11
Wednesday
(Twenty-One Days Left)
The harpist strums the familiar opening chords of “Here Comes the Bride” as I begin my descent down the middle aisle of my high school auditorium. My cheeks burn from the heat of a hundred pointed gazes following my every move as I inch closer and closer to the stage- turned-altar. A nondescript silhouette in a tuxedo stands there,
waiting for… Me.
I pause, attempting to shake off the dozens of flower petals that I’ve collected on my heels, when I spot Jamie toward the front of the room. She ushers me forward, frantically, pointing toward the altar at…at who?
I’m halfway down the aisle now, close enough to hear the sniffles from my father in the front row, but the tuxedoed figure still refuses to come into focus.
I mutter under my breath, “I hope it’s…”
Finn?
Jonathan?
Matthew?
I don’t know how to finish my own sentence.
No matter. My excitement over the prospect of my husband being any of those three men carries me forward. The tempo of the music increases as I make my final few steps. I smile as I take my position at
the altar, ready to offer an enthusiastic “I do” to whichever of my three prospects stands beside me. Finally, I turn toward him.
And my stomach drops to the very bottom of my gut.
“Teacher Rob?” I squeak, my throat constricting as he reaches over to lift my veil. He curls a loose strand of my hair around his finger and tucks it behind my ear.
“I thought we talked about you starting to call me Rob, sweetheart,” he whispers into my ear, sending a toe-curling shiver down the length of my spine.
He runs a calloused hand along my bare arm as I look out to the crowd, searching for someone to save me from my fate. But it’s no use. Dad dabs at his wet eyes with a handkerchief. Mom beams with pride. Jamie smooths her hair in an animated gesture while locking eyes with me, a signal I’ve learned means that I should do the same.
I scan the room until I find Nora, Meg, Alex, and a glaringly empty spot where Jonathan should be. Eyes wide, Nora nods toward Teacher Rob.
“He’s so fucking hot,” she mouths while fanning herself with what I realize in horror is Rob’s and my wedding program.
I open my mouth to speak, to protest, but there it is: the lump in my throat. The telltale sign that I’m no longer in control. My only option is to silently suffer and watch as my fate seals in front of me.
“Today we celebrate the union of Phoebe Berman and Robert Housenstein,” Shannon’s voice booms across the wedding hall.
“If anyone has any reason as to why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
I flash one last desperate look to the crowd.
As if the universe has heard my plea, the large wooden doors at
the back of the room burst open.
“I object!”
Looking like a Disney prince on a mission to rescue his ill-fated princess, Jonathan storms into the crowded hall, his green eyes wild
as he marches toward me. My entire body goes limp with relief at the
sight of him.
Jonathan.
Of course. It’s always been him. Friends to lovers. The only one who knows the real Phoebe and loves me all the same. My storybook ending.
I shove my sad excuse for a bouquet in Teacher Rob’s direction and prepare to run into the comfort of Jonathan’s arms.
“WAIT!”
Another strained plea echoes over Jonathan’s shoulder. The doors, having barely had the chance to shut, fly back open, and this time, it’s Finn who storms through them and barrels toward me,
breathless.
I gasp.
“I object!” he bellows, racing to catch up to Jonathan. My relief is quickly replaced by a new but familiar type of panic.
Who will it be?
Jonathan reaches me first, followed only seconds later by Finn. I take in the sight of the two of them, side by side, panting and slightly red in the face.
“Well?” Jonathan asks, taking my right hand in his.
Finn reaches for my remaining hand. “You need to choose.”
A faint buzzing against my upper thigh saves me from having to make a decision. I glance down to find its source, only to discover that the bottom portion of my dress has been replaced by my black, pocketless athletic skort. I have no choice but to reach into its depths to fish out my phone.
“Sorry,” I mutter to the crowd as I root through the built-in underwear of my skort and grab my phone.
A notification from Words With Friends: Matthew Baxter has played OBJECT for fifteen points.
I look back up at the two men in front of me, their eyes desperate for an answer. For a brief moment, and only as a way to avoid
choosing, I consider moving forward with the marriage to Teacher Rob. But when I glance over to him, he’s gone.
