“I am an onion.”
She rolls her eyes. “You and Tarek,” she says triumphantly, waving a whisk and flicking suds onto me. “You’re together. I’ve been picking up on some vibes.”
“Vibes? There are no vibes. We’re friends. If anything, you picked up on friendship vibes.”
“I do not vibe like that with my friends.” She wrinkles her nose. “Okay, I’m over the word ‘vibe.’ What I mean is, there was some tension between the two of you.”
I let out a deep breath, relenting. It’s much easier than telling her the real reason. “Yes. Well, we’re not together, but we’ve been hanging out. A little.”
“I love being right. You guys have always been adorable.”
It’s strange, Asher not knowing the whole story. Julia’s the only person I told about the email, and while Asher knows some of my hookup history, my crush on Tarek always felt too tangled with work. She was such a mini-Mom that I could never be sure how she’d react. Evidently, it doesn’t bother her at all.
“We’re not labeling it or anything,” I say, accepting another clean bowl from her. “Please don’t tell Mom and Dad.”
Asher sets her mouth in a firm line. “Sure. What’s another secret I’m keeping for you,” she says, and when I flinch at this, she says, “Wait. Quinn. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.”
“I know I should have been there last week. I messed up.”
We never fight, and I don’t want to start now. I’m not used to disappointment from her either. We’ve always felt like equals, but her disappointment reminds me of the years between us. That sometimes she feels more in charge than my equal.
It makes me wonder, not for the first time this summer or even this brunch, how well we know each other anymore. It’s fine that she wants to keep kosher, but it’s a sudden change, a clear sign that she’s about to become someone new. Of course, I know “wife” won’t be the sole piece of her identity. But it will be a new part of her identity, and it will be something I can’t possibly understand. And, of course, I hope her marriage lasts, that it makes her happy, but that cynical piece of me that never sleeps wonders if that happiness has an expiration date.
“We’re all under a lot of stress right now,” Asher says, but when aren’t we? Weddings are stressful. That’s a simple fact.
When we finish up, Asher pats my shoulder in a way that’s supposed to be sister-friendly but instead makes me feel very, very young. Then she disappears into the office with my parents, their door cracked so that I can’t see them, but I can hear them. The three of them in there with this business my parents built from nothing.
Despite what Julia says, what Tarek says, maybe it would be easier to keep pretending. After all, I already know how to do that. Maybe business classes wouldn’t be too terrible. Because the idea of not being part of this in the future… It’s heartbreaking. A specific brand of loneliness I’m not sure I want to become familiar with again.
The horrible truth is this: I don’t know how to be part of my family if I’m no longer part of the family business.
20
Two days before the Stern-Rosenfeld wedding, I tell my parents I’m sick, and yep, I hate myself for it. I was calculated in the way I worked up to it: told them I felt feverish and fatigued on Thursday but that I’d probably be fine by Saturday, thought I was getting better Friday afternoon, but couldn’t peel myself out of bed Saturday morning. Mom brought up a bowl of matzo ball soup, our go-to Berkowitz cure for a variety of ailments. It slid down my throat, slicked with guilt.
It was the only way. I just have to buy a little time before I tell them the truth. I’m losing track of the number of secrets I’m keeping, and the idea of maintaining my double life beyond this summer makes me want to crawl back into bed with a vat of matzo ball soup. Or directly into the vat. I’m flexible.
I’m waiting in line outside the downtown music venue with Tarek, Julia, and Noelle, clutching a bouquet like a child unwilling to let go of their favorite toy. Julia has been teasing me about the flowers nonstop, and now that Tarek and Noelle are here, they’ve joined in. Yes, I spent fifteen minutes at Metropolitan Market picking out the right flowers. Yes, I took one bouquet to the self-checkout before realizing it wasn’t quite right, doubling back, and selecting a different one. As the daughter of wedding planners, I should probably know more about flowers than I do. In all seriousness, I’m not sure how to explain to them how much I love Maxine’s workshop, how much it’s meant to me.
It’s a posh, artsy crowd, and though we are not a dressy city, most people are summer formal. I’m wearing a chambray maxidress, my hair pulled back and half braided on one side. When Tarek got here, he pulled me close, placed his lips beneath my ear, and said, “I like your hair like this.” And I felt myself melt a little bit into the sidewalk.
Not a date, not a date, not a date.
Julia leans in to adjust the thin strap of Noelle’s dress, which has been on the verge of falling down her shoulder for the past five minutes. It’s a simple, almost effortless little gesture, and Noelle gives her an appreciative grin before Julia slides her hand into hers.
“How long have you been dating?” Tarek asks. What he’s wearing
