“Pretty soon you’ll be the girl in that movie, with all the bridesmaid dresses.” She looks tickled.
“I will not be that girl, because I sell all the dresses before the couple even gets back from their honeymoon.” Thanks to a bridesmaid’s best friends, eBay and Poshmark. “But you’re gonna love this next part.”
Her eyes light up. “Is it a destination wedding?”
“The Caribbean.”
She claps her hands in delight. “Can I be your plus-one?”
“You know what, maybe. I’d certainly have more fun with you than as the perpetual third wheel with all my couple friends.”
“I wouldn’t want to steal the spotlight from the bride,” she says, deadpan.
“With great power comes great responsibility,” I respond, just as seriously.
“Or maybe you’ll meet someone by then!” Ever the optimist.
“Maybe I’ll win the lottery, too,” I say dryly. And frankly, I’m gonna need to if I have a prayer of continuing to afford the never-ending merry-go-round of bachelorette parties, bridal showers, and tropical nuptials I’m forced to attend. I have half a mind to start a GoFundMe to finance my lifestyle as a serial bridesmaid. No one would be able to resist my tear-jerking backstory: destitution via wedding gift.
I heave a sigh. I hate that I’m starting to hate weddings. “Let’s face it, weddings just aren’t any fun without a significant other. It’s like they’re designed to make single people feel pathetic and inadequate. And you know I hate saying that out loud, because it goes against everything I stand for.”
It’s the truth. I’ve never bought into the narrative that life doesn’t start until you meet “The One” or that I won’t be whole until I’ve found my “other half.” In fact, I’m that annoying friend you can count on to trot out trite platitudes like “A man can’t love you until you love yourself” or “A fulfilling life starts by being full.”
But I can’t deny that when I arrive back to my empty apartment each night, I wish there was someone waiting inside for me. Sometimes I even imagine I’ll see him when I swing open the door, this phantasm who looks a little like Henry Cavill or Scott Eastwood or maybe a Magnum, P.I.–era Tom Selleck （there’s just something about that mustache–chest hair combo that gets my motor running）。 Someone who’d be interested in the tiny, insignificant details of my day, who’d take my side on every petty grievance, then mount his steed and ride into battle, vowing vengeance on those who dared to wrong me. Someone who’d ruin my perfectly curated Netflix queue of time-traveler romance and angsty teen dramas with sweaty man shows like Reacher or Yellowstone. I ache for someone to curl my body against on the couch, to fall asleep in the embrace of a man who’d spoon me so tight I’d overheat.
“Wanting a partner isn’t a weakness,” Gran reminds me, as if she can read my thoughts.
“I know that. I just feel like all these weddings have turned me into this Bitter Betty, and that’s not who I am. Most of the time I like being independent.”
“Maybe you’re too independent,” she muses thoughtfully. “Men like to feel needed, you know. Sometimes I would pretend I couldn’t open the pickle jar just so your grandfather could feel useful.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “Women in your generation were different than mine. We don’t have to make ourselves small for men to feel big.”
She freezes with the teacup halfway to her lips. “I’m sorry?”
Crap. I’m so comfortable with my grandma that I somehow forgot the first rule of journalism: Know your audience. “That came out wrong. What I meant was—”
“Oh, I know exactly what you meant.” She bangs her cup down on the saucer so roughly, tea splashes over the side. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, Miss Modern Gal-About-Town? You think you have nothing to learn from the women who came before you? Never mind the hard-earned lessons learned from a nearly fifty-year marriage. What could this old fuddy-duddy possibly have to teach you?”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Point taken. That was very judgmental. I didn’t mean it the way it came out, and I’m sorry.”
She pins me under her gaze, her expression shrewdly assessing. “You know, the world you’re living in might look different than mine did, but the rules haven’t changed. Men still want the same things.”
I can’t help myself. “Like what, to be waited on hand and foot? To have their laundry folded and dinner on the table when they walk through the door?”
Her eyes narrow. Pretty sure if I wasn’t twenty-eight, she’d paddle me. “They want to feel like men. They want to pursue, provide, and protect. That’s biological, no matter what you want to tell yourself.”
“Maybe that’s my problem, then,” I muse. “I don’t need a man to provide for me. And I can kill my own spiders. Heck, I can even have a baby on my own! Honestly, sometimes I think women have evolved past men entirely.”
“Well, keep telling men you don’t need them, and don’t be surprised when you find yourself all alone.”
Ouch. “That was harsh, Gran.”
“The truth hurts, doesn’t it? I swear, your generation needs a reprogramming. You’re all too liberated for your own good. I should sign you up for The Bachelor,” she mutters, then suddenly straightens and snaps her fingers. “Wait.”
“You are not signing me up for The Bachelor.”
She ignores me, squinting into the air as if racking her brain. “Yes, I’m sure I still have it. It’s got to be in the study . . .” she murmurs, then gets to her feet, padding down the hallway that leads to the back of the house.
I resign myself to going along on this tangent and follow dutifully behind her, and eventually she veers off into her home office, heading straight for the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves spanning the back wall. She slips on the glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and starts grazing the spines with her fingertips, brushing past my grandpa’s old engineering texts and Ludlum thrillers, and her own cozy mysteries and romance novels.
While she hunts for whatever it is she’s looking for, I peruse the framed photos lining the shelves, which is akin to taking a trip through time via fashion. My favorite is the one of my grandparents all dressed up—he in his Navy dress whites and she in an off-the-shoulder red dress and fur stole that would fetch a mint in one of the city’s upscale vintage shops. In a posed family portrait, she’s every bit the stately matriarch in a boxy Jackie O suit and white gloves. There’s one of my grandpa with his arms around their boys, the Jersey shoreline in the background, the sea air wreaking havoc on their windblown hair. And then I spot a picture of them with my siblings and me from a family trip we took to the Grand Canyon, my awkward stage on full display in braces and curly bangs. “Ugh, why is this the picture you chose to frame?”
She pauses her search to glance over, then clucks her tongue. “Oh stop it, you look adorable. A little gawky, maybe. But look at the swan you grew into.”
“You used to tell me I looked ‘gamine’ instead of ‘gawky.’？” I remember this detail so vividly because it’s one of the many reasons I fell in love with the written word, that just a slight variation in letters had the power to improve the mindset of an awkward, gangly teenage girl. “Anyway, it’s a real mystery why I never heard back from those model searches I was constantly entering at the back of Teen magazine.” I place the frame back on the shelf, stealthily nudging it behind a couple of others.