Of all the emotions I’d tried to curb when it came to Tarek, jealousy was the worst one. The most unwelcome. I was jealous he’d spent who knew how many hours planning this while I’d been daydreaming about him. Jealous because it was a beautiful evening, and some part of me would have loved to spend it on a boat. My parents and B+B had turned me into the worst kind of cynic—the kind who couldn’t even be happy for someone else. For Elisa, who’d only ever been nice to me, who was probably going to show up any minute.
“What do you think?” he asked, so full of hope and optimism, and I lashed out.
I told him exactly what I thought. That it was over the top. Cliché. “Pretty fucking ridiculous”—choking on a laugh.
And he just stood there. Taking it. “You’re right,” he finally said. “This was a pretty fucking ridiculous idea.” Repeated back to me, the words were much sharper. We were just bickering. Weren’t we?
“You don’t need my stamp of approval. You had to know what I’d think about all of this. Don’t let it stop you.”
The sun was starting to set. The days felt much shorter than they had even a month ago, and the way he was backlit, Puget Sound glowing behind him, was almost too lovely.
Except he looked confused, and I didn’t understand why. “You make it sound like I’m the only person who’s ever performed a romantic gesture.”
Performed. Couldn’t he hear himself?
“I know you’re not,” I said. “But do you honestly think this means anything in the long term? That this kind of gesture is going to magically make a relationship last?”
“It did for my parents.” His jaw was set, and there was a new tightness in his shoulders. “They could have forgotten the Eiffel Tower. Forgotten each other. But they believed in their story. They tried, and they made that story as grand as they could. And they’ve been blissfully happy for more than twenty years.”
“So everyone else just isn’t trying hard enough?”
My parents tried their fucking hardest. Their entire lives were one romantic gesture after another, and it still didn’t prevent them from being ripped apart. From coming back together and never smoothing out the cracks.
He shrugged, but it was far from a nonchalant shrug. It was the shrug of someone who knew he was right and wouldn’t listen to any arguments to the contrary. The most naive of shrugs. “Yeah. I guess they’re not. Not if they really care about each other.”
The words sneaked into the spaces between my ribs and stuck. He didn’t know—of course he didn’t know—but that didn’t make it ache any less.
“This isn’t the real world,” I said, flinging a hand at the boat. “But hey, good luck. I hope this is the one that lasts longer than a couple months. I’m sure I’ll see it on Instagram soon enough.”
Then I turned on my heel and left.
I was cruel. We both were. And while I’ve been so focused on his silence, now I’m wondering if Tarek is still hurting, too.
By the time the cake is cut, all I want is a bath, a microwavable chocolate mug cake, and the new season of Bachelor in Paradise. There’s something soothing about watching hot people yell at each other on a beach.
I’ve just finished toting my parents’ emergency kits to the van, packing them in alongside my harp in its giant case. The van used to have the vanity license plate MTRMNY, for matrimony, until I pointed out to my mom that it looked like we were hard-core Mitt Romney supporters. She ripped it off with the kind of superhuman strength usually reserved for a parent whose kid is pinned underneath a car. But the name stuck, and we still call it the MTRMNY-mobile.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. It’s a photo of Asher toasting her bridesmaids with margaritas. I send her a few choice emojis, then feel bad and add some hearts.
“Quinn?” my mom calls. She’s standing at the door of the venue next to Salty Sequin Lady. “We’re looking for help with transportation.”
“On it.” I slide the van doors shut and paste on a smile. Mom disappears back inside to do what must be her final sweep, making sure the bride and groom have everything they need before we van off into the sunset. “How can I help?”
The woman holds up an ancient brick of a phone. “I’m trying to head home, but my phone’s out of battery. Probably time I replace this old thing.”
I pull up Lyft and pass my phone to her so she can type in her address. “Gustav is four minutes away.”
“Thank you.” She shifts her small purse to her other shoulder and eyes me. “You’re the harpist,” she says, and I brace for either a backhanded compliment or an outright insult, given her earlier glaring. I mostly get compliments from old ladies—empty praise about how lovely I looked or how impressed they are to see someone as young as I am behind an instrument like that. “Your style is… interesting.”
“Sorry?” I say, certain I’ve misheard her. “Interesting” is one of those great words that’s so rarely a compliment.
But she doesn’t elaborate. “How did you learn the harp?”
“My grandma played. She taught me when I was little.”
“Ah, so you’ve never had formal training? That makes sense.”
“She was an excellent harpist.” Sure, I don’t love the instrument the way I used to, but I’m not about to let a stranger talk about her like this.
“I don’t doubt that,” she says as a gray Prius pulls up to the curb. “Have a nice night.” With that, she reaches in her bag for her wallet and hands me a twenty-dollar bill for the fifteen-dollar ride.
It’s not until the car merges back into traffic that I notice she slipped me a business card, too.
MAXINE OTTO. EMERALD CITY HARPS.
I’m so stunned by it that I blink at the navy text a few times, trying to arrange
