Nothing less than our best.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy playing in front of people. It’s that it’s been so long since I played for myself, since before my grandma passed away. It’s that I could go the rest of my life without ever hearing Canon in D, that ubiquitous wedding song everyone exclaims sounds just so beautiful on the harp. And sure it does, the first hundred times.
But after a while, you grow weary of beautiful.
At the venue, I swap my dull lavender dress for black pants and a button-up. Despite the low-level cynicism I carry with me like an emotional support animal, this place is a favorite of mine. It’s a converted warehouse with exposed wood and high ceilings, flooded with natural light. The whole place has a chic but urban feel. Indoors, because early June in Seattle can be unpredictable, which of course means it’s seventy-five and sunny today. MOG and FOG spent most of the morning complaining about this, which upset the groom, who requested I keep his parents as far away from him as possible.
“What’s today’s bet?” Dad asks when I return from stowing my harp dress in our van.
Even if I don’t want this to be my future, I’ve always loved this little tradition of ours: betting on which overplayed songs will make it onto the reception playlist. “Hmm… let’s say ‘Love Shack.’ This seems like a B-52s kind of crowd.”
“Ten bucks?”
“You’re on.” We shake hands.
It’s cute how excited my parents have been about the Streamr news, which soothes a little of my perpetual anxiety. I can’t hate something that puts my parents in that good a mood. They toasted with champagne when Asher told them, and my dad is obsessively rewatching Perfect Match. I imagine my dad and I won’t be making any bets at that wedding.
Dad confers with the videographer while I make a sweep through the tables. The centerpieces, a mix of lavender hydrangeas and blue gerbera daisies, are all where they should be. Place cards, table settings… everything looks good.
“Excuse me.” There’s a hand on my arm, and when I turn around to see it belongs to a fortyish man in a gray suit, I recoil. Not a fan of uninvited physical contact. “You’re one of the wedding… people, right?” He finishes this with a dismissive wave of the hand that isn’t touching me.
Certified wedding person, that’s me. “Hi,” I say, doing my best to project peppiness. “We’re still setting up in here, if you don’t mind, but we have some cocktails at the bar in the—”
“I was hoping to catch you beforehand, actually.” He retracts his hand and gives me a sheepish look. “My family, we’ve been doing this vegetarian thing”—he says “vegetarian thing” like it’s some trendy new diet no one’s heard of—“since last month, so I didn’t mark it on the RSVP site. I figure, there’s got to be plenty of food back there and it wouldn’t be an issue?”
“How many vegetarian meals would that be?”
“Five. My wife, me, and three kids. Looks like we’re at table seven. Oh—and I should mention, one of them isn’t the biggest fan of anything green, but if you have to put it on the plate, we can work around it.” Sir, I am awed by your flexibility. “We just wanted to make sure it wouldn’t be a problem for any of you.”
“Not at all,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’ll go let the caterer know.”
I stalk toward the kitchen, face forward, determined not to let my gaze linger on anyone in a caterer’s uniform. The vegetarian main is soy chorizo with mole and mashed avocado. Deep breaths in through my nose, out through my mouth, ignore the tightening of my lungs. I’ll ask the Mansours for the extra meals and hope there’s enough food. If I have time, I can schedule a panic attack right before the cake cutting.
I pause in front of the long stainless-steel counter, where Tarek’s dad is chopping hunks of rich dark chocolate. The kitchen smells incredible.
“Hi, Murad,” I say, my stomach already rumbling. “Is that for Mansour’s famous mole?”
“The one and only,” he says in his slight French accent. He’s an older, shorter version of Tarek, his black hair streaked with gray. MANSOUR’S is stitched in black over the pocket of his white chef’s jacket.
On the other side of the kitchen, Zainab Mansour is plating salads: fresh corn and jicama and red pepper. “He already has a big head about it,” she calls over. “You’re making it worse, Quinn!”
“I only speak the truth!” I call back.
Even if Tarek and I are at odds, I’ve always loved his parents. Their history is what some might call romantic and what others—namely, me—might call a coincidence of epic proportions. Twenty-five years ago, Murad was in culinary school in Paris, where he grew up, and Zainab was there studying abroad for a semester. Her parents had moved to Washington State from Alexandria in their twenties, and Zainab had spent her whole life in the Seattle area. On New Year’s Eve both of them were ditched by their coupled-up friends and wound up alone at the Eiffel Tower. They’d barely said a few sentences to each other before the clock struck midnight and, given everyone around them was doing the same thing, kissed as near-strangers. They spent the rest of the night wandering the city, then went their separate ways without exchanging last names or phone numbers. They didn’t live in the same country, after
