There’s a wistfulness to the way she says it. I think about the house, the photos of her kids, and something clicks.
I think Maxine is lonely.
I watch her demonstrate the kind of fluidity she asserted I don’t have. “Do you see how this is different?” she says. “Even the levers—I incorporate the changing of them into the choreography.”
And I do.
I see it.
“If you ever need someone to help out for a few hours a week or something…” It’s only when the words are out of my mouth that I realize the idea of leaving here and never coming back is going to make me wonder whether it really happened. A fairy tale in which a mysterious woman has devoted her life to an instrument I haven’t cared about in years.
I don’t have to be the poised, perfect harpist. The girl who always says yes, who always smiles. There’s so much to learn about this thing I thought I’d mastered, and I’m realizing how ridiculous it was to think that at age eighteen, I was an expert in something Maxine has devoted her life to.
“It’s a lot of sanding,” Maxine says, almost as though she’s discouraging me. But there’s a smile nestled in one corner of her mouth. Like maybe this is what she wanted the whole time. “A lot of tuning. It’s not the most thrilling of work, and I wouldn’t be able to pay much above minimum wage. And I know you have obligations with your family. I don’t want this to take you away from that.”
I hadn’t even conceptualized this being something I could be paid for. “It wouldn’t,” I rush to say. I’ll make sure of that.
My parents wouldn’t love that I’m here, and that makes it feel like a small act of rebellion. I’m positive this isn’t a B+B-approved recreational activity, given that I can’t play this kind of music during a processional. This would only distract from their forever goal: nothing less than our best.
But what if my best isn’t the same as theirs?
“Then we just might be able to work something out. And next time?” she says, gesturing to where the entire back of my pants is covered with sawdust. “Don’t wear black.”
12
A wedding at sea probably sounds romantic. Shimmering water, a sapphire sky, city lights glittering in the distance.
The reality: a wedding at sea on the hottest night of the summer is an absolute nightmare.
It’s a second marriage for both the bride and groom, who chartered a luxury yacht to take them around Lake Union, and while my parents have done a few of these floating weddings, it’s a first for me. Fortunately, Asher’s here and I’m not playing the harp.
The ceremony itself takes place on the deck of the yacht. Mom and Dad are armed with sunglasses and sunscreen, and it’s not so windy that it messes with any of the flowers we tied around the railing. It’s all going smoothly until Dad runs out of the tiny sunscreen bottles he keeps in his emergency kit and learns Mom doesn’t have any in hers, despite the conversation they had two weeks ago about making sure they remain adequately stocked throughout the summer.
“I thought we triple-checked everything last night,” he says. “You’re the one who orders these in bulk every year.”
Mom unzips one last pocket and sticks her hand inside. “It must have slipped my mind somehow. Trust me, I don’t want everyone walking around looking like lobsters.”
“But it would make for some interesting photos, especially with the boat,” Dad says, and the two of them burst out laughing.
That’s… odd. I’m not sure how they went from admonishment to laughter in under a minute, but I seize my chance to intervene. “I’ll go check if Asher has some.” And thank god, she does.
Now that the newly married couple is taking photos outside and their guests are inside mingling with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, it is a veritable sauna. I’m grateful we’re only doing apps and dessert. Jackets and pashminas and even pantyhose are abandoned, shoes kicked off. People are fanning themselves, toting around bottles of water instead of the specialty drink designed for the occasion, while I keep busy fetching more water and opening as many windows as I can. My bangs are sticking to my forehead, and I’ve accumulated a frightening amount of underboob sweat.
An older woman flags me down. “Excuse me? It’s a little warm in here. Would you be able to do anything about that?”
“Working on it,” I say through gritted teeth.
As I’m struggling with another window, I spot Asher leaning against the railing, her face a concerning shade of gray. I abandon the window and head outside. “You okay?” I ask.
With her head pressed to the railing, she throws out an arm and sticks her thumb up. “I’m not seasick,” she says. “I promise. I’m great. I’m… sea-perb. I’m ex-sea-ptional.”
I rub her shoulders. “I don’t know if I should be more worried about your health or your wordplay skills. Let me see if they have any ginger ale?”
“Love you,” she calls as I slip back inside.
The yacht company has their own catering staff, but since my parents hadn’t worked with them before, they brought on a few Mansour’s cater-waiters: Tarek, Harun, Elisa. The kitchen—I think it’s called a galley—is toward the back of the boat, a small space with stainless-steel countertops and appliances.
When I enter, Tarek and Elisa are laughing at something, standing close together, and I must have a touch of seasickness too because it sparks a strange feeling in my belly. Not jealousy. Definitely not. A major dose of what the hell happened between them last summer, but not jealousy.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Tarek since our late-night call last week. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to his forearms, exposing a bit of angry red skin. I can’t imagine how warm he must be in that stiff, starched shirt.
“Hey,” I say,
