“Oh how lovely!” Mrs. Rubenstein exclaims. “We’ll be there too. Except for the boys, of course.”
“I didn’t realize you were coming,” Seth says to me, taking his nephew off his shoulders and setting him down gently on the sidewalk.
“Somehow I made the list,” I joke.
He winces. “Oh, no—sorry, I didn’t mean I’m surprised you’re invited—I just know you hate weddings. And Florida. Figured you’d probably skip it.”
It’s a fair assumption. Normally, I probably would have. After all, a pandemic is a pretty good excuse to avoid mushy emotions under white tents.
I certainly don’t offer the truth: I partially came to see him.
We haven’t talked in over a year, not since he cut off contact last June. I’ve carefully avoided bringing him up to my friends. I muted him on social media. I’ve done everything in my power not to pour salt into the wound he left.
But I still think about him every day.
There is never a time I check my email that I don’t hope I’ll get one from him.
It’s pathetic.
“Uncle Seth, Uncle Seth, knock knock,” Max says.
“Who’s there?” Seth asks.
“Beets.”
“Beets who?”
“Beats me!” Max shouts.
Seth shoots me an amused glance. “Maxie here is the family comedian,” he says.
“So I see.” There is something very charming about a child enjoying the fuck out of a knock-knock joke. I bend down. “Hey, Max,” I say. “Knock knock.”
His eyes light up. “Who’s there?”
“Goat.”
“Goat who?”
“Goat to the door and find out.”
He guffaws. “I never heard that one!”
“You should steal it, bud,” Seth says. “Very elevated comedy.”
“Well,” Alyssa says. “We were on our way to Miss M’s. I don’t suppose you all want to—”
Dave’s finger goes up to his lips and he shakes his head in what I gather is a parental gesture for “don’t mention ice cream.”
Alyssa flashes him a thumbs-up.
“See you at the wedding?” I ask.
“See you tomorrow, doll,” Mr. Rubenstein says.
“See you tomorrow, doll,” Jack echoes.
Ryland watches them walk away.
