Under the Same Stars(30)
But Luke Bryan soon sang through the Audi’s speakers, so she must’ve been on Spotify. After the second song, Mrs. Gallant turned down the music and brought up Katie and Austin’s save-the-dates. They’d just been mailed, and I remembered last month: Dad had compiled a comprehensive list of family and friends from the groom’s camp and we’d sat at the kitchen table long after we finished dinner, going through it together. It had started out easy and fun with Nana, Austin’s godparents, and the McCallisters, but then we’d hit Dad’s clients. “Harry, I don’t know why some of these people are even on the list,” Da said. “You haven’t seen Ron and Lisa Bierman in at least five years…”
I’m not shooting the messenger, Austin had texted after I’d emailed him our finalists, but you guys need to seriously cut this down.
We DID cut it down, I said. Twice!
Third time’s the charm? he joked, and when I relayed the request to our parents, they sighed but nodded. The Gallants must’ve had a tally as long as Santa’s naughty-or-nice list, and apparently, the bride’s side had the upper hand on invites.
“I know they aren’t your style, Mom,” Amanda said as Mrs. Gallant merged onto the highway. We’d moved on to formal invitations. “But the standard white card stock with a navy-blue border and typeface isn’t really fashionable anymore.”
Mrs. Gallant shook her head. “I disagree, darling. Those are classic.” She flipped her blinker to shift into the left lane. “Traditional.”
“Okay, sure,” Amanda conceded. “But Katie doesn’t want traditional.”
Huh? I thought. Katie, who is forcing my brother to have a black-tie country club wedding, doesn’t want traditional?
Maybe Amanda was too tactful to say boring. Because that’s exactly what vibe white card stock gave off to me.
“I’ll show you the artist’s Instagram later,” Amanda told her mother. “Lily’s work is on trend but tasteful. You’ll like—”
“What’s so interesting back there?” she cut her daughter off, shifting her focus to me. I’d been listening to their conversation, but also scrolling through several field hockey commitments on my phone. My club team and I’d congratulated a teammate at practice the other night; she’d pledged her allegiance to Boston College.
While I had an unofficial visit scheduled with Princeton next weekend—“Nothing to take for granted,” Coach Webber had told me—I still hadn’t heard from Penn.
“Just field hockey stuff,” I told Mrs. Gallant, even though field hockey was never “just” anything for me.
She laughed as I locked my phone. “Oh, field hockey… I think we still have Katie’s old stick somewhere.”
I almost laughed, thinking she was kidding. Because Katie playing field hockey? There was no way. Beyond cheering for the Devils, she was probably the least sporty person I knew.
“Amanda was our natural athlete,” Mrs. Gallant continued, and I nodded, knowing Amanda had played basketball in college. “But Katie worked so hard, always practicing in the backyard. I remember she was crushed when her high school coach told her she wasn’t good enough to play in college.”
“That guy was such a dick,” Amanda said, but I barely heard her. My mind was whirring. Katie had really played field hockey when she was my age? Why had she never mentioned it to me? Did Austin even know? He would’ve told me.
I sat quiet and confused in the car for the rest of the ride. For the last five years, it had felt like I’d barely gotten to know Katie. She kept herself and most of her life closed off from my family, like she didn’t want us peeking in on it.
For the millionth time, I wondered why.
Did she truly not like us?
***
Katie looked livid when her mother, maid of honor, and I pushed through the doors of Petal & Lace Bridal. A storm swirled in her eyes, her lips were in a sharp line, and I suspected her hands weren’t far from balling into fists. “What’s wrong?” Mrs. Gallant and Amanda asked, and by way of a response, Katie gestured to my fellow bridesmaids. They were all hanging out on the pale pink velvet couch that ran the length of the waiting area. But upon further observation, they weren’t “hanging out.”
They were working.
Yasmin, a lawyer: clickety-clack typing on her laptop.
Courtney, a therapist: speaking into her phone in soft and controlled tones, presumably to a patient.
Paige, an assistant art director at Penguin Random House: drawing something on her tablet.
Reese, a private equity associate: looking over a monstrous Excel spreadsheet taking over her computer screen, visible even from the bridal salon’s doorway.
(Dad and I’d checked out all their profiles on LinkedIn.)
“Okay, no,” Amanda said. “Nope, not happening.” She clapped her hands in a pattern she probably used to get her fifth graders’ attention. Da, da, da-da-da! “Squad!”
Four heads snapped up and over at us.
Amanda smiled. “Thank you for coming,” she said with a tiny hint of passive-aggression. “If you’ll now please put away your devices—and wrap up your call, Court—Katie and I are going to make sure we’re all checked in so we can get this party going.”
Hell, yeah, I thought, certainly hoping today would be a party; I was missing practice for this!