Right now, after a stint of dead-end relationships, with me being the dead end of the street,, I choose loneliness over the eligible guys my age who seem to be looking for uteri more than companionship. I’ve had a few first dates whose ticking biological clocks drowned out the paltry conversation to the point that all I could hear by the end of the night, no matter what the guy said, was, “Have my babies.” Needless to say, there haven’t been many second dates.
Rae’s not experiencing that problem, because she’s rarely dating at all these days. She doesn’t have time for it, with her work and travel schedule. She doesn’t have much time for me, either. Which is fine. She’s not much fun to be around right now, anyway.
Prickly with everyone else in her life, she’s tended to give me a pass—until recently. I’ve chalked up being at the receiving end of her more cutting barbs lately to the stress of her relatively new job. It was a highly contested position, so being chosen from the hundreds of applicants was a big deal. Plus, it’s been her dream for as long as I’ve known her to work for the NFL, in general, not to mention our hometown team. Achieving and keeping a goal like that must come with plenty of pressure. Since I wouldn’t know firsthand, I have to assume that’s the case.
So, I get that she’s on edge lately, even with me, the person who’s been at her side through everything it took to get here. I also get that she needs to focus her attention on work and immerse herself in it. But the less time we spend together, the further apart we’ve grown. I guess it was an inevitability of growing up (which I’d like to go on record as saying pretty much sucks), and maybe there’s nothing we can or should do about it, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less awkward while we’re adjusting to our new dynamic.
Part of this new reality involves going to a party together, then not hearing each other’s voices for more than a month and communicating exclusively via text message, if at all. Because that’s happening. But you know what? That’s life. She’s living her dream, and I’m… living. Beats the alternative, right? Most days?
Five
Bah, Humbug!
“How are the potatoes? Do they seem bland to you? I think they’re bland. Flat. There’s nothing I hate more than flat potatoes.”
“They’re fine,” I reassure my future sister-in-law. “And the duck is fabulous.”
That’s right. Duck. There will be no pedestrian turkey at this Christmas dinner. Or, heaven forbid, ham. Greg and Deirdre, the future Mr. and Dr. Snow-Richards/Richards-Snow (they’re still debating the order of their hyphenated moniker), are duck people. We’re eating by candlelight.
I’ve never felt more like a third wheel in my life. That always makes me belligerent.
When I’m finished eating, I set my silverware on my plate, lean back in my chair, pull out my huge pot-stirring ladle, and ask, “How are the wedding plans going?”
Deirdre answers, “Fine,” then purses her lips so tightly they could be mistaken for her butthole.
Greg says, “Fine,” then adds after a few seconds’ pause, “if you ignore the fact that we still haven’t been able to agree on the flowers. I want understated; she wants… gaudy.”
She adjusts the position of her wine glass in relation to her plate. “The arrangements I like aren’t gaudy! They’re dramatic, which is going to be necessary, because the venue is so large. Your ‘understated’ bouquets will blend in with the woodwork.”
“Why do you care about flowers, Greg?” I ask. “Seriously. That’s so not the groom’s territory.”
“And that’s a sexist statement.”
“Answer the question.”
“Sue me for not wanting the flowers to be towering over us in all the pictures, like something out of Little Shop of Horrors.”
Deirdre looks at the dainty watch on her bony wrist. “Well, we’re running out of time on that decision.”
“Show me pictures of the two options, and I’ll decide,” I offer, straight-faced. “Break the tie.”
The two of them laugh stiffly.
“Or you could postpone the wedding until you end your floral stalemate.”
Deirdre’s face goes from tight amusement to wide-eyed earnestness in 0.2 seconds flat. “The wedding is happening on the first Saturday in June, and that’s not negotiable.”
“Not at all,” Greg concurs. “If we slide back the date of the wedding, that will affect all the other dates in our five-, ten-, and fifteen-year plans. Not an option.”
I attempt—and fail—to stifle a snicker. If I didn’t know them better, I’d think they were kidding about all of this. But they’re dead serious. Scarily serious.
“Well, if the flowers are your biggest sticking point, then you’ve made progress since the last time we talked. You must have decided on your last name and which house you’re going to live in, huh?”
Robotically, Deirdre starts stacking the china and gathering the silver. “Those decisions aren’t as critical.”
I continue to stir. “Oh, but with the housing market the way it is, you guys need to pick which house you’re going to sell, right?”
“Hers is more marketable right now,” Greg points out. “Fewer bedrooms, lower price point, easier to move. This place, on the other hand, is perfect for a growing family. It’s hardly worth discussing.”
Deirdre chuckles mirthlessly. “Oh, but it is worth discussing. This house is too big for us, but we could get more money out of it. Money that we could invest in our children’s college funds.”
“Where are these children of yours? Is there something the two of you haven’t told me? What are their names? Bring them out to meet Aunt Maura.”
Greg
