Page 9 of Love at Teamsgiving
Even though I’m a born and raised New Yorker,it’s fall, y’all, and prime time for pumpkin spice. Erica has a lot of city smarts, but maybe she doesn’t have seasonal sense ... or much at all since she just announced that she and Shane are getting married a week before Thanksgiving—not because of the holiday but because weddings are for suckers.
I said what I said.
She bounces, flashes her hand in my direction, and repeats, “Can you believe we actually did it? Shane and I got engaged.”
I nearly choke on my latte as she awaits my response. “I thought you were holding off on an engagement, given your hectic schedules.”
She beams a smile. “We didn’t want to wait any longer. That’s why I left work early last night. When he asked if I wanted to watch the sunset, I just knew.”
Then the friend in me replaces the lovelorn cynic. I leap to my feet and wrap Erica in a hug. “Oh my goodness! Congratulations.”
Arms clasped, we bounce a little with excitement. Her eyes are bright and her smile is wide. My confetti-dusted enthusiasm may have been delayed, but it’s genuine because I’m happy to see Erica so ecstatic. Shane is a good guy ... probably.
I mean, they’ll find out when they start planning the wedding. Have discussions about kids and the future. Where to spend holidays. When their mothers get involved in their weekend activities, the guest list, table settings—you know, just about every aspect of their lives. They’ll truly find out how compatible they are when things get real.
I’m just speaking from experience. I’m certainly not jaded. Okay, maybe a little, and not the polished shiny stone either.
Once you’ve been in and out of love, the disillusionment settles in and the truth is revealed. It was all a big lie.
Erica gushes, “He proposed at sunset on the Brooklyn Bridge.” She shows me the photos on her phone.
As they gaze into each other’s eyes, they look happy and in love. Shane works in healthcare and is a keeper, I’ll give them that, having timed the proposal properly with a break in the flow of pedestrians on the bridge long enough to take photos.
Just like I have the “Male Scale,” which is a system I devised for categorizing the men in this city, I also have a handy dandy “Will They Make It Meter” that measures the likely outcome of a happily ever after or a divorce.
I bubble with excitement in all the right places while Erica tells me about their dinner afterward and then sharing the good news with their respective parents.
“At our wedding, maybe you’ll meet your future husband. Wouldn’t that be amazing? I’d love to give a speech at yours about how you and the groom met at mine.” Erica isn’t one of those steal-the-spotlight people. She’s a Hallmark movie-watching, puppy-loving, card-carrying peacekeeper. She’s a bubbly emoji heart in human form.
Meanwhile, I’ve been described as feisty, fiery, and a firecracker. Must be the Italian-Russian heritage. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy all the same things she does, secretly. But I can’t ruin my reputation or let anything chip away at my fortifications. Not in this city.
How Erica and I are best friends, I have no idea. Maybe I need a little bit of sweetness to balance out my saltiness. Then there’s Margo, the third member of our trio, who’s a bit of both.
Erica leans in and says, “So the best part, okay, not the best part, because, you know,” she tips her head from side to side, “I’m marrying my person and all. But you’re my sister from another mister, my work wife, and my bestest bestie, so I’d love for you to be my maid of honor.”
My jaw lowers and my heart lifts. “Really?”
“Of course!”
Cue the giddy squeals again as I accept her offer with so much appreciation that my eyes get a little misty. Erica’s sister passed away several years ago and we’ve been close through it all.
“First Margo, now me, you’re next,” she says, referring to our crew getting hitched.
My lip curls slightly because that’s not part of my one-year, five-year, or ten-year plan. Been there, tried to tie the knot, the whole thing unraveled, and I’m happily ever single. Mostly.
So why do I still date? Maybe I’m hoping someone special will come along, snap their fingers, wave a wand, or sweep me away on a magic carpet and prove that I have love all wrong ... and that it’s all right. Meaning, that just because I had my heart broken and used as a hockey puck, perhaps not everyone is like my ex.
But I’d have to see it to believe it.
Erica gives her iced coffee a shake to redistribute the liquid. “Since Shane is from Nebraska, this is perfect.”
I draw my attention back to the present by taking a long sip of my latte, hoping the espresso will help me focus because my brain stubbornly and repeatedly turns to my failed nuptials during times like this.
Wedding season may be over and a lot of our friends have already tied the knot, but Erica is super sweet and I don’t want to sour this experience with my bitterness as she tells me about their “Thankful hearts Thanksgiving theme.”
She adds, “Since you’re moving to Omaha and all, you won’t have to travel back here for the wedding.”
I must’ve missed something she said. “You’re getting married in Nebraska? But you’ve never been there.”
