Praise for
TODAY TONIGHT TOMORROW
“A dizzying, intimate romance.”
—KIRKUS REVIEWS, starred review
“Wraps the immediacy of a single day with outstanding layers of nostalgia, empowerment and self-acceptance.”
—BOOKPAGE, starred review
“This funny, tender, and romantic book is fresh and wholly satisfying.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, starred review
“Fun, flirty, and downright adorable.”
—DEB CALETTI, award-winning author of A Heart in a Body in the World and Girl, Unframed
“Today Tonight Tomorrow is romance done right.”
—TAMARA IRELAND STONE, New York Times bestselling author of Every Last Word
“I fell head over heels for this smart, swoony, hilarious story.”
—JENNIFER DUGAN, author of Hot Dog Girl
For Jennifer Ung.
You make every book feel grand.
Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I have never been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall.
—JANE AUSTEN, Emma
1
At this point, I should be strong enough to resist a cute guy in a well-tailored suit.
I knew my ex would be here. In the wedding party. Wearing a tux that would undeniably accentuate the bold lines of his shoulders. And yet when I saw him enter Carnation Cellars, a garment bag slung over one arm, a wire in my brain sparked and a neon sign flashed DANGER, QUINN BERKOWITZ, and the next thing I knew, I was shoving myself into a broom closet and shutting the door behind me.
It’s possible I’m not great at confrontation.
Someone coughs. My heart leaps into my throat as a single light bulb flicks on, illuminating my sister.
“What are you doing in here?” I ask.
Asher’s in her wedding planner uniform: black blazer, black pants, dark hair in a topknot. I’m only a little dressier in a gray sheath and navy tights. When I’m behind the harp, plucking away at Pachelbel’s Canon during the processional, I’m meant to be part of the scenery. Pretty, but not too pretty. Decoration.
“Pregaming.” Asher takes a sip from a flask designed to look like a compact. “Just a sip when things get stressful. Calms me right down.”
“Mom and Dad will kill you if they see that.”
“And I value my life too much for that to happen,” she says. “What brings you to my closet?”
“I, uh, know someone in the wedding party,” I say, trying to banish the image of him leaning over me in his car last month, but my anxiety-brain grabs hold of it, shines a light on it, hits repeat. “Intimately.”
“Who is it?” she asks. “Will? Corey? Theo?”
“That list is really not painting me in the best light.” I lean back against a row of chardonnay and press my lips together in a firm line before letting his name slip through. “Jonathan.”
“Jonathan Gellner! As in, brother of bride Naomi Gellner. Right. He was…” She trails off, as though searching her memory for an adjective I used when describing him to her.
Sweet. Jewish. Probably pissed at me.
We met at a BBYO party, and though I’d joined the Jewish youth group to feel more connected to my religion, I didn’t anticipate this precise kind of connection. He was a cardboard cutout of a hot guy: dark hair, blue eyes, one perfect dimple when he smiled. We hadn’t talked about making the relationship official, but I worried it was heading there. This is the first time I’ve seen him since, well, our first time. Everyone says the first time can be painful, but mostly I just felt awkward—so awkward that I ended things via text the following day, three weeks ago. It would be easier if he never had to see me again, if we never had to talk about it. If I never had to think about those twelve minutes in the back seat of his car or the bruise on my hip shaped like the gearshift of a 2006 Honda Civic.
“A bad decision,” I finish for her.
“We’ve all been in uncomfortable situations.” Asher reaches up to keep the light from swaying. “It’s part of the job. Do you think I loved planning the wedding of the teacher who gave me a C in freshman algebra? No, but I kept things professional.”
As my mom always says, we’re in the business of the most important day of people’s lives. Nothing less than our best—that’s her motto.
“I’m trying,” I insist, even as my mind remains set on mapping out the most disastrous ways this wedding could end. Jonathan confronting me on his way down the aisle and demanding an explanation. Jonathan reciting our text history in lieu of a toast. Jonathan requesting a harp rendition of “Like a Virgin.”
Asher holds out the flask, and I take a sip I immediately regret. It feels like swallowing nail polish remover. For a moment I’m convinced it’s going to come back up, but it slides down my throat and settles in to war with the anxiety in my stomach.
“Thanks,” I say. “I love it when you condone underage drinking.”
She rolls her eyes, stashes the flask in her back pocket, and opens the door. The light catches the diamond of her engagement ring, or maybe she just knows exactly the right angle to position her hand. Her fiancé messaged me about a dozen ring options before he proposed, wondering what she’d like.
What I didn’t say: they all kind of looked the same to me.
Asher pulls out the phone she keeps clipped to her belt. On days I’m playing the harp instead of playing my parents’ assistant, I make sure whatever I’m wearing has deep pockets. A moment later, our group chat buzzes against my right thigh.
B+B Fam
Asher: Just finished placing name cards. Bridesmaids/groomsmen status check?
Dad: Guys looking and almost ready for
Mom: Need help in the bridal suite. Asher, Quinn?
Quinn: Be there soon
Before the Jonathan sighting, I was on my way
