By Any Other Name(5)

“This is all so perfect,” I tell Meg, who’s tying the last of the cake balloons to the last of the chairs. “Like Cupid exploded.”

“It’s a mood,” Meg says.

“Should the confetti be scattered or, like, placed?” Meg’s assistant calls.

I’m about to say “scattered,” because how does one place confetti, when Meg says: “Placed so that it appears to be scattered.”

I take out my phone to snap a picture of the space. I can’t get it all in the frame but I find a sparkly angle. I’m about to send it to my boss when I remember her baby’s ear infection. Alix has been in and out of urgent care the past few nights, and I don’t want to wake her if she’s napping.

Meg leads me to the back of the room, where she gestures grandly at a white stack of Noa’s new books, hot off the press and arranged in the shape of a wedding cake.

“Ta-da!”

“You did all this in thirty minutes?” I high-five Meg. “Looks like those hours of Magna-Tiles with the Boss paid off.” The Boss is what I call Meg’s three-year-old, Harrison, though her one-year-old, Stella, is gunning for the title, too.

She nods. “Master taught me well.”

Gingerly I lift a book off the top of the tower and run my fingers over the embossed type. I’ve had a hand in every aspect of Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows, and it’s a rush to hold a finished copy before it’s officially out in the world. I open to the title page and see Noa Callaway’s florid signature scrawled in fountain pen. It makes me smile to picture Noa signing these from her fancy Fifth Avenue penthouse.

“Sorry I missed the book drop-off,” I say. “Was the Terrier rabid?”

“Actually, she was in a good mood,” Meg says. “She even wondered whether there was anything else we needed.”

“No way.”

“I asked if she’d give Tommy his monthly hand job.”

“God bless Terry,” I say, side-glancing Meg. “It’s not really that bad with Tommy?”

“Talk to me when you’ve been married for eight years.”

“Sounds like y’all need a date night. Any interesting Valentine’s plans?”

Meg sighs. “My mom is taking the kids to some Chinese New Year thing.”

“There you go.”

“Tommy and I will probably spend the day at home, wearing charcoal masks and scrolling on our phones from different rooms. I’m honestly looking forward to it. Sometimes we’ll forward each other a funny tweet. And that’s what passes for romance in the Wang household.”

“Meg, you need to get laid. Not Twitter-laid. Same room, actual-sex-laid. Promise me.”

She rolls her eyes. “What about you? Please say a quickie with Ryan on the subway so I’ll have something to fantasize about.”

I’m grinning, and I know it’s annoying, but I can’t help it. “We have no plans. Maybe a walk in the park, a wander into some antiques stores, brunch somewhere we’ve never been—”

Meg waves me off. “If it’s not pornographic, I don’t really need to know. I’m going to remind you of this when you’re married and trying to pretend Valentine’s Day doesn’t exist. Speaking of marriage,” she says, more cheerily, giving me a nudge. “Did ya pick a date yet?”

She knows we haven’t, and she knows I find it maddening that Every Single Person asks this question.

“No, but I did choose your bridesmaid dress. Get ready to look smashing in mauve.”

Meg blinks at me. She’s thirty-four and was born way over weddings. “Good thing I love you.”

“I’m joking. You fell hard for that.”

“It’s this room! Heart-shaped confetti is seeping into my brain.” Meg rubs her temples. “I’ll wear whatever you want, whenever you decide you want it.” She leans against me and together we survey the room. “I bet for an extra grand, we could keep these tables another day and throw your wedding right here. Save you a lot of hassle.”

I laugh, but it comes out forced. Meg doesn’t notice. She’s asking for my phone and trying to flag down Aude to copy my playlist. I hand the phone to her and she disappears, leaving me alone at the altar.

I try to picture Ryan waiting for me beneath these ranunculus and twinkle lights—or even at a real oceanfront destination, like we’ve discussed a couple times. I can’t see it. And after a moment of trying, tears sting my eyes.

I move to the window, where no one can see me wipe them away. Every time I think of our wedding—I get stuck.

For some reason the idea of getting married, of taking the big next step in my life, sends my heart back to the child I was when I lost my mom. When I think of a wedding without her in the pictures, I find that I can’t pick a date—or a venue, or a dress, or a cake, or a first song to dance to with my dad. Because she won’t be there to experience it.

Aude finds me at the window. She’s holding out my buzzing phone.

It’s probably Ryan. When he gets to Penn Station, he always checks in about dinner, which is always Italian takeout from Vito’s on nights I’m working late. I’m trying to push away thoughts of my mother, to focus on whether baked ziti or eggplant parm will hit the spot around ten, but when I glance at my phone, it’s not his name on the screen.