I shouldn’t be surprised that my parents have handled it all like pros, that they’ve smoothed out my mistake and washed away the evidence. That they’ve cut me out of B+B, exactly the way I wanted. And yet a few times, I’m compelled to race downstairs, tell them I didn’t mean any of it, beg them to let me back in.
But I don’t. Despite the way it happened, everything I said was true.
Day four of wallowing coincides with Asher’s bachelorette party. A party bus pulls onto our block and honks to the tune of “It’s Raining Men.” I’ve had enough men for the time being, thanks.
“It’s here!” Asher shouts from downstairs, where she and her friends have been getting ready. Because we are Just That Kind of Family, our mother is coming too.
The last place I want to be right now is on a party bus with a half dozen screaming women, but it’s for my sister. I don’t want to ruin the party for her, not after I’ve already ruined so much. I wasn’t sure if she still wanted me there, but when I texted her last night, she said of course she did. So I put on my shortest, tightest dress, paint my face, and meet the rest of them in the hallway. It should be clear I’m not myself: I’m wearing black.
It turns out that a party bus is precisely as terrible as it sounds. It’s outfitted with neon lights, sticky plastic seats, and a ridiculous amount of alcohol. There are two poles at either end. For… dancing? Yes, I learn as a couple of bridesmaids start grinding against them. Yes, that is exactly what they’re for.
“Quinn!” yells maid-of-honor Whitney, a third-grade teacher and Asher’s best friend from high school. “Dance with us!”
“I’m good,” I call back, sipping a sparkling water.
Asher’s wearing a frilly white romper with a pink sash over it that says OFF THE MARKET. She rolled her eyes when one of her bridesmaids, Brianne, presented her with it, but she put it on anyway. Her hair is down, her waves doused with so much mousse they almost look crunchy.
The music is loud, and that keeps me from spiraling. Keeps me present. Asher’s friends ask me about my summer, about college, all seemingly innocuous topics that make me borderline hyperventilate. Still, I try to answer with as expressionless a face as possible.
Despite the bus, it’s not a raucous, Magic Mike kind of bachelorette party. Our first stop is dinner at an upscale Italian restaurant with trapeze artists performing above the tables. I order the cheapest thing on the menu and poke at it for an hour and a half, not unaware that my mom is watching me the whole time.
Afterward, we drive through the city blasting all my least favorite reception songs before ending up at Whitney’s place for dessert and games. I sit on the couch with a half-eaten cookie on a napkin in my lap, laughing when I’m supposed to, unearthing embarrassing stories about Asher when the mood calls for it.
“Thank you all so much for this,” Asher says during a rousing match of Pin the Sweater on Chris Evans. “Really. I can’t imagine getting married without all of you here. Yes, even my mom.”
Brianne reaches across the couch to give her a sloppy hug. “You gave me my dream wedding. It’s only fitting for you to have yours.”
Karina, another bridesmaid, shoves up her blindfold to gauge the space between her sweater cutout and the poster of a smoldering, shirtless Chris Evans. “Damn it,” she mutters, passing the blindfold to my mom. “I was this close.”
Mom’s sweater lands on Chris’s left foot. I’m up next, and as she holds out the blindfold, she says quietly, “I know you’re not speaking to us right now. And you have every right to be upset.”
That surprises me. “Mom, I—”
She cuts me off with a shake of her head. “I know this isn’t the place to get into it. But… we’re here. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Hey, who’s next?” Whitney asks.
I take the bandanna from my mom. “I think Chris Evans is getting cold.”
“I’m just trying to understand.” Her voice is so soft now, I’m not even sure if she wants me to hear. “I want to understand you.”
And if that doesn’t make two of us.
With the exception of my mother, everyone opts to spend the night at Whitney’s. Most of them pass out early, until eventually Asher and I are the only ones awake.
“This reminds me of crashing your sleepovers when I was little,” I tell her as we set up blankets in the living room. “Except I didn’t understand half of what you guys were talking about.”
“For good reason. You would have been traumatized.”
“You do not want to see my search history from that point in my life,” I say. “You had a good time tonight?”
“Amazing. Thank you. It was everything I wanted.” She nods to the Chris Evans poster. “I’m getting that framed.” Then she sits down, and I slide to the floor next to her. “We should talk, though. About everything that’s been going on with you.”
“I don’t want to ruin your party.”
“I’ve partied an adequate amount. You’re not ruining anything.”
“Mom and Dad probably told you what happened. What we fought about.”
“They did. But I wanted to hear it from you.”
So I settle in to tell her the whole story—about my parents and B+B, yes, and about Tarek, too.
“I wish you’d told me this sooner,” she says when I’m done. She’s put her crunchy waves back into her usual topknot.
“I wanted to. But I was worried you’d think I was offending you, saying I didn’t want this free ticket into B+B.”
Asher snorts. “I did not get a free ticket.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had to beg them to let me help out when I was younger. I was always getting in the way, and I think it took them a while to realize I was genuinely interested in wedding planning.”
“Ah, so you’re the one