Suddenly, the buzzing from my phone transitions into a deafening emergency alert that blares throughout the entire room. In perfect unison, every member of the crowd throws their hands over their ears, protecting themselves from the shrill sound bouncing off the
walls.
I’m getting a FaceTime.
From Matthew.
I look to Jamie for guidance, because of course, she’ll know what to do. She always does. But she’s gone.
In fact, everyone in the crowd has disappeared, leaving me alone with Jonathan, Finn, and a phone that won’t stop ringing….
—
The turbulence jolts me awake. My plastic cup of apple juice spills all over my tray table and onto my lap, soaking the pages of my newly purchased book of three hundred crossword puzzles with sticky yellow liquid.
“Shit.”
I had spent thirty minutes in the Hudson News at LAX weighing the pros and cons of investing in a crossword puzzle book rather than playing on my phone.
Pros: Less screen time, I can use my freshly sharpened pencils, and it’s something new.
Cons: My time won’t be recorded, the book is quite cumbersome, and I shouldn’t spend the money.
In the end, I had deemed the purchase a necessity—a vital distraction from this morning’s discovery of Jonathan’s empty bed. Unslept in. For the second night in a row.
Just as I had the previous morning, I tracked his location on Find My Friends. Both times, I was led to the same address.
Sweetzer Avenue.
Sydney.
I shake my head viciously in an effort to expel the image of her and Jonathan, probably still asleep, bodies tangled together in her bed, while I sit in the last row of the ten a.m. Virgin Atlantic flight to JFK.
In the middle seat. Covered in apple juice.
I direct my mind back to the only other place it’s been capable of going for the past thirty-six hours: Monday night at Jeffery’s.
I’ve been poring over every detail: adding my number to Finn’s phone, the far-off look in Jonathan’s eyes as he watched, Matthew texting me a playlist he made for my plane ride. All evidence that I may be in far over my head.
Finn and Noah left Jeffery’s shortly after trivia wrapped up, right after Meg and Noah had exchanged numbers. He had texted her the invitation to his party on the spot.
I’m still waiting on my invite from Finn.
He had liked my It’s Phoebe:) text, but other than that, nothing.
“Don’t worry,” Meg had said yesterday over the phone as I spiraled about not receiving my own invitation. “We already know he’s not a phone guy!
And he already asked you to come in person. He knows I have the invite, which means you have it, too! I’m texting it to you right now.”
“No, don’t,” I said. “I want it from him.”
I remind myself of Meg’s mantra she drunkenly cited on the night of the list’s conception: A watched pot never blows up. Constantly checking to see if there’s a message from Finn won’t make him text any sooner. So I’ve been doing my best to take space from my phone. Except when it comes to talking to Matthew, in which case, I can’t seem to stay away.
I scroll through the playlist he sent over.
“In case you feel like taking a break from the Hamilton soundtrack,” he had texted along with the link. And then, “Let me know when you’re free this
weekend.”
Who, who, who?
That’s been the sound of my racing heartbeat since Monday night, and by the time I woke up this morning, I had had enough of it. I couldn’t hear myself think. I decided that the only way to quiet the noise was by choosing only one man to invest all my energy in.
It’s time to pick a lane and stick with it.
Whatever’s been going on with Jonathan, he has Sydney. Thinking about him as anything other than my best friend is nothing but a distraction, and it stops now.
And Matthew…we live across the country from each other. It just wouldn’t make sense. Plus, all the anticipation…it’s another Lucas Johnson situation waiting to happen.
Finn and I live in the same city. With the exception of him not texting me, things are going great. And most importantly, I’ve experienced zero puke-inducing Finn-related panic attacks.
I can’t say the same about Matthew. I had every intention of going through with seeing him this weekend, but every time I tried to picture it, the beginning stages of panic started to appear: my palms would sweat, my mouth would dry up, and the dreaded lump in my throat would form.
Which is exactly why, right before putting my phone in airplane mode, I texted him to tell him that I had canceled my trip.
I haven’t even mentioned Jamie’s wedding to him, so he has no reason to think this trip was more than a casual visit home, a completely acceptable thing to cancel because I wasn’t thinking when I booked this trip during the second week of school.
So that’s exactly what I said to him. I just hope that he’s not too upset with me.
