When she had arranged our room to her satisfaction—including a pair of matching comforters, my own having been deemed unacceptable compared to her memory of her own college dorm room’s matching state—she insisted that we accompany her to lunch, where she lectured Sharon on how to lose the freshman fifteen from the previous year. “If it sticks around for sophomore year, you’ll never lose it,” she warned.
The second she left, we rearranged the room the way we had discussed over the summer. Then ordered a pizza. And breadsticks.
“Dude,” I said. “Your mom—”
“I know and I’m sorry. You just have to let her do her thing and then do what you want when she’s gone.”
“What happens when she comes to visit? I’m not redoing the room every time she pops by.”
“She just wanted to walk around campus and go out for meals last year. It’ll be fine.”
I loved Sharon. But I now understood why her previous roommate had found someone else to live with.
Sharon’s college graduation party was the last time I had seen Mrs. Meyer, and I still remembered the way she pursed her lips and said “I see,” when I told her about my new job at the foundation. She expected me to go to law school or, at the very least, be writing for the Washington Post or New York Times. I wasn’t even engaged to my then-boyfriend, who had visible tattoos.
But I wasn’t twenty-two anymore. And at thirty-two, I didn’t care in the slightest if she didn’t like my job. Was I curing cancer? No. Did I love what I did? Also no. But was that any of her business? Hell no.
I arrived at the bridal salon just before Sharon and her mom and greeted them as soon as they walked in. “Lily,” Diana Meyer said coolly. “I didn’t realize you would be joining us today.”
I looked to Sharon, who scrunched her face into a guiltily apologetic smile.
“Yup. Just invited myself along. That’s how I roll.”
“I see,” she said. She looked around the bridal salon and turned back to Sharon. “It’s not as nice as the last one we went to. Where did you find this place?”
“They had a dress I liked and wanted to try on.”
“And we came all the way to Baltimore for one dress?” Her lips were pursed in a disapproving pout.
“Please,” Sharon said. “I really like this dress. And if it’s no good, we’ll try on others.”
Her mother nodded her assent, and Sharon was whisked away into a dressing room while Mrs. Meyer began browsing the shop for choices she found suitable.
Sharon came out a few minutes later, and I smiled broadly. It wasn’t even that the dress was that great, it was that Sharon looked radiant in it. She looked happier than I had ever seen her.
“It’s nice,” her mother acquiesced. “If a bit simple.”
“I like simple, Mom.”
“You’ll try on the other ones I picked out. Then we’ll decide.”
Sharon’s shoulders slumped, but she agreed, then retreated into the dressing room.
While we waited, Mrs. Meyer turned her attention to me. “So,” she began, looking at my left hand. “You’re still single then?”
No, I’m married, I wanted to say. But I don’t wear my ring because it makes it harder to cheat and I really enjoy that. But she had nothing resembling a sense of humor and I wasn’t trying to make the next few months of dealing with her more miserable than they had to be. “Still single,” I said cheerily.
“Have you tried online dating?”
“No.”
“At your age, you really should.”
I blinked heavily. “I’ll get right on that.” She opened her mouth, clearly ready to give me more unsolicited advice about how I could reverse my single status, but I was saved by Sharon exiting the dressing room in a tulle-covered disaster.
“Lovely,” Mrs. Meyer said, gesturing for Sharon to stand on the pedestal before the mirror. “Something like this never goes out of style.”
I tore my eyes away from the gauzy mess of a dress and looked at Sharon’s face in the mirror. She looked miserable. Say something, I thought desperately.
Mrs. Meyer adjusted the shoulder and came around in front of Sharon. “Why do you look like that? Smile.” Sharon tried, but it was a pretty pathetic attempt. Mrs. Meyer raised her eyebrows. “You want the other one then?” Sharon looked at her mother and nodded almost imperceptibly. Mrs. Meyer threw up her hands and turned to the saleslady. “I guess she’s set on the first one. No one wants a mopey bride.”