Page 74 of The Boyfriend List
“Sounds good. I love you.”
She says it so simply. So casually. Like a habit—something we’ve said thousands of times, something we’ll be saying for the rest of our lives.
“I love you, too.” We hang up and I enter the flower shop.
“Four boutonnieres for the Young-Wong wedding, please,” I tell the woman working behind the counter.
She checks my ID, then hands me a chilled box with four floral buttonholes inside. I compare them to the pictures Sav sent us, and nod, satisfied. Savannah already paid for them, so I just have to swing by the pharmacy and the dry cleaners on my way to my parents’ house.
Luck isn’t on my side, though. I end up stuck behind an old lady driving at forty miles an hour on a seventy mile per hour road. After I finally pass her, construction slows me to a crawl. Despite waking up so early, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get everything done before making it to Gloria’s to pick her up on time.
At ten twenty, when I’ve just finished grabbing the migraine medication and Dad’s suit, I realize there’s no way I’ll be able to pick up Gloria and make it to the wedding venue on time. I call her again to let her know.
She’s apologetic, as if she’s the one who messed up instead of me. I hang up feeling guilty, replaying all the moments where I was dawdling or could have hurried more, been more efficient. Maybe I should have gotten up earlier, maybe I never should have gone to bed last night—what’s one all-nighter in the face of my sister’s wedding? A day when I get to dance with Gloria while she wears a beautiful dress?
Sure, I’m not in college anymore and I can’t chug Red Bull to get me through the day without getting heart palpitations, but… I should have done better. That thought hangs over my head as I sprint into the house, and practically throw the medication at my mom.
She’s in her dressing room, still putting in her earrings. Dad gels his greying hair into place, wearing a white bathrobe. His watch gleams on his wrist, a Patek Philippe, and he’s neatly shaved. Mom’s things lie scattered over the vanity and she only has one eyebrow pencilled in. Neither of them are speaking.
My father lets out a grunt that could either be gratitude or impatience as I cross the room to hand him his suit. I back out of the room, figuring they’re in one of their moods.
Then again, they’re never this silent. If they’re stressed with each other, I’d never catch them giving each other the silent treatment. Instead, my dad usually makes passive-aggressive remarks about how my mom had all morning to get ready but still isn’t done. Or my mom would complain about how my dad didn’t unload the dishwasher and yet he expects her to be ready at the same time as him.
Maybe they’re having a truce for the wedding. But based on the taut line of my father’s mouth, and the wrinkles between my mom’s brows that aren’t just from age… I know better than to hold out hope.
I wait in the car for us to all drive there together. I’d do anything to go back in time so I could be with Gloria instead. I’d wait however long she needed me to, not minding that we were late if I could watch her put on her lipstick or smell her perfume.
Instead, I’m playing chauffeur to a married couple who are anything but happy on their daughter’s wedding day.
The drive over to the wedding venue is terse. I put on some jazz, hoping it will be relaxing, but instead my dad gets in the passenger seat and immediately changes the station to the news channel. We hear about three stabbings, two shootings, and seven forest fires on our way to the wedding.
My mom doesn’t meet my gaze the few times I try to make eye contact in the rearview mirror. Tension coils in the pit of my stomach, forming a knotthat grows tighter and tighter as we near the fancy hotel Savannah chose as her venue. Who needs Red Bull? I have all the energy I could need holding me aloft just from listening to my parents not fight.
We scramble out of the car at ten fifty-five, forty-five minutes before we have to be in our seats, and I hand my keys to the valet. As we exit the car, my dad takes long strides forward, leaving my mom a few feet behind him. I offer her my arm so she doesn’t nosedive on the uneven cobblestones of the hotel courtyard while wearing her Louboutins.
She takes my arm gratefully, and breaks the silence for the first time since I’ve seen her today. With a contemptuous glance in my dad’s direction, she mutters, “Would it kill him to wait for me?”
There’s never anything I can say to assuage either of my parents’ moods, or to make either of them see good qualities in the other. So I stay silent.
As she enters the lobby, Mom smooths out her flowy peach-coloured dress. The gown’s pastel hue washes her out, making her pale skin look even paler despite the pop of reddish-pink lipstick she swiped on before leaving.
As we walk into the venue, almost no guests have arrived yet. My shoulders sag in relief; I need a few minutes to myself. My phone dings with a text as soon as my mom lets go of my arm to go use the ladies’ room.
Gloria
I’m here! Where are you?
Screw the alone time. I just need her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Gloria
Ihand my keys to the valet. At any other time, I’d balk at spending so much money for someone to park my car. Today, though, Savannah and Micah are footing the valet bill.
When I enter the venue, classical music streams from invisible speakers in the lofty ceiling. Gold and marble gleam on every conceivable surface, from the walls to the floor to the grand fountain burbling in the middle of the lobby. Well-heeled clusters of people are gathered around the foyer talking, and I feel like an outsider.
Texting London to let him know where I am, I scan the lobby until I spy a sign for Savannah and Micah’ wedding. I walk toward it, and London appears a few moments later, the expression on his face one of sheer relief. He looks criminally handsome in his suit, even if the peach tie is a colour I never expected to see him in.
“You’re here,” he says, pulling me into a tight hug. I’m engulfed by the scent of his cologne and his strong arms. His dress shirt and grey suit jacket are silkier than his usual t-shirts and button-downs.