Finn makes the most sense, I remind myself. This is the right decision.
It’s for the best.
I let out an audible sigh, closing my eyes and pressing play on Matthew’s playlist. We’ve been exchanging playlists for a while now. The last one I sent him clocked in at just under seven hours. It was an expertly curated collection of my top fifty favorite Broadway hits, accompanied by thirty voice memos of in-depth analysis of each, converted into audio files. He said his favorite
was “Without You” from Rent, which made my stomach do a weird flip because I’ve always found it to be one of the greatest love songs ever written.
Matthew’s taste is much more indie than my go-to catalog of show tunes and boy bands, but most of his favorite songs include some form of yearning, which is why I like them. My mind wanders while I listen to a medley of the 1975, the Smiths, and the Kooks, and before I know it, I’m caught up in a fantasy of leaning on Matthew’s shoulder while he strokes my hair and
presses a kiss to the top of my head.
Not helpful.
I squash the thought.
This most recent playlist is five hours and thirty-two minutes long— almost the exact length of my cross-country flight. It could very well be a coincidence, but knowing Matthew, I don’t think it is. My chest tightens with guilt. He is so thoughtful, and in return, all I’ve done is lie to him. I don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of this perfect mix of songs. He’d be better off sending them to someone else. Someone who hasn’t canceled on him.
Twice. And then lied about the reason. Twice.
I can’t bring myself to listen to anything else, though, so I let the soft crooning of Matthew’s favorite bands lull me into a dreamless sleep.
—
The list catches my eye while I pack my belongings into my TEACHER PHOEBE tote and get ready to deboard the plane. It’s sandwiched in between the newest addition to my barf-bag collection and my heatable eye mask, and I spot the task I could easily complete now: Find the cutest guy on the plane to help me with my luggage. Luckily, my spot in 35B serves as the perfect vantage point for scanning potential candidates.
The ginger in the window seat of row twenty-nine would have been a perfectly acceptable candidate had he not stood up the second the fasten seatbelts light turned off. There’s nowhere to go! I wanted to yell. So, not him.
I stay vigilant and watch as others stand to reach for their carry-ons in the
overhead compartments.
I find who I’m searching for in 27A.
There he is.
I decide to look past the aviator sunglasses he’s wearing while in an indoor setting and instead focus on the crisp white T-shirt that hugs his back in all the right places, his perfect set of white teeth, and his head of swoopy, dirty-blond hair. He’s more conventionally attractive than I’d typically go for, more Ryan Gosling–esque than my preferred boy-next-door type, but for the purpose of this task, he’ll more than do.
I keep a respectable distance as we follow the signs to baggage claim.
More than once I wonder, Could 27A actually be Ryan Gosling? LAX to JFK flights are notorious for celebrity sightings, and it’s entirely possible that Ryan has business to attend to in New York.
I turn off airplane mode, anxious to tell the group about my celebrity sighting. My stomach sinks when I see a text from Matthew.
Matthew:
Aw, man
I can’t say I’m not disappointed
But I get it, I know how much those kids need you!
Why is he so nice to me? I want to tell him to block my number. That nothing will ever come of this. To stop trying. Instead, I send him an invitation to a new game of Words With Friends, because selfishly, I’m not ready to let whatever this is go.
I open the group chat, ignoring the collective line of questioning in regard to a date with Matthew this weekend.
Phoebe:
Ryan Gosling is on my flight
Nora:
No he’s not babe
Phoebe:
He was right in front of me
In 27A
Nora:
Ryan Gosling wouldn’t be caught dead in 27A
Alex responds with the selfie I took last summer with David Spade, when I spotted him at the Silverlake Flea Market. Our hands touched while we both scanned through a rack of vintage T-shirts, and he was surprisingly eager to chat.
“How have you been?” he had asked, and I remember being pleasantly surprised by how friendly he was. I asked him for a photo, which seemed to catch him off guard, and eagerly texted it to the group. “David Spade sighting
at the flea!!”
Alex called me right away.
“Phoebe,” he said. “That’s Carrie, from my gay poker league. You’ve met her.”
All this to say that sometimes I can get a little confused when it comes to celebrity sightings.
I situate myself next to 27A once the carousel starts to move, anxious to open a line of communication.
