After Victoria proposed to Lincoln, she found out he was her opposite, and yet they stuck it out. She designs book covers for a small local publisher, and Lincoln, an environmental lawyer, moved here after filming so they could get serious about trying to make their relationship work off camera. When they started thinking about their wedding, Victoria found my parents through the Jewish grapevine.
Finally, Asher regains her composure. “Streamr wants to film the wedding.”
“Well, sure, we already knew that,” I said. “I thought Victoria and Lincoln wanted to keep it private. No media.”
“They offered an amount of money that was impossible to turn down, so… it’s not exactly going to be private anymore.”
“One of our weddings is going to be on Streamr?”
Asher breaks into another smile and lets out a little squeal. “Yes. Holy shit, I can’t believe it. I’ve dreamed of something like this for a long time, but I never thought it would actually happen. I have to call Mom and Dad. I have to call the Mansours, and the photographer, and the florist, and I have to—”
“Breathe,” I say as the cookie I’m chewing turns to chalk in my mouth. A Borrowed + Blue wedding, available for anyone to watch at any time. My mind can’t make sense of that jumble of words and what it might mean for our family.
“I’m not even mad that this wedding is overshadowing mine,” Asher continues. “This could really launch us into the spotlight. Imagine if we did more high-profile weddings. If we could travel.”
“I—wow, I can barely imagine it,” I say, and at least that isn’t a lie.
I want to be happy for Asher, for my parents—but I can’t ignore the panic building inside me, the fear that a bigger B+B would be even harder to leave.
This must make me the worst sister, the worst daughter. The worst employee. I know I have to tell them. I just want some confirmation I’d be gaining more than what I’d be giving up, and that must be why I haven’t been able to express how I really feel.
Nothing less than our best. It’ll only be multiplied by a hundred for Victoria and Lincoln’s wedding.
“You okay?” Asher asks, and I rearrange my face into something resembling happiness.
“Yeah, sorry, just overwhelmed.”
For a moment I want to tell her how I’ve been feeling: about B+B, about college, about my black hole of a future that will drain everything that makes me Quinn. But there’s no way it wouldn’t offend her—she’d think her job was a handout, that she doesn’t work hard. She’s so in love with the idea of us continuing to do this as a family.
“That I can relate to,” she says. She jumps off the couch and does a little dance. “Ooh, the place cards Gabe and I ordered arrived yesterday. Did I show you?”
I shake my head as she retrieves a box from the second bedroom, trying not to think about how it would feel to lose all of this—to lose her—again.
6
I’m feeling about as out of place as I usually do as a Jew in a church, which is to say, considerably.
As the Berkowitz on the lowest rung of the B+B ladder, I’m in charge of the least glamorous things: coat check, program placement, bathrooms. And when the couple asks for it: Canon in D. I set up my harp near the pulpit and begin rehearsing the Bach piece the bride and groom requested for the recessional. Asher and Gabe are at a wine tasting, and I’m already nostalgic for the evening we spent at her place last week. I have no idea when we’ll get the chance to do that again.
Asher’s absence also means I’m in charge of catering and floral. I coordinated with the elder Mansours and with the florist via text, and they’re already setting up for the reception. Maybe I won’t need to talk to Tarek at all.
The priest seems amused by my playing the harp. “Forgive me,” he says from the pulpit, where he’s reviewing some notes, “but most of the harpists I’ve worked with are at least thirty years older than you.”
“I’m actually forty. Good genes.” This doesn’t get a laugh. Damn. Are all priests this tough a crowd? Fleabag betrayed me.
While I’ve never felt wholly welcome in a church, I haven’t yet burst into flame inside one. There’s no one narrowing their eyes at me, wondering what I’m doing here, telling me I don’t belong.
Except the middle-aged woman already seated in the second row, but I’m fairly certain that’s unrelated to religion. She’s in a sequined black dress and matching wrap, her white-blond hair cut short at severe angles. She appears older than my parents, but she has this striking, sophisticated aesthetic, and she’s watching me with a look of something that might be disappointment, which is odd because I’ve never seen her before and therefore haven’t had a chance to disappoint her.
I switch songs, from Bach to Beethoven. Still, her expression doesn’t soften. Okay then. Sorry the sound of the world’s most pleasant instrument somehow offended you.
There’s always at least one sour person at every wedding, someone who thinks one partner could do better or is using the other for their money, or knows some salacious secret about the couple. Usually a family member, sometimes a concerned friend. Very rarely, a jilted ex-lover. I’ll tell my parents to keep an eye on her.
Other guests file in and find seats. Most of the time, my hands feel as though they’re moving of
