had moved to New York, and Nick and Emma brought Annie to his welcome party, he’d practically pounced. Annie had caught on quickly and done an expert job of reshaping herself into what Eli wanted. Then, voilà! —the puzzle was complete. Call him naïve, but this didn’t sound like Nick’s idea of perfect love.
Nick was sucking with a straw at his almost-empty glass when Connor clapped him on the back. “She’s doing great up there.” Looking up, Nick spotted Emma at the front of the room, delivering the speech he’d watched her write and rewrite for the past month.
“One of my favorite memories with Annie is our spring break trip to Jamaica, back in ’07.” Emma looked beautiful up there—radiant. “We’re at some little reggae club, flushed with sunburn and rum drinks, and we start hanging out with a group of Jamaican guys. They’re teaching us dance moves and the words to all the songs, and they start asking us questions about our lives. Eventually they get to our kids—how many we have, boys or girls, what ages. We’re twenty-five, by the way, and these guys literally can’t believe it when we say we don’t have any kids. But aren’t you in your mid-twenties? they’re asking. Uh-huh. They make it very clear how worried they are for our dwindling fertility, and then—most of you can probably guess what happens next—Annie spends the rest of the night drunkenly crying into her piña coladas, going on about how she’ll never meet the right guy to marry or have kids with. She had her hair braided that day, and all those neon-colored beads are clinking against one another as she sobs. Folks, she looked ridiculous. I had to take photos. I had to! Even she laughed about it the next morning.
“Because that’s so Annie, right?—spending her vacation in the most laid-back country in the world, freaking out about her life plans and taking these guys’ crazy comments seriously, but then making fun of herself for it, too. As many of you know, Annie has been dreaming about this day and her future family long before we jetted off to Jamaica. In kindergarten recess, I’d be swinging from the monkey bars probably thinking about chocolate milk and 3-2-1 Contact, and meanwhile Annie would be off in the sandbox, designing the perfect tiered wedding cake, decorating it with sticks and pebbles.
“Well, Annie, my best friend in the world, you’ve finally made it to the altar, and with the perfect guy, too. He plucked you up off the streets of Manhattan like the prince revived a slumbering Snow White in the forest. How lucky you are, and how lucky I am, too, to be your maid of honor on this fantasy day, and to live mere blocks away from you in real life. I plan to bask in your happy marital glow forevermore. I love you guys!”
The applause reached a crescendo and Annie stormed the stage to bear-hug Emma. “And p.s., I’ll be hiding out in your suitcase so I can join you on your safari.”
Annie snatched the mike away. “Sorry, Ems, I’m bringing half my wardrobe so there’s no room for you in the luggage. Drop ten pounds and then we’ll talk.”
Nick wanted to get to Emma. He wanted to tell her that she’d nailed it—depicting Annie exactly how she liked to think of herself, serious but with a zany side, a princess who’d been rescued by her prince. (Nick had lobbied against the Snow White allusion—it freaked him out to picture a guy falling for a comatose girl in a coffin, but he had to admit it had gone over very well.) But Emma was all the way on the other side of the room, entwined in some kind of a friendship pretzel with Annie that looked vaguely sexual. Hordes of people were closing in on them for congratulations. They looked like a mob of predators, poised for attack. Nick felt himself break out into sweat. He wanted no part of this. He also suspected he maybe wasn’t thinking straight. He beamed a mental “Good job” to Emma, downed the rest of his drink, then slipped out of the
Nick was sucking with a straw at his almost-empty glass when Connor clapped him on the back. “She’s doing great up there.” Looking up, Nick spotted Emma at the front of the room, delivering the speech he’d watched her write and rewrite for the past month.
“One of my favorite memories with Annie is our spring break trip to Jamaica, back in ’07.” Emma looked beautiful up there—radiant. “We’re at some little reggae club, flushed with sunburn and rum drinks, and we start hanging out with a group of Jamaican guys. They’re teaching us dance moves and the words to all the songs, and they start asking us questions about our lives. Eventually they get to our kids—how many we have, boys or girls, what ages. We’re twenty-five, by the way, and these guys literally can’t believe it when we say we don’t have any kids. But aren’t you in your mid-twenties? they’re asking. Uh-huh. They make it very clear how worried they are for our dwindling fertility, and then—most of you can probably guess what happens next—Annie spends the rest of the night drunkenly crying into her piña coladas, going on about how she’ll never meet the right guy to marry or have kids with. She had her hair braided that day, and all those neon-colored beads are clinking against one another as she sobs. Folks, she looked ridiculous. I had to take photos. I had to! Even she laughed about it the next morning.
“Because that’s so Annie, right?—spending her vacation in the most laid-back country in the world, freaking out about her life plans and taking these guys’ crazy comments seriously, but then making fun of herself for it, too. As many of you know, Annie has been dreaming about this day and her future family long before we jetted off to Jamaica. In kindergarten recess, I’d be swinging from the monkey bars probably thinking about chocolate milk and 3-2-1 Contact, and meanwhile Annie would be off in the sandbox, designing the perfect tiered wedding cake, decorating it with sticks and pebbles.
“Well, Annie, my best friend in the world, you’ve finally made it to the altar, and with the perfect guy, too. He plucked you up off the streets of Manhattan like the prince revived a slumbering Snow White in the forest. How lucky you are, and how lucky I am, too, to be your maid of honor on this fantasy day, and to live mere blocks away from you in real life. I plan to bask in your happy marital glow forevermore. I love you guys!”
The applause reached a crescendo and Annie stormed the stage to bear-hug Emma. “And p.s., I’ll be hiding out in your suitcase so I can join you on your safari.”
Annie snatched the mike away. “Sorry, Ems, I’m bringing half my wardrobe so there’s no room for you in the luggage. Drop ten pounds and then we’ll talk.”
Nick wanted to get to Emma. He wanted to tell her that she’d nailed it—depicting Annie exactly how she liked to think of herself, serious but with a zany side, a princess who’d been rescued by her prince. (Nick had lobbied against the Snow White allusion—it freaked him out to picture a guy falling for a comatose girl in a coffin, but he had to admit it had gone over very well.) But Emma was all the way on the other side of the room, entwined in some kind of a friendship pretzel with Annie that looked vaguely sexual. Hordes of people were closing in on them for congratulations. They looked like a mob of predators, poised for attack. Nick felt himself break out into sweat. He wanted no part of this. He also suspected he maybe wasn’t thinking straight. He beamed a mental “Good job” to Emma, downed the rest of his drink, then slipped out of the
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