round. “What did you do?”
I tell her everything. New drinks arrive. When I finish, she says, “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what you’re doing.”
“No? Glad I came to you, then.”
“Hold up there, missy!” A warning finger emerges from her terrycloth cocoon. “Please recall that I am, officially, smarter than you are.”
“Whatever, lady.”
“Whatever with your whatever,” she scoffs. “I beat you in that online IQ test.”
“Well I beat
you
in that online quiz that shows your real age.”
She looks skeptical. “How did you beat me? It said you’re fifty-three.”
I clink my mug against hers. “Age before beauty, my love. Age before beauty.”
Freddy takes a towel from a nearby chair and wraps it around her feet. She takes a polka-dotted scarf from her bag and twists it around her neck. She blows on her hands. She settles back in her chair. “So,” she says. “Lunch. You did it on purpose. I bet you weren’t even that drunk. What did you have, five or six drinks in the space of a few hours? That’s nothing. That’s like back to baseline for you.”
New drinks arrive. “But maybe I did it because I was nervous, not because I don’t want to get married. And if I’m nervous, that means I genuinely love him. And if I genuinely love him, that means we should get married.”
“Do you really want my opinion?” Freddy asks.
“Is it one I want to hear?”
“No,” she says.
“Then no,” I say.
“You should call off the wedding.”
“No way! We had the most incredible sex this morning.”
“Oh, then marry him, by all means,” she says lightly. “Wouldn’t want that to stop.”
We order another round. I know Freddy is waiting for me to stop joking and tell her honestly what I’m thinking. She always does this: she nudges me in one direction or the other, never pushing me too hard, always trying to help me come to my senses on my own. And I want to explain it to her, I really do. How this morning I was so convinced that marrying Will was the right thing to do, and how that conviction slowly ebbed throughout the day.
But I’m tired of talking about it. I’m tired of thinking about it. There’s plenty of time for that later. “Where’s Nicole?” I ask.
Freddy rolls her eyes. “Moping around somewhere. She’s such a drag, Lily. Why are you even friends with her?”
“Law school. All those late nights. It was a bonding experience.”
“She’s so annoying. And she says such shitty things about you.”
“She’s usually not this bad,” I explain. “She hates her job. And her boyfriend dumped her. And her apartment has bedbugs.”
Freddy looks appalled.
“Had!” I say quickly. “
Had
bedbugs.”
“You bitch!” she cries. “How could you not tell me?”
“How was I supposed to know you were going to share a room? This isn’t band camp!”
“I’m poor!” Freddy wails. “And now I’m going to have bedbugs!”
“The guy came and cleaned. The bedbug guy. With the dog! She’s totally cured.”
“She’d better be. Do you want another drink?”
“Do you have any …?” I tap my nose.
Freddy gathers the folds of her bathrobe and struggles to her feet. “Come with me.”
As we pass the front desk, the clerk hands me an envelope. We go up to Freddy’s room and do a couple of lines. I open the envelope. It contains the guest list, an empty seating chart and a long, complicated note from Mattie. “Help me with this,” I call out to Freddy, who’s changing. “It’s the seating arrangements for the reception.”
She comes out of the bathroom and examines the list. “How do you decide where to put people?”
“No idea. All I know is that the Gortons and the Heydriches must be separated.”
“Gortons?” she says. “Like the fish sticks?”
“Sadly no. I think this one runs a hedge fund.”
“I
loved
those when I was little,” Freddy says.
“Hedge funds?”
“Fish sticks! ‘Trust the Gorton’s fisherman!’” she
I tell her everything. New drinks arrive. When I finish, she says, “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what you’re doing.”
“No? Glad I came to you, then.”
“Hold up there, missy!” A warning finger emerges from her terrycloth cocoon. “Please recall that I am, officially, smarter than you are.”
“Whatever, lady.”
“Whatever with your whatever,” she scoffs. “I beat you in that online IQ test.”
“Well I beat
you
in that online quiz that shows your real age.”
She looks skeptical. “How did you beat me? It said you’re fifty-three.”
I clink my mug against hers. “Age before beauty, my love. Age before beauty.”
Freddy takes a towel from a nearby chair and wraps it around her feet. She takes a polka-dotted scarf from her bag and twists it around her neck. She blows on her hands. She settles back in her chair. “So,” she says. “Lunch. You did it on purpose. I bet you weren’t even that drunk. What did you have, five or six drinks in the space of a few hours? That’s nothing. That’s like back to baseline for you.”
New drinks arrive. “But maybe I did it because I was nervous, not because I don’t want to get married. And if I’m nervous, that means I genuinely love him. And if I genuinely love him, that means we should get married.”
“Do you really want my opinion?” Freddy asks.
“Is it one I want to hear?”
“No,” she says.
“Then no,” I say.
“You should call off the wedding.”
“No way! We had the most incredible sex this morning.”
“Oh, then marry him, by all means,” she says lightly. “Wouldn’t want that to stop.”
We order another round. I know Freddy is waiting for me to stop joking and tell her honestly what I’m thinking. She always does this: she nudges me in one direction or the other, never pushing me too hard, always trying to help me come to my senses on my own. And I want to explain it to her, I really do. How this morning I was so convinced that marrying Will was the right thing to do, and how that conviction slowly ebbed throughout the day.
But I’m tired of talking about it. I’m tired of thinking about it. There’s plenty of time for that later. “Where’s Nicole?” I ask.
Freddy rolls her eyes. “Moping around somewhere. She’s such a drag, Lily. Why are you even friends with her?”
“Law school. All those late nights. It was a bonding experience.”
“She’s so annoying. And she says such shitty things about you.”
“She’s usually not this bad,” I explain. “She hates her job. And her boyfriend dumped her. And her apartment has bedbugs.”
Freddy looks appalled.
“Had!” I say quickly. “
Had
bedbugs.”
“You bitch!” she cries. “How could you not tell me?”
“How was I supposed to know you were going to share a room? This isn’t band camp!”
“I’m poor!” Freddy wails. “And now I’m going to have bedbugs!”
“The guy came and cleaned. The bedbug guy. With the dog! She’s totally cured.”
“She’d better be. Do you want another drink?”
“Do you have any …?” I tap my nose.
Freddy gathers the folds of her bathrobe and struggles to her feet. “Come with me.”
As we pass the front desk, the clerk hands me an envelope. We go up to Freddy’s room and do a couple of lines. I open the envelope. It contains the guest list, an empty seating chart and a long, complicated note from Mattie. “Help me with this,” I call out to Freddy, who’s changing. “It’s the seating arrangements for the reception.”
She comes out of the bathroom and examines the list. “How do you decide where to put people?”
“No idea. All I know is that the Gortons and the Heydriches must be separated.”
“Gortons?” she says. “Like the fish sticks?”
“Sadly no. I think this one runs a hedge fund.”
“I
loved
those when I was little,” Freddy says.
“Hedge funds?”
“Fish sticks! ‘Trust the Gorton’s fisherman!’” she
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