“No, not that.” He sits down, and the ball of anxiety that lives in my stomach tightens. “Asher and Gabe’s wedding is in three months. And, well, you probably know the amount of work Asher has on her plate.”
“Right,” I say, the anxiety crawling up my throat now, weighing down my tongue.
“We were hoping you could step in and take on a few of her B+B responsibilities. Catering, floral, transportation, mainly. It’s our busiest season, and we could really use the extra help.”
“I—oh.” My gaping yawn of a summer shrinks to the tiniest of sighs.
“We thought it would be a fun way to spend your summer,” Mom continues. “Plus, it’ll be similar to what you’ll be doing in a few years anyway. Might as well get a sneak peek.” She says this like it’s some gift they’re giving me. Like I should be thanking them.
“It’s my last summer before college,” I say quietly. I’m already booked for six weddings with two new songs to learn.
Mom doesn’t even acknowledge this. “We’ve been flexible with your schedule in the past. You know how much the clients love that this is a family business. It’s one of the reasons they pick us over other firms with more experience.”
“And how can you resist working with your favorite people?” Dad says with a wink.
No is not an option. They’re not asking me to do this—they’re telling me this is what I’m doing.
I’m used to it, though I wish I weren’t. I’ll leap at any chance to avoid conflict in my family. Other kids had family game nights and beach vacations, movie marathons and weekend hikes. The Berkowitzes had weddings. That was our family bonding. I’ve missed parties and dances and school events, all because B+B took precedence. They’ll understand, my parents always said. We need you.They made a guilt-trip sandwich out of pep and flattery, spreading a little extra manipulation on top.
“Yeah,” I say, hating myself a little. “I guess I could do that.”
Their grins grow bigger. “Perfect!”
My mom’s phone rings to the tune of the old song “Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups. Goin’ to the chapel and we’re gonna get married…
“That’s Melinda Nash’s mom,” she says. She picks up. “Hi, Tammy!” she says in her there’s-no-such-thing-as-stress wedding planner voice. “Oh—oh no. The maid of honor did what?”
And with that, she disappears into their office. Dad returns to his calendar, whistling Mom’s ringtone.
Sometimes it feels like they view me as just another vendor. Like we are business associates instead of family. They’ve been so eager to rush me into B+B that I’ve barely had time to figure out what I might want instead.
What I know for sure: I don’t want this job waiting for me when I graduate from their preapproved program after taking their preapproved classes. I want the satisfaction of truly earning something after working hard for it. And I can’t tell them that without offending my sister, who’s always loved B+B, who loved all her classes, who cried at graduation when they gave her a set of business cards with her new title: associate wedding coordinator. The idea of being trapped in this for the rest of my life sends me into a spiral so smothering, I’m not sure how I’d be able to climb out.
But as my parents are fond of telling their clients, weddings are in the Berkowitz DNA. They met at the wedding of a mutual friend, when they were both stuck at what was clearly a table for randoms, since none of them knew anyone else and they were the farthest from the buffet. The way my dad tells the story, a married bridesmaid caught the bouquet at the end of the night and then passed it to my mom. The way she tells it, those hydrangeas sailed right into her arms.
A decade later, my mom’s water broke at a cousin’s wedding in the middle of the hora. To this day, I have a strange and otherwise inexplicable emotional attachment to “Hava Nagila.” And when I was in preschool, my dad left his corporate job to help my mom, formerly an assistant wedding planner, start her dream business.
Then THEIR BRIDE AND JOY.
The talk on the couch.
Three place settings at the dining table, Dad all smiles and pretending it was normal, shutting down any time I asked about it until I stopped asking.
Weekends at our aunt’s place, where I slept in the guest room with Mom and a Doberman pinscher that never stopped barking at me and “go keep yourself busy” while she and Aunt Sherie had hushed conversations in the kitchen. Sometimes I thought I heard her crying.
Asher learning to drive and spending less and less time at home.
And an eight-year-old Quinn up in a tower, wondering how two people in the business of happily ever after could have a kid who felt this lonely.
When they started working together out of our home office again, I wanted to feel relieved. But they never talked about those six months that turned my world on its axis. Everything seemingly went back to the way it was before—which meant the separation could happen again, and I’d never know it was coming.
From that point on, every argument between them, no matter how small, felt like an earthquake. I couldn’t remember what had been the last straw before my mom moved out, and that made anything feel like it could be the last straw. I was always waiting, worrying, teeth gritted and anxiety-knot getting tighter and tighter.
They put on an act for their clients, one that became clearer the more time I spent with B+B. They’d been able to grow the business because people loved the idea of weddings planned by a couple in love. That Seattle Times piece had sent so many brides and grooms our way—enough to fake a happy marriage, apparently. But their grins and laughs felt false when they hadn’t even been able to prevent their own relationship from crumbling.
Nothing less than our
