Page 82 of The Lookback
On the plane ride home, with the help of Abby, Izzy, and occasionally my mother, I choose my bridesmaids. David had texted that he had four groomsmen picked out, but he assumed we’d also include Steve. I stress out about it for a while, but in the end, I give up. I’m not including Amanda—she went on dates with David, for heaven’s sake. Donna liked him, so she’s out too. I wind up choosing Mandy, Izzy, and Whitney. Abigail will be my matron of honor, and as long as Steve doesn’t throw a git, that’s enough. If David wants to, we can include Beth and Ethan. My superhumanly loyal nephew hasn’t wavered once in his affection, so I’m assuming she’ll be around for quite some time.
Izzy’s writing this all down on a notepad, and she bursts out laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“So in the wedding, we all walk down the aisle, right?” She lifts her eyebrows.
“Right,” I say. “Then you stand next to us as they marry us.” Now I’m worried. Am I missing something? “That’s what Abby said.”
“That’s right, I think,” Izzy says. “And you said that David’s groomsmen are his best friend from college, a friend from business school, and two old friends from Korea, right?”
I nod.
“That means they’re all roughly his age.” Izzy’s smirking still.
“Oh.” It hits me why she’s laughing.
“You’ll be putting your married sister next to one, her two kids by the other two, and a grandma by the last one.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I say. “They just have to stand next to them for photos.” But now I’m smiling too, because Mandy is going to throw a fit.
“Can I be there when you tell Mandy?” Izzy asks. “I actually feel sorry for that guy she’s walking next to. Can you imagine all the jokes she’s going to make?”
I can, and for the first time, as I chat with my niece, I can actually picture the wedding. It will be messy. People will complain. Abby might grab a poker, though I hope she doesn’t impale anyone, and it’ll bemine.
I’m smiling as the plane lands outside of sleepy little Manila, and I realize that, in spite of my mom coming, in spite of a pregnancy I didn’t want, in spite of a lot of things. . . I may be more excited right now for my future than I ever have been in my life.
I’m certainly surrounded by more people who love me than ever before. I’m starting to realize that the two things may even be connected.
20
MANDY
Maren may not be perfect, but I’ll give her this. The diva knows how to clear a room.
And now that Amanda and Emery and Maren are finally out of my hair, not badgering me with questions and making me relive my past, I actually miss them.
It’s late enough in the morning that I’m starting to wonder where the heck Tommy is. He said he’d be back this morning to sign the papers. He said I’d see him soon. Abigail has already worked her magic and sent me a file with the papers I asked her to draw up. I print them off.
It’s ten forty-four, and he’s still not here.
I call the retreat, but everything is miraculously in order there. Our general manager actually has the audacity to actannoyedwith me when I start asking about booking numbers going into the holidays. Once I hang up, I decide it’s good that he’s not here. It gives me time to catch up on things around the house.
I wipe the counters, even though they don’t need it.
I sweep the kitchen floor, which Jed keeps quite clean already.
I even scrub the toilet, because now that Helen has been here, it’s actually been used. So, you know. That’s a relief. Can’t have things getting yucky.
I’m washing my hands when there’s finally a knock at the door. It could be UPS, needing a signature, or Helen, who has again lost her key, or any number of other people, but for some reason, I’m positive thatthis time, it’s not.
This time, my racing heart is sure that it’s Tommy.
I check to make sure the paperwork is sitting on the coffee table in a perfect stack, just as I knew it would be. There’s even a pen lined up right next to it. If I stick to the plan, he can be in and out in under thirty minutes, even with an appropriate amount of meaningless small talk.
So why are my hands shaking as I swing the door open?
Why does my heart leap inside of my chest when I see him standing on my porch, holding a bouquet of flowers—bright, beautiful Indian Paintbrush mixed with purple coneflowers. He’s wearing khakis and a button-down shirt—much nicer than anything he wore when we were kids, but a combination I saw a lot when I stayed with him. His hair’s neatly brushed, and his bright, clear eyes are trained directly on my face.
