“Tarek could do it,” I repeat. “If you can’t find anyone. He’s never done a full cake for a wedding before”—I can’t lie—“but he’s done pieces of them, and he’s been trying out new recipes for various allergens. He’d make sure everything was clean, no contamination.”
“He’s always been great at what he does,” Mom agrees. “We couldn’t impose like that, though. Could we?”
He’s been waiting for a chance like this, I want to say. “It’s worth a try,” I say instead.
So I give Asher his number, and I wait while she makes the call. I can just barely hear his voice on the other end of the phone, and it brings back that swirly feeling I used to think was some kind of sickness.
Now I know it’s something else entirely.
“He can do it,” Asher says when she hangs up, letting out a long breath. Then she shakes her head and laughs a little. “Wow, he was really excited. He didn’t even want to charge me, but I insisted. Thanks, Quinn.”
And if that isn’t the adorable Tarek I’ve always loved.
Loved.
With a jolt, I realize it might be true.
“I’m glad,” I tell my sister, though I wish I could have witnessed that excitement for myself.
Soon, my parents will go to a final venue walk-through, and Asher to a fitting with a client. I will be alone in the house again, trying not to let it feel as lonely.
Then I have an idea. “Hey—if you all have a minute before you go back to work, could I play something for you?”
30
Cake ex machina. That’s what Asher is calling it—cake saves the day. And she’s not wrong. Tarek’s cake is pretty phenomenal. Or at least it looks that way, three layers, champagne cake with buttercream frosting, dotted with dainty white sprinkles. I have a feeling it’ll taste even better.
My parents tried their best not to cry during the ceremony, which was led by Gabe’s rabbi, who I guess is now Asher’s rabbi too. But by the time Gabe stomped on the glass and we all yelled, “Mazel tov!” neither of my parents’ faces was dry. I even felt myself smiling for real when I played Etta James on the harp.
It’s my last wedding with B+B. Maybe not forever, but for a while, and I wouldn’t have picked any other wedding to go out with.
Now we’ve moved to a different part of the botanical garden for photos, and the buffet is being prepped while guests take their seats. I smooth the hem of my maid-of-honor dress, a long, flowy number with thin straps, a deep V in the back, and a gorgeous embroidered bodice. The color is technically “fog,” which I only know because Asher got mad at me when I called it gray. Out here in the sun, it’s not gray at all, especially when the light catches subtle hints of blue-green.
My parents are trying to enjoy themselves without rushing around behind the scenes, but they can’t help it. It’s a little endearing.
“Don’t forget a few close-ups of the bouquet,” Dad says to the photographer as we pose in the gazebo. “And the rings, too.”
“Dad,” Asher says. “I think they’ve got it.”
There’s nothing fake about the smile on my sister’s face or how Gabe lights up when she laughs. That’s all real. If her airy open-backed gown, ivory lace with flutter sleeves and a frothy train, is anything less than comfortable, I’d never know.
I’m not sure how I was ever convinced all of this was a performance when proof of the opposite is right in front of me. When maybe it’s always been in front of me.
But I’m learning.
We’re the last to take our seats in the garden, this area surrounded by lush trees and a hundred different flowers I’m sure my family knows all the names of. I’m tucked between Asher and my mom, who keeps fussing with Asher’s veil. Every time Asher catches my eyes, she rolls hers, but I can tell she loves it. This is her day.
A few tables away are Julia and her parents. She flies out to New York tomorrow. And all the way at the back at what should be table number seventeen—but Asher tweaked the numbering so he wouldn’t know he was at the reject table—is Gabe’s cousin Moshe, who is under strict orders to keep his stand-up comedy to himself.
When it’s time for the toasts, Gabe’s best man gives a short but sweet speech about being Gabe’s roommate in college and having to listen to him talk about Asher nonstop. “If you like her so much,” he recalled saying to Gabe one morning, half asleep, sarcastic, “then why don’t you just marry her?”
“Maybe I will,” Gabe had said, and Asher laughs like she’s hearing this for the first time.
When it’s my turn, I lift my eyebrows at my sister, indicating that I am definitely going to embarrass her, and she waves an arm as though to say, “Go right ahead.”
I unfold the piece of paper I wrote my toast on. Not the whole thing, just a few talking points. “Hi,” I say into the microphone, and it squeals with feedback. An auspicious start. “Sorry. It’s a little weird being on this side of things. As most of you know, I’m Asher’s sister. There are seven years between us, and while that doesn’t mean I’m an accident baby, it also doesn’t mean I’m not an accident baby.” I look directly at her. “Or it could be you, who knows.”
The audience laughs a little at that.
“Asher and I have had a unique relationship. She might correct me on this, but I’m not sure if I was ever the annoying little sister. My parents used to call me her shadow; that’s how much I followed her around when we were younger. I adored her—well, still do—and she was the person I most wanted to be when I grew up.”
A few awws. Julia flashes me a thumbs-up.
I adjust my grip
