Gabe is Jewish too, though much more religious than we are. His family keeps kosher and observes Shabbat, which mine never did. There’s a mezuzah on his and Asher’s front door, family heirloom menorahs on display. We have to dig ours out of storage every year before scraping the wax off them, and I’m sure Gabe’s family never “forgets” to light the menorah on night six or seven. No one in my family has married someone who isn’t Jewish, though, and I’ve always wondered whether it’s assumed I’ll do the same if I get married.
In fact, Asher only ever dated Jewish guys, which is something of an accomplishment in Seattle. In elementary school, I was usually the only Jewish kid in my class, though there were a handful of others in middle and high school. And while of course there was BBYO Jonathan, I haven’t hooked up with any other Jews. Which is a weird thing to acknowledge, but there it is. It’s something I think about only when someone else’s Jewishness—namely, Gabe’s, and I guess Asher’s now too—is so clearly on display in front of me, and it makes me worry sometimes that I’m not quite Jewish enough.
“What’s the story with your cousin Moshe?” I ask, placing Danielle’s invitation in the “done” pile.
Across the table, Asher mimes stabbing herself in the eye with the calligraphy pen. “He’s in LA, trying to become a stand-up comic. Gabe is convinced that if he comes, he’ll find some way to turn it into a routine. And,” she says, twisting in her chair to call into the kitchen, “I promise you, I’ve dealt with a hundred cousin Moshes. We’ll be okay.”
Gabe heads into the dining room, looking business casual in khakis and a blue button-down, his dark beard especially mountain-man-esque today. Asher wants him clean-shaven for the wedding, so he’s seeing how long he can grow it out before then. “And I’m just saying,” he says as he places his hands on my sister’s shoulders, “I’m not into the self-deprecating Jewish comedian act, and I don’t want him to be something you have to ‘deal with’ on our wedding day.”
Asher and Gabe met in college. They kept seeing each other in their dorm elevator on the way down to the dining hall, and they’d exchange pleasantries, a bit of flirting. They Instagram-stalked each other for a while before they actually followed each other, and Gabe’s said he had to stop himself from telling her he was in love with her on their second date.
I don’t want to believe their relationship is doomed, but I can’t help feeling jaded, thinking about our follow-up folder and the marriages that have ended in divorce. About my parents and the six months they were separated. It all looks saccharine when you see how easily something you thought was solid can shatter.
“There’s just so much to do,” Asher says. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it. I wouldn’t be doing it for a living if I didn’t love it. But it’s a little overwhelming right now.”
This makes me feel bad about being reluctant to step in. “I’m going to help out. You’ll have more time.”
“Thank you for doing that.” She squeezes my hand. “Seriously. I always said I wasn’t going to turn into one of those brides who needed everything to be perfect, but…”
Gabe isn’t a whatever you want, babe kind of groom—I can’t imagine Asher being happy with someone like that—but he’s known when to sit back and let her take control. Not because she’s the bride, but because this is her area of expertise.
“It’s going to be perfect because it’s you and me,” Gabe says. Supportive Fiancé 101. “Everything else is out of our control to some degree. And we’re going to be okay with that.”
I’m reaching for the next invitation when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting a text from Julia, and I nearly drop it when I see Tarek’s name instead.
Hey. Just wanted to see how you’re feeling.
I stare at the screen. He can’t just turn on his phone to text me and not see our last exchange. Ignoring it is a choice, and I guess I’m making it too. Ignoring his silence, ignoring our fight, ignoring all those swirly feelings I once had.
Everything on my face is normal-sized again, I write back, and after a moment’s hesitation, add, thanks.
He must be trying to earn back some decent-human points, but I’m not sure how much credit to give him. He’s always cared about me. The year my grandma died, Tarek found me crying in a photo booth, cheered me up by posing with an odd assortment of props—a feather boa, a rubber horse head, an inflatable guitar—until my dad reminded us the photo booth was for the guests and that they’d paid a lot of money for it.
I still have that strip of photos, tucked away in the back of my nightstand drawer.
I stare at the phone for a while longer, trying to decide whether I should write anything else. Wondering if he’s going to.
Asher pokes me. “Less texting, more hand-lettering.”
“Need I remind you, I am doing you a favor.”
“I love you. Thank you. Put your phone away.”
After dinner Gabe takes off for the gym, leaving Asher and me alone with a few sleeves of cookies and a quarter bottle of wine.
“Only because you’re not driving home,” Asher says as she pours a half inch of ruby liquid into a mug. Wineglasses are on their registry. I pout and she pours more. Our parents were never very strict about alcohol because we were around it so often, and they figured as long as we learned to handle it responsibly, we’d be okay. They were right—I’ve gotten buzzed but never well and truly drunk. And I can’t say it’s not nice to be able to share this with my
