I’m just about to dive back into Jan’s manuscript when the thought hits me, irrational but unstoppable. Unless I touch every wooden object in the room right now, Burke is going to leave me.
Dr. Salam has taught me not to resist my compulsions the way I used to, and instead to “let them pass through.”
I sigh, place my coffee down, and then I’m off. There’s too much wood in this apartment, I think for the billionth time as I knock on the black-walnut desk and mahogany side tables and footstool and each of the wide-plank floorboards. Wall-to-wall carpet is a nightmare, but I can’t live like this.
I can’t live like this. How many times have I thought this? I think of my first day in Dr. Salam’s office, and the tiny seed of hope she planted in the midst of my fraught, panicked mind.
“Your compulsions exist because they serve a purpose for you, Skye.” Her voice was deliberate and clear. “They help you feel a sense of control in a world that is wildly uncontrollable. But I trust that, someday, they’ll no longer serve that purpose, and when that happens, you’ll cease to feel them at all.”
Someday, but not today.
I’m just finishing my knocks when my phone starts vibrating. Dad Cell.
“Hey, Dad.” I wouldn’t say my father and I are close, but I never screen his calls.
“Hey, sweetheart. You sound like you’re out of breath. How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I lie, plopping back down into my swivel desk chair. “Just doing some work.”
“Still working on the new book from Jan Jenkins?”
“Yup.”
“When does that come out again?”
“We’re aiming for November, and she’s already working on the next one.”
“Oh, wow. That’s great, honey. Your mom is beaming down on you. Well, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I wanted to let you know that we’re all set for Brant Point Grill for the rehearsal dinner on the twentieth.”
“Huh?” I swallow a sip of coffee, now lukewarm. “How did that happen? I thought they were booked until 2020?”
“Pops gave them a call.” Ah. So my grandfather threw money at the problem.
“Look, that’s sweet of Pops, but I told you Burke and I are more than fine with another venue—something more low-key—especially since it’s such a quick turnaround. We could even do it at the house.”
“Your grandmother feels strongly that the location for the rehearsal dinner should be different from the wedding venue.”
“Of course she does.” I sigh. My grandmother can barely remember Burke’s name, but when it comes to the planning of her granddaughter’s wedding, she’s more lucid than she’s been in years.
“Just go with it, Skye. You know it’s not worth going against Gammy in these situations.”
“I just feel bad. Clearly another wedding had reserved Brant Point that night, a couple who probably planned their wedding two years ago. I hate how Pops pays people off like he’s the Nantucket Mafia. I know he’s coming from a ‘place of love’ or whatever, but it makes me feel like a brat. And it’s not important, anyway. I don’t understand why he and Gammy have to hijack the wedding planning.”
“Skye.” My father exhales, and I picture him pinching his sinuses. “Just give them this. Please.”
My dad is a man of few words, but I know what he means. Your grandparents lost their daughter. Just let them spend as much money as they want giving their granddaughter the wedding their daughter would’ve given her.
I sigh, defeated, picking at the cuticle of my thumb.
“Another option is pushing the wedding back until next summer,” my dad continues. “That gives you—and your grandparents—more time to lock down venues. And…”
“And what, Dad?”
Telepathically, I dare him to say it: And more time to get to know Burke before you commit to spending the rest of your life with him.
“Nothing, Skye,” he says quietly.
“Dad, you know Burke and I just want to get married. That’s what matters to us. We don’t want to wait another eighteen months—neither of us is interested in having a long, stressful engagement. Just—just tell Pops and Gammy that Brant Point sounds great. I’ll call and thank them.”
“Okay.” I can tell my father has more on his mind, but whatever it is isn’t for me to know. He’s never been good at being emotionally open—that was always Mom’s forte. She used to say that getting my dad to talk about his emotions was like prying open a cold clam.
After I hang up with my dad, I edit another three chapters of the new Loving Louise before falling into the black hole of online wedding-dress shopping. I cut myself some slack—I’m ahead of schedule on edits for Jan’s book, and I need to find a dress. According to Lexy, most bridal stores have at least a six-month turnaround time for dresses, and I’m already going to have to rush-order whatever I end up choosing.
But I have no idea what I want. I think about my friends. Lexy is definitely the most fashionable. Andie’s look is too anorexic Brooklyn hipster for me these days, and Isabel’s has always been too J.McLaughlin.
I go to Lexy’s Instagram profile and scroll down to find pictures of her wedding from the previous summer. I don’t have to scroll far; @lexyblanehill has posted a wedding photo for every month she’s been married.
Still not over it. Happy eight months, my love, reads her caption from a post on March 23.
A month before that: Seven months with the love of my life. I still pinch myself.
Another month before that: Six months with @matthill4. Life is a dream.
You get the gist.
Lexy’s wedding dress is stunning—a strapless Mira Zwillinger sheath with delicate organza flowers that hugs her body in all the right places. I frown. I don’t have the arms to pull off strapless.
I check Isabel’s profile next. Iz’s Instagram etiquette is the opposite of Lexy’s, as in she barely uses social media. Her wedding was three summers ago—she was my first close friend to get married—but she posts so rarely that I only have to scroll through a few pictures to find one from her wedding day in 2016. Unlike @lexyblanehill, who updated her Instagram handle to reflect her married name upon exiting the church, @izwaterman has not yet incorporated Maguire, her married name, into her online persona. I’m a tad jealous of Isabel’s blasé indifference toward social media; I wish I didn’t have the impulse to check Instagram all the livelong day, a habit that makes Burke roll his eyes. At forty-six, Burke’s generation missed the roller-coaster ride of coming of age online.
The dress Isabel Waterman wore to become Isabel Waterman Maguire is a poufy collection of tulle and lace that would look ridiculous on my five-foot-eight frame. But on petite Isabel it’s perfect; with her sandy-blond hair swept back into a stylish bun, she looks like a confection.
I sigh, hopelessly resorting back to Pinterest, which sucks me in for another hour. Burke is still at WeWork by the time I need to leave for dinner with my bridesmaids, which Lexy has organized at Charlie Bird.
The four of them are there when I arrive—Andie, Lexy, Isabel, and then Kendall, my closest friend from college. My sister-in-law, Brooke, is also in the bridal party, but she and my brother live in San Francisco. They met junior year at Berkeley and have been together ever since. Brooke grew up in Marin County, and her whole family lives in Northern California. They don’t come back East much anymore.