“Excuse me?” He turns and looks down at me with piercing blue eyes, his aviators now dangling haphazardly from his V-neck. “Would you mind helping me with my bag when it comes out? It’s kind of heavy.” I smile sweetly.
He nods and smiles at me with his blindingly white teeth.
“Totally. What’s it look like?”
I describe the oversized purple L.L.Bean suitcase to him.
I don’t feel nervous while we wait for our bags and make small talk.
Maybe the list really is helping. Or maybe I just don’t care enough about 27A, whose name, I’ve learned, is actually Bryan. Which is exactly what Ryan Gosling would say if he were trying to stay incognito. I find that interesting, to say the least.
“There it is!” I point out my bag, inching closer toward us on the carousel.
“Got it,” he says while reaching down to grab the handle. He hoists the bag halfway off the conveyor belt before releasing it with an oof. “Jesus fuck!” Bryan yelps as he cradles his left shoulder.
My suitcase drops back onto the belt with a loud thud, and I watch as it continues on in the other direction. The commotion attracts a small crowd.
My eyes go wide. “Are you okay?”
His blue eyes turn to ice as they narrow in on me.
“You didn’t tell me it was five hundred fucking pounds!” He groans as he continues to hold his shoulder with his opposite hand. “What did you put in there, boulders?”
I can feel a wave of heat creeping up my neck and spreading across my
cheeks.
“I-I’m so sorry.”
I do a quick mental inventory of the contents of my luggage: clothes for the week, one bridesmaid dress, a few options for the rehearsal dinner, four pairs of heels, my salon-size bottles of curly hair shampoo and conditioner, my air purifier, a few hardcovers, a hair dryer, and…oh no.
Did I forget socks?
Bryan whines, “I think you dislocated my shoulder.”
I didn’t do anything, I want to retort, but several onlookers have formed a small crowd. An older man in a Cornell quarter zip makes his way toward us.
“I’m a doctor,” he asserts. “Let me take a look. Can you extend your arm?”
Bryan winces as he tries to move his arm. “It really hurts,” he whimpers, sounding almost identical to a child with a scraped knee.
This man couldn’t be further from Ryan Gosling.
The doctor takes a second to poke and prod at his shoulder before announcing, “It’s dislocated.”
I spot the purple outline of my bag making the loop back around. I slowly back away, unnoticed, and manage to hoist my bag to the floor while keeping my shoulders in their sockets. As fast as its jammed wheels will let me, I roll my bag in the direction of the cellphone lot, where Jamie waits, trying my best to blink away the image of Bryan’s icy blue eyes and bulging muscles that are, clearly, just for show.
—
“One, two, three, LIFT.” Jamie and I heave my bag into the trunk of our mom’s Lexus with a collective grunt.
“You’re lucky that guy only dislocated something. You could have killed him.”
Clad in a Manhasset Central Basketball T-shirt, athletic shorts, and Uggs, she looks fifteen again. I have to remind myself that I’m here for this child’s wedding.
“Sorry, Mom,” I tease her as I slide into the passenger seat and shut the door. And then, after thinking about it for a moment, I add, “Maybe I should
leave my air purifier home next time.”
“You don’t say.”
She tries to turn up the music the second we get into the car, but I insist on five minutes of silence while she navigates the JFK arrivals area.
“Oh please, it’s not that bad,” she claims, but I can barely hear her over the sound of horns blaring. I use the time it takes to exit the airport to study her. Even in her T-shirt and messy bun, she glows. Despite her being clearly exhausted from wedding prep, her signature smile never falters. Being around Jamie always reminds me to breathe. She’s always radiated calm, and that hasn’t changed in the months leading up to the wedding.
Whatever the opposite of a bridezilla is—that’s Jamie.
“Do you want lasagna or flatbread for the vegetarian meal option?”
“Whichever!”
“Do you want to do a cabin in the Berkshires or an all-inclusive in Cabo
for the bachelorette weekend?”
“Both sound fun!”
“Flowers or candles for the centerpieces?”
“You pick.”
For a moment, I wondered if she even wanted to get married. Could my perpetually unflappable sister be getting cold feet?
“Do you even care about the wedding?” I had asked her one night after she approved Ethan’s mom’s request to perform a twenty-minute Barry Manilow medley at the reception.
