the mailroom on my way upstairs. As I flip past our electric bill, I hear the crackling sound of wheels rolling over the apartment’s hardwood floors.

I look up to see Wesley navigating his chair in my direction.

“Hey. I didn’t realize you were here.” I drop the mail into the wooden bowl beside my keys.

“Yeah,” he says. “I meant to be at the restaurant already.” He glances down at the watch on his wrist without moving his arm. “Not sure I’m going to head in at this point.”

“Why?” I realize as I ask that I’m worried about his answer. Worried that another part of his body has started failing him, worried that he’s depressed, worried that he’s going to want to hang out with me while Aaron’s not here, worried that I’m going to agree.

“I wasn’t feeling great earlier. Better now, but ...” He shrugs, like I’m supposed to simply intuit whatever he’s implying.

“But what?”

“I don’t really want to roll in during a busy time in the chair, you know?”

“Oh.” I’m quiet for a second. “Watch a movie with me?” I’m surprised at myself for suggesting it, but also not that surprised.

“Yeah. Good. Let me just grab a snack.”

He rolls past me toward the kitchen.