The Lies That Bind(68)

Meanwhile, Matthew and I give Amy the green light to start looking at venues for a January or February wedding in the city, offering very little guidance, other than to remind her that our budget is not unlimited. I also put in a request for an Episcopal church—my favorite being St. George’s on Stuyvesant Square—as it feels like a nice compromise between Matthew’s Methodist upbringing and my Catholic one. I know my parents won’t be thrilled with the decision, but there really isn’t time to go the Catholic route, nor does that seem fair to Matthew.

More privately and importantly, Matthew and I focus on my pregnancy. As we approach our first ultrasound, we debate whether to find out the gender. My preference is to know, if only from a practical standpoint, but Matthew really wants to be surprised. So I relent, and we start brainstorming baby names. Fortunately, we mostly agree there, both of us drawn to traditional names that aren’t overplayed—names such as Frances and Louise, Henry and Gus.

    I give notice to my landlord that I’ll be moving out in mid-December, when my lease is up, and convince Matthew to renew his for one more year rather than trying to buy a place now. His apartment is technically only a one-bedroom, but it’s a very large one-bedroom, and I find the cutest room divider at ABC Carpet & Home that doubles as a bookcase. Eventually, we will get a two-bedroom—or move out of the city altogether—but for now this feels right, and certainly much simpler and more affordable.

I still think about Grant and the issue of paternity, but try to push away those lingering worries. Jasmine helps with that one night when we go out after work and I forgo wine and she guesses that I’m pregnant.

“Is it Matthew’s? Or Grant’s?” she asks, so casually—like the answer doesn’t matter in the slightest.

I immediately say it’s Matthew’s, but when she gives me a look, I break down and admit that I don’t know for sure. But I feel ninety-nine percent sure it’s not Grant’s.

She shrugs and says, “Well, either way. Love makes a family. So you’re good. And speaking of—I can’t wait to be this baby’s fierce auntie.”

“That’s so sweet,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says. “Every baby needs a fierce auntie.”



* * *



—

Finally the big engagement-party weekend is upon us, my parents, brother, sister, and Scottie all flying in to New York, landing on Friday evening. Although Scottie is staying with me, my family has booked two rooms at the Inn at Irving Place, a nicer hotel than the chains near Times Square they usually choose. My mom says they are splurging for the special occasion, but I can’t help but wonder (and worry) if they’re trying to fit in to Matthew’s world. It makes me feel protective of my family, and more determined than ever to keep our wedding low-key and comfortable for them.

    In any event, I meet them in the lobby of their hotel, the six of us making a small scene as we hug and kiss hello. They all clamor to see my ring, gushing about how beautiful it is. My sister and mother take turns trying it on as my brother cuts to the chase, whistling, then asking, “How much did that rock set him back?”

“Jeez, Paul,” I say with a laugh. I adore my brother, but have long maintained that he is a case study in parents giving up on disciplining their youngest child.

“Yeah. Seriously, Paul,” Scottie chimes in, always treating my siblings like his own. “Don’t be so gauche.”

“Hey. It’s not gauche if you’re with family,” Paul says, then turns back to me. “So what do you think, Cess? How much?”

“I have no idea,” I say.

“Not to be tacky like Paul here, but I bet it was at least twenty-five thousand,” Jenna says. “Jeff paid eight thousand for my diamond and yours is three times as big. And look at the color. It’s so clear.”

I thank her, then change the subject to Jeff and Emma. “I wish they could have come,” I say, missing my niece so much.

“I wish you were coming for Thanksgiving,” my mom says. “I still can’t believe you’re not.”

“I know, Mom,” I say, feeling a little sad about it, too, thinking about being with Matthew’s family instead of mine. “But wouldn’t you rather have Christmas than Thanksgiving?”

My mom sighs, looking tortured by the question, like I’ve just asked her which child she loves the most (though that one is probably easier; everyone knows that Paul is her favorite). “If I had to pick, I guess Christmas,” she says. “But I’m just saying…”

My sister and I exchange a look, secretly mocking my mother for her favorite expression—I’m just saying.

    “What are you ‘just saying,’ Mom?” I ask fondly.

“I’m just saying that you live here. In New York. So you can see Matthew’s family anytime.”

“True,” I say. “So does that mean…if we ever move to Wisconsin…we can spend all of our Thanksgivings and Christmases with the Capells?”

“You’re moving back to Wisconsin?” she says, her face lighting up.

“No time soon…but I’m just saying,” I say, smirking. “If and when we do, can we give the Capells all the holidays?”