Then I show him my desk, where Maxine Otto’s business card is sticking out from beneath my mouse pad. Emerald City Harps. I’ll recycle it tomorrow, I decide. Once I look her up and know for certain what Emerald City Harps actually does.
“What’s that red box?” he asks.
“Oh.” I pick it up, shifting it so he can see the label. “Microwavable chocolate mug cakes. I’m addicted. I have to keep them up here or everyone else will steal them.”
His disdain is palpable even over the phone. “You know, that kind of thing isn’t hard to make from scratch. It would probably taste a hell of a lot better too.”
“But I like processed sugars!” I turn over the box and scan the ingredients list. “I like hydrogenated palm kernel oil!”
He just shakes his head, and there is something so endearing about his dessert snobbery.
I show him the painting of Edith that Julia made for me in her freshman-year art class, the one with Edith’s head on the body of an eighteenth-century French aristocrat. The shelf filled with books I want to read but haven’t had the time for. The floorboard that squeaks when you put any amount of weight on it. I think about showing him the strip of photos of us in my nightstand drawer but ultimately decide not to. I don’t want him to think I hung on to them for any reason other than nostalgia.
Lastly, I turn the phone back to my bed. “And here’s where I make ill-advised phone calls in the middle of the night.”
When he laughs, it’s this low, dangerous scrape of a sound. This whole thing suddenly feels wildly intimate, Tarek in his bed as I climb back into mine, his eyes heavy-lidded and his voice crackling in my ear.
“I like your castle,” he says, and I don’t bother fighting a smile.
Part of me wants to ask him for a tour too, but I’m not sure what that reciprocity would suggest. “It’s late,” I say, catching sight of the time. “Well, later. I have to be up early for a consultation with my parents.”
“The wedding business never sleeps.”
“Even if I must. Night, Tarek. And, um—thank you. For talking.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to thank him. Maybe because I woke him up, and I want him to know how much I appreciate this, how committed I am to our rekindled friendship.
“Thank you for the tour. Good night, Quinn,” he says, and when we hang up, my face warm and my heart pounding, I feel even more electric than before.
10
It’s still a little long,” Victoria says as she steps out of the dressing room, holding the hem of her gown. “I’d prefer not to fall flat on my face in front of thousands of viewers. The internet doesn’t need any more GIFs of me.”
The saleswoman charges forward with pins and measuring tape while I endure the quiet shame of having used one of those GIFs.
At first I was anxious to meet Victoria. On TV, she was Victoria H. because there had been two Victorias the previous season, when the lead picked Victoria B. over her. Her long dark hair was straightened and shiny, her skin flawless, her clothes and makeup designed to bring out the blue in her eyes. In real life, she wears her hair curly, prefers glasses to contacts, and uses only a little mascara. I thought she’d be pristine, airbrushed. But what struck me the most was that she just looked… like a regular person.
I reach for a glass of complimentary champagne as Mom lifts her eyebrows at me in an expression that says, Maybe you get away with this at home, but are you really going to pull this in public? This is not the version of my mother who played along with the Perfect Match cliché game.
Grumbling, I set it back down and sink into the plush cream couch. I’m wearing my most professional and least comfortable business-casual attire: itchy gray pencil skirt, sheer blue blouse, fitted black blazer. This pencil skirt was clearly not made for someone with hips. When I walk, I have to take very small steps. Fantasizing about the perfect yellow sundress in my closet is the only thing getting me through this.
“This must be so boring for you,” Victoria says as the saleswoman pins the hem of her dress. “How many dress fittings have you gone to?”
Mom isn’t even exaggerating when she says, “I don’t know, a few hundred?” We don’t go dress shopping or to fittings with everyone, but Victoria and Lincoln are getting the white-glove treatment.
Victoria lets out a low whistle. “And it doesn’t get old after a while?”
“You clearly don’t know Shayna Berkowitz,” I say.
“Every bride is a different puzzle to solve. She might have something in mind that’s completely different from what her mom envisioned, or she might try on what she thought would be her dream dress only to discover it’s not right at all. Besides, I always love having my daughter here.” She nudges me, and I smile as if on cue. “We’re lucky that this is something we can do as a family.”
My smile is only half real. I wish I weren’t torn between enjoying this time with my mom and worrying about my own future. I guess not talking about things that make us uncomfortable runs in the family too.
“I love that,” Victoria says. “You must be so mature for your age, if you’re already helping out like this.”
“Right,” I say. So mature for your age. Have I ever
