Then again, a lot of things remind me of Tarek lately. It’s the end of July, four weeks until Victoria and Lincoln’s wedding, six weeks until Asher and Gabe’s. Seven weeks for Tarek and me to keep doing… whatever it is we’re doing.
“I probably shouldn’t say this,” Dad says once we dig in, “but damn, this is good bacon.”
“We’re all terrible Jews,” I agree, swiping another slice.
Mom’s eyes light up behind her cat-eye glasses. “We just won’t tell any of the rabbis we work with.”
This is the part of my family I love so much. The part that isn’t connected to B+B.
For the first time ever, Asher declines it. “I’m actually—well, with Gabe, at home… we keep kosher. Both of us.”
There’s an odd silence as we all take this in.
“Sure, of course,” Dad says. He stares down at his 00 DAYS WITHOUT A DAD JOKE mug. “That’s admirable of you.”
“How long?” I ask, flipping through a mental catalog of the meals I’ve consumed with Asher this summer.
Asher shrugs, parting her serving of frittata like the Red Sea. “A few months, I guess?”
This feels like something I should know about my own sister. Except… I haven’t spent enough time with her this summer to have learned about it. And even though I respect it, it feels like yet another thing she’s doing with her soon-to-be-married life that’s so separate from the life she used to have.
My family isn’t my family if we’re not all perky and smiling, so Dad seizes an opportunity to smooth things over. “Should we go around and share highlights?” he asks, ushering us into the work part of work brunch.
Mom goes first. “I scheduled a final venue walk-through with the film crew next Thursday, which Quinn’s going to do with me. And she’s agreed to stop by the museum this week so we can have a sense of what the space looks like with their new exhibit.”
Dad shares about a new client, a couple referred to us by friends whose wedding we planned last year, and Asher talks about the wardrobe for a 1920s-themed wedding taking place in the fall. There’s a palpable excitement in the air, mugs being waved for emphasis, mimosas flowing freely for everyone but me.
“Quinn?” Dad says. “You’re up.”
Well, I’ve been making out with our caterer’s son. He’s as good at kissing as he is at cooking, and we all know he’s very good at cooking.
I’ve also been taking secret harp lessons in exchange for helping build harps.
And I’m trying to figure out how to tell all of you I want to quit.
“We finalized Victoria and Lincoln’s menu with Mansour’s,” I say. “And Asher and I decided her entrance song would be Smash Mouth’s ‘All Star,’ so I’ve been learning that on the harp.”
“Is it too late to change my mind?” Asher says. “I was thinking we could do ‘Tubthumping.’ Chumbawamba’s lyrics really speak to me.”
“Anything for the bride.”
My parents look grim, as though worried Smash Mouth or Chumbawamba will actually be played during the processional.
“You two are going to send us to early graves,” Mom says. “Not that Smash Mouth doesn’t have their time and place—they always get people dancing during the reception, but—”
“Mom. We’re doing Etta James. Don’t worry.”
Mom visibly exhales, and I can’t help laughing at this, too. This kind of inside joke with my sister won’t happen when I’m no longer part of B+B. Work brunch and betting on reception songs with my dad—gone.
“I can work next weekend,” Asher is saying. “I’m actually feeling pretty great about where everything is? I haven’t had a stress dream in at least a week. All that’s left is for me to show up looking flawless.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Mom says. “We could use an extra pair of hands.”
“Next weekend,” I say, sensing an opportunity here. “That’s the Stern-Rosenfeld wedding, right?” Even though it’s right there on the calendar in the kitchen, the one behind my back.
“Yep,” Dad says. “Should be really spectacular.”
“The Salish Lodge always is,” Mom puts in.
“I, um—I’m not sure I’ll be able to go?”
Everyone’s head whips toward me. “What?” The angle of my mom’s ponytail somehow manages to look just as perplexed as she does.
And then there’s this moment. An opportunity. I’ve had a handful of them over the years, and I’ve always backed away, content in my cowardice. What if I told them now? There’s this other thing that makes me happy, I’d say. I really want you to be happy for me. They’d be furious, but they’d get over it. They’d have to. Sure, it would probably cast a shadow over my sister’s wedding, and she might resent me for years to come, but at least it would be out there. My anxious brain wouldn’t have to war over it anymore.
Even inside my head, the suggestion is absurd.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it on Saturday?” I say, phrasing it like a question again, hating the way my voice slides up at the end.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Dad laughs. “Should we check with your secretary?”
“No, I mean—I told Julia I’d help her with a new mural.” I realize how half-assed the lie is as soon as it slips past my lips.
“Julia will understand this is important,” Mom says. “She always has.”
That’s what they’ve always said. Julia will understand. Your teachers will understand. Everyone will understand.
Just like that, the moment is gone. The laptops come out to review Victoria and Lincoln’s master timeline, and the best part of work brunch is over.
“I know what’s going on with you,” Asher says later, when we’re washing plates in the kitchen. Our parents have moved to their office.
“Yes, it’s a new shampoo from Julia’s parents, and I agree, my hair looks great.” I slide a bowl onto the drying rack.
“Well, now