“The only thing I really care about is getting to say I do.” She shrugged, and suddenly, Jamie’s lack of interest in wedding planning became the most romantic thing I’d ever heard.
I explode with questions once we make it onto the freeway.
“Well, how are you feeling? Are you nervous?”
“Nervous?” She chuckles. “What do I have to be nervous about?”
What do I have to be nervous about? Eight words arranged in a combination I’ve never considered.
I decide against firing off a list of reasons why she should be breaking out in a cold sweat. I guess when the only part of your wedding you care about is saying I do, there’s not much that can go wrong.
“Right,” I acquiesce. “And Mom’s been fine?”
“Well, Mom’s been Mom.” And that’s all she has to say.
Jamie gets her easygoing nature from our dad, while I got stuck with our mom’s more…anal tendencies. While mine manifest in a hyper-organized, anxious sort of way, hers come across as more rigid and nitpicky. Her high school history students used to call her Mrs. Ber-maniac.
“How’s being away from Ethan?” I ask.
Jamie’s staying at our parents’ for the week leading up to the wedding, an old tradition that our mom insisted on upholding.
“I wouldn’t know.” She smirks. “He’s been sneaking through the window every night and leaving early every morning. He’s holed up in my room back at the house now.”
Jamie and Ethan haven’t spent a moment apart since they started dating their freshman year of high school. It’s like they’re each other’s air supply.
“Just like old times.” I exhale through a smile, remembering all the years Ethan spent sneaking through Jamie’s window when they were in high school. I reach over and push a strand of loose hair out of her face. “I’m so happy for you guys.”
She grabs my hand and smiles wide. “Thanks, Pheebs. I’m so happy you’re here.”
We pull up to the house forty minutes later. I say good night to an exhausted Jamie, grab a snack of pickles and Greek yogurt from the barren fridge, and do a quick inventory of all the things my mom has changed since I was here just a few months ago for Jamie’s graduation. Now that my mom’s retired, redecorating the house has become somewhat of a passion project bordering on obsession.
The sconces flanking the TV in the family room are brand-new. The mantel around the fireplace has been painted a dark green to match the accent fringe of the new curtains. I pick up a framed photo resting on top of the mantel, the one thing in this entire house that hasn’t been relocated or
replaced: our first photo as a family of four. All of us are tightly packed into a hospital bed, and I’m smiling wide enough to show off my two missing front teeth. A freshly born Jamie rests on my lap, cocooned in a bundle of blankets, and Mom holds on to us tightly while Dad buries his entire face into her shoulder. I’ve always been able to hear his muffled sobs through the glass of the picture frame.
Who would have thought that little bundle of blankets would be getting married before I’ve even had my first boyfriend?
I hold the photo close to my chest for a moment before putting it back down.
I tiptoe down the length of the new jute rug that lines the hallway to the kitchen, studying the new additions along the way. New wallpaper. A mirror where a French poster used to be. A hideous mustard-yellow backsplash in the kitchen above the oven. New fridge magnets shaped like dogs. At least there’s one thing on the fridge I recognize.
I run my fingers over the minimalist cream linen cardstock adorning the freezer. Jamie Elizabeth Berman and Ethan Paul Robins request the honor of your presence…The invitations turned out beautiful, despite Mom fighting
me on them until the last second.
“Linen is too summery,” she had said.
“September thirteenth is still technically summer,” I argued.
“Phoebe, you’re a teacher. You should know by now that September is not summer.”
“Luckily we aren’t having the wedding in a classroom.”
And on we went. I can only imagine how she’ll react to the linen tablecloths I picked out for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow.
I can feel the yogurt sloshing around in my stomach as I make my way up the carpeted stairs. From one end of the hall, the familiar hum of Mom’s white noise machine blares. I picture Dad sound asleep next to her in his noise-canceling earplugs. I listen closely for signs of life coming from Jamie’s room, and hear the faintest sound of giggling. For a moment, my chest tightens so intensely that I think it must be acid reflux. From the
pickles. But the sharp ache is accompanied by the feeling of being completely and utterly alone.
I wonder if it was a mistake not to bring Jonathan, even though I’ve barely seen him since all the weirdness Monday night at Jeffery’s. At least when I’m with him, even though it’s not romantic, it’s easier to avoid this feeling. Sometimes I forget that under all the anxious thoughts and constant spirals, I just feel sad.
My steps are sluggish as I cross the threshold into my room. Being in here always gives me an eerie feeling of stepping back in time, but I don’t have it in my heart to remove the collage of One Direction posters above my bed. Or my collection of quotes from Tumblr covering every possible surface.
Above my desk, written on black construction paper with silver Sharpie, is a sign that reads, NORMAL PEOPLE SCARE ME. There’s a cigarette butt from the mall parking lot superglued to it. Next to my bookshelf, typed in Helvetica Bold: SHE BELIEVED SHE COULD AND SO SHE DID. It’s accompanied by a distorted black-and-white photo of Helen Keller that got jammed in my school library’s printer. On my mirror, in Sharpie: GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME. It’s taped next to a photo of Zac Efron from High School Musical, cut out from a J-14 magazine and covered in lipstick prints from my ten-year-old lips.
My lumpy mattress beckons me, and I decide to self-soothe with a particularly toe-curling chapter of my favorite book from my hidden collection of more risqué novels. I lift up my mattress to grab the book and…
it’s gone.
Impossible.
I read this particular book a few months ago, the last time I was home, and there’s no way I would have left it lying out somewhere to be seen. Not with the years of experience I have keeping these books hidden.
I can think of only one explanation, and tracking down this book seems like a much better use of my time than wallowing.
I tiptoe down the hall, toward the sound of waves crashing against the shore. I open the door to my parents’ bedroom, feeling like a five-year-old who’s come to announce, “I threw up.”
I study my parents for a brief moment before sneaking over to Mom’s side of the bed. Living far away from them means that every time I come back to visit, I’m hyperaware of any signs of aging. The last few strands of pepper in Dad’s hair have officially turned to salt. And as I stand above my mom, I notice that the wrinkles she’s been complaining about on her chin have deepened slightly. And…is that an age spot?
I don’t have time to think about the implications of this.
With all the stealth I can manage, I crouch down beside the nightstand and begin rifling through the stack of books Mom keeps on the bottom shelf.
“Phoebe.” Mom’s hawk-like expression is fixed on me before I even make a dent in her collection. “It’s the middle of the night.” I follow her gaze back to the clock. 9:58 p.m.
“I’m sorry.” I stand and motion for her to join me in the hallway. She shuts the door behind us.
“How was the flight? Is everything all right?” she asks, her maternal instincts returning now that she’s had a second to wake up.
“No, not really. Did you take a book from my room?”
“Did I take a book from your room?” Her brows knit, and for the first time, I see flecks of gray in them. “This can’t be why you woke me up.”
I take a deep breath in. “Have you or have you not seen a book with a shirtless man on the cover called Beauty and the Beekeeper?”
She stares at me in silence for a moment before slowly nodding. “I have.”
“You know about under my mattress?” I whisper, horrified.
“Phoebe, please.” She shakes her head. “There is not one thing that goes on in this house that I don’t know about.”
I think about Jamie and Ethan down the hall and have to bite my lip to keep from smiling.
“And if you think for one second I don’t know that Ethan’s here, you’re
mistaken.”
Never mind.
“What are you doing with that book?” I ask.
“What do you mean what am I doing with it? I was reading it.”
“You were reading it?”
“What, you think because I’m in my sixties I can’t enjoy a little smut here and there?”
“No, I think that because you’re my mom you can’t enjoy a little smut here and there. And you shouldn’t even know the word smut.” I grimace at the revelation that perhaps my love of raunchy novels is genetic. “Can I have
the book back, please?”
“I lent it to Gail.”
“You lent it to Aunt. Gail.”
“Trust me, honey, she needed it. I don’t think she and your Uncle Tom
—”
“Stop.”
I put my hands out in front of me and let out a defeated sigh. Without the promise of my book, the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that brought me to my parents’ room in the first place returns. My face heats and I cover my eyes with my palms.
“What’s wrong, Phoebe? This can’t be about the book.”
“It is about the book.”
She reaches out to rub my arm and I almost startle. Physical touch is not her love language, but she’s been growing more affectionate with age. It always takes me by surprise.
“You know, it’s okay if this weekend is a little hard for you,” she states.
“It’s not hard for me,” I answer quickly.
“Okay. But if it were to be, that’s okay.” She turns around to open the door to her bedroom. “I’m going back to sleep. Get some rest.”
On an impulse, I throw my arms around her back and hold on to her tightly. She grasps my hands and squeezes them in front of her. It feels odd holding her like this. But more than that, it feels nice.
“I might be a little sad,” I tell her, and the admission comes out easier with my face pressed against her back.
She holds on to my hands tighter. “I know, honey.”
“But I’m so happy for Jamie.”
“I know that, too.”
We stand in silence like this for a minute. And then, once the moment has become too sincere to bear, I mutter under my breath. “The backsplash in the kitchen is terrible.”
She drops my hands and whips back around.
“Mustard yellow is the color,” she snaps back.
“The color of what?” I ask. “Baby poop?”
“Very sophisticated, Phoebe.” She shakes her head in disapproval. “Get it all out before this weekend.”
She turns and slips back into her bedroom.
Without Beauty and the Beekeeper to keep me occupied, I pick up the yearbook from my junior year of high school. Ignoring the impulse to turn to the page with Matthew’s photograph, I flip to the class of 2013 spread. I find what I’m looking for in between Lee Bergman (most likely to win American Idol) and Julia Bermann (most likely to qualify for the Olympics):
PHOEBE BERMAN
MOST LIKELY TO EXPERIENCE AN EXTRAORDINARY LOVE STORY
My fingers reflexively migrate to the grainy two-by-one photo of my seventeen-year-old self, and the ache in my chest worsens.
You would be so disappointed in me.
Still the same frizzy-haired virgin wearing a graphic T-shirt.
Nothing’s changed.
That’s not true, I can hear Sandy’s voice ringing in my head, and I’m reminded of her original assignment. Still desperate for a distraction, I walk over to my desk, stocked with all my school supplies, and begin to draft up the list that Sandy originally requested:
Phoebe’s Accomplishments
1. Moved across the country
2. Found Jonathan, Nora, Meg, and Alex
3. Graduated from college with honors
4. Cleared my acne
5. Landed my dream job 6. Became Teacher Phoebe 7. Added over 20 T-shirts to my collection 8. Got a tattoo 9. Had not one but two viral Goodreads reviews
10. Ran a mile without stopping 11. Read over 500 books 12. Discovered the importance of a claw clip 13. Published my The Greatest Showman fanfiction on Wattpad 14. Taught myself how to crochet 15. Successfully completed close to 300 parent-teacher conferences 16. Amassed over 100 free drink tickets from Jeffery’s trivia 17. Was asked to interview for an assistant principal position 18. Received my first set of felt-tipped markers 19. Opened my first set of felt-tipped markers
I read over the list twice. It’s not nothing.
Maybe I’m not the same Phoebe I was in high school. In fact, I’m not even the same Phoebe I was two weeks ago. I have seven and a half items crossed off my list. I am that much closer to losing my virginity.
There is one problem, though. I can’t think of a twentieth accomplishment, and an odd-numbered list won’t do.
But it’s okay.
I’ll just have to do something worthwhile this weekend.
Phoebe’s Guide to Losing Her Virginity in Thirty Days
A Checklist
Redownload Hinge Practice Flirting with Teacher Rob Pet a dog with a cute owner and strike up a conversation
Compliment a stranger on his outfit
Flirt with someone at Jamie’s wedding Flirt with Finn Find the cutest guy on the plane to help me with my luggage
Leave my number for a waiter
Give Finn my number
Get a random guy to buy me a drink
Get Finn to buy me a drink
Get drunk and make out with a stranger Rear-end a guy and exchange information Go on a date with one of the meet-cutes from above
Go on a date with Finn
Go on a dating app date
Advertise myself on Craigslist Go on a date with Matthew
NOTES —Leave Teacher Rob out of this. —You’re obsessed with tote bags for a reason. Carry one with you at all times. This will minimize the chances of bodily harm. —When complimenting an article of clothing, be sure to look at it first. —Never trust a man wearing sunglasses indoors.